I give Dad a peck on the cheek, tell him to hug Mum for me when she gets back from water aerobics and brunch, swipe a muffin from a plate on the counter, and hurry out through the garden, thankful to leave my father’s streaking story, myencounter with Marlow, and The Crush List behind. Actually, I brought that, but I mean Chase.
Mum will forget about last night and we’ll all move on with our lives—me, thankfully, out of the country and far away from soirees and ballrooms.
Traveling backto Concordia takes the better part of the day, but I don’t mind as I transition from the frenetic hustle of the London underground, to stately and orderly St. Pancras station, to the train that’ll take me to Sunderland before I board the Concordian National Railroad with an underground trip north.
Alone within the spaciousness of my thoughts, I scroll through my memories of the evening at the Smythe’s, searching for a glitch in the Matrix or whether I wandered into a blue phone booth, aka Dr. Who’s TARDIS, and traveled to an alternate universe.
I finally get a hold of Phoebe and I fill her in on what transpired.
Phoebe: Lady Libby the Love Liaison strikes again!
Me: Again? Does that mean you hung out with Boxy last night? You know she approves of your union. If she can’t climb the social ladder with me, she’ll use you.
Phoebe: She does have outrageous aspirations.
Me: Then you don’t deny it?
There’s a long pause, giving me time to speculate about Phoebe and Oliver Boxworth, soon-to-be Lord—or was it Baron? Earl? I’m a terrible anglophile and can never keep straight the ranking of the gentry.
Phoebe: We’re talking about you and #BruiserButt.
Me: Can we not talk about his bum?
Phoebe: His buns? His biscuits? What about his biceps? How were those?
My cheeks heat at the thought of his arms around me while we danced...for what must have been over an hour.
Me: You can stop there. Let me be clear, I’ve had a crush on Chase since I was sixteen. But I’m an adult now and Chase doesn’t make the cut.
Phoebe: But he made The Swoon List. Anyway, I’m well aware of the timeline.
Me: I’m processing, Phoebs. Last night took me on an emotional rollercoaster and you know that I tolerate them about as well as chocolate.
Phoebe: And yet anytime we go to a theme park, you’re the first in line.
Me: They’re thrilling.
Phoebe: So is love, or so I hear.
I send her the emoji of the little yellow head sticking out its tongue.
Phoebe: Alright, alright. I’m listening. Er, reading. Go ahead, process.
Me: There was a hopeful period during senior year when I thought there might be a little chemistry between us, most notably when we were partners in Mr. Halverson’s labs.
Phoebe: But Jerk Face Freddie made sure to keep his little sister and his best friend separate.
I audibly gasp. He wouldn’t do that, would he?
Me: Little sister? I’m Freddie’s twin.
Phoebe: A minute makes a difference in most athletic events.
Me: Are you saying we competed to see who’d be born first?
Phoebe: I’m merely speculating that he saw the writing on the wall with Chase and wanted to preserve his best friend status.
Me: By writing on the wall, do you mean reading my diary?
