Praying I won’t regret this, I raise my glass and clink it against hers. “Pint-y promise.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The deadline Jules has given me is Friday, the fifth of October. I’m not sticking to that deadline just because of Jules. I’m too old to let other people run my life. It’s more that she’s given me the kick in the shins that I need to honor the whisper inside me that’s telling me to take this chance. The whisper that’s telling me itwillwork out, despite all the rational stats stacked against us. And that even if it doesn’t, I’ll be glad I tried and took fate into my own hands rather than sitting by and being a passive protagonist in my own life story.
Still, I soak up the next couple weeks from the window, procrastinating getting on the bus for as long as I can.
It’s a wild thing, knowing that within a matter of days I’ll either be living out my highest hopes with the man of my dreams or crying alone on a sofa with gelato that’s salted with my own tears. I’m anxious to know which of those two conclusions awaits, but in no rush to force an outcome in case it’s not the one I want.
Alexander and I settle into a rhythm of sorts, as you do when you start to get intimate with someone. I go into the office on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and Alexander is never there on Thursdays, so I only see him Mondays and Fridays—the most beautiful bookends to the week. Usually on one of those days, he’ll be looking out the window, and our gazes will graze with celestial grace. It’s clear that he’s worried that looking at meeverytime might be overpowering and fall in the stalker category, not that I would mind, of course.
I don’t want to leave it to the Friday deadline, in case something goes amiss, as in if I chicken out and refuse to board the bus. So I decide to build in a couple days of buffer and make my move on Wednesday. I’ll take Alexander’s bus to Blackfriars and then transfer to the tube to finish my journey to Canary Wharf. It’ll double my commuting time, but that hardly matters. I don’t have any meetings until later in the day anyway.
I’m a wreck getting dressed that morning, changing my outfit three times, even though I’d laid it out the night before. It brings back shades of the first day of school as a kid, those untamed butterflies flapping in my stomach as I skipped around the house, hoping with my whole heart that Davis Dean would be in my homeroom and thatthis would be the yearthat he’d wake up to the fact that I’d be a way better girlfriend than Alison Wells with her silky blonde hair and Abercrombie skirts. (For clarification, I have no lingering bitterness. I honestly hardly even remember their names. This is simply an illustrative example.)
In the end, I decide on a professional black jumpsuit with a bold red trench coat, hoping it strikes the right vibe ofcorporate exec who’s ready for a cocktail at Soho House if the situation should present itself.
The sky is spewing that Londonesque mix of mist and rain, and I should wear my wellies, but my legs are too short for flats, so I opt for heeled booties instead. An occasion like today’s is well worth scuffing up my shoes for.
I’ve bought a UK blow dryer that doesn’t sizzle my hair, so I give myself a decent blowout and even spruce up my makeup routine with some contouring. Or rather, attempted contouring. The end result resembles nothing of the sculpted look in the YouTube video I’ve followed. My face just looks like it’s been smeared in dirt, and my pointy cleft chin looks even more prominent than usual, making me wish I could pad it with some of the fat from my cheeks. Irritating my rosacea as I scrub myself clean in defeat, I revert to my minimalist routine to make it out the door in time.
The gales hit me straight away, and though I try to block the elements with my wooden-handled umbrella, my carefully styled hair is thrown into a state of complete disarray within thirty seconds. If my windswept look doesn’t charm the argyle socks off Alexander, I’ll have to rely on some good ole American charm to do the trick.
In another stroke of bad luck, the fishmonger stench is extra strong this morning, and I’m doubtful that my perfume is potent enough to withstand the raw haddock and salmon aromas seeping out from Moxton’s, the small but mighty storefront wedged beside the King’s Head.
Huddling under the bus stop shelter, I repeat to myself all the reasons that I’m more than capable of the task before me.
You’re an independent, thirty-one-year-old woman. You’re climbing the corporate ladder at lightning speed and making it on your own in a foreign country. You can board a damn bus and talk to a guy.
A 4 bus pulls up. My heart thumps in uneven increments, and my breath comes in fits and starts. It’s ridiculous that I’m having such a severe physical reaction, but I’m also enthralled by it, the way my body is still so susceptible to my emotions.
He’s not there.
I’m torn between disappointment and relief. I don’t have too much time to recover, as the next bus comes a minute later.
And he’s on this one, in his usual spot.
He’s glancing out the window but of course doesn’t know that he should be looking for me down on the street. I’m glad he doesn’t spot me, though—I’d rather surprise him with a graceful appearance.
It feels disorienting, looking up at him from the street after weeks of peering down at him from the window. The proportions are off, and it makes me a bit dizzy. Or maybe that’s just thinking about what’s coming next.
Here it is, the moment I’ve been waiting for over the past month—and probably my whole life, for those of us (me, myself, and I) who are being dramatic about this.
You can board a damn bus. You can board a damn bus.
I repeat the mantra while trying to follow the other commuters through the open doors. But I’m stuck in place.
With anticlimactic haste, the doors squeak shut, and the bus starts down Upper Street again, sweeping Alexander away.
I regain control of my body a little too late.
Refusing to accept defeat, I start off after the bus, sprinting down the sidewalk, skidding on the damp cement in the impractical shoes that I very much regret wearing. I can’t see where I’m going, as I’m still holding my umbrella like a battle shield to avoidgetting completely soaked, lest I forfeit the last shred of elegance. A deranged Mary Poppins without the benefit of flight, I’m bumping into people left, right, and center, poking them with my umbrella spokes and spewing crazed apologies as I bolt onward, consumed by one thought only.
I’ve got to reach the Islington Green stop in time to board the bus there and redeem my cowardice. I’ve got to.
Panting, I pause to peek out from under my brolly to see how much farther I have left to go. The bus stop is still a ways off, and the bus is already pulling away.
I’m furious with myself.How cowardly can you be, Kat? No wonder you’re single.
