CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Whatever miniscule patience I’d started the day with has quickly evaporated into the soggy air. “It’s rude to look in people’s windows,” I snap at Rory, not bothering to try to sound polite any longer.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he says, looking genuinely disappointed in himself. “It’s an OCD thing. Not a good excuse, just a flaw of mine …” He trails off uncomfortably. “It’s not like I ever saw you or anything, I swear.”
This only makes things worse. How could henothave seen me? All those days when I was there sitting at my desk, positioned squarely in the middle of the window, pouring my entire soul and then some into his eyes?
I don’t accost him with these questions, or with my perspective on the matter. Nothing productive can come from it, not when it’s been revealed that he’s completely opposite to any love interest of mine anyway. “It’s fine,” is all I say. “Let’s just start walking. We don’t need a brolly.”
But Rory insists on holding the broken umbrella over our heads, propping it up with two hands, refusing to see that it’s doing absolutely no good. If anything, it’s making us more wet with how the raindrops are splashing off of the battered spokes, down onto our faces.
We start south on Upper Street, following the route of the 4 bus down toward Islington Green, the triangular town square where dogs scamper around in the matted-down grass, no one seeming to mind the “Dogs Must Be on Leads” signs. For as rule abiding as the Brits are, dogs seem to have a free pass and are shown far more empathy and affection than humans.
All the dogs seem to be drawn to Rory—they come over and nip affectionately at his legs, and he bends down and scratches their ears and their bellies, like they’ve been lifelong friends. I don’t join in, not keen to smell like wet dog or have my expensive coat ruined by claw marks. But it does make me miss Murray, my family’s black lab that my brothers and I got one Christmas. He died a few years ago, and I never got to say goodbye.
As if I don’t have enough negative feelings in my body, regret and longing pile on. Whenever I’m stuck in a down mood, all the bad emotions have a way of amplifying all at once. It feels like my heart is expanding, but not in a good way. In a crippling and overwhelming way that just makes everything ache.
I check my watch discreetly while Rory’s wrapped up with an Australian shepherd. Or at least, I think I’m being discreet, but apparently not.
“Do you have to go?” Rory asks. “I don’t want to hold you up.”
“Not yet,” I say, though we’re nearly at the thirty-minute mark. “But I do have a hard stop at noon for a work call.” I hate how cruel and corporate the lie sounds aloud, but I don’t have the energy foranything else. Especially not the truth about how I actually just have to climb back into bed and bury my head in a pillow and try to forget how I let a creepy client touch me like a trophy last night.
After he’s done petting the dogs, Rory resumes attempting to hold the umbrella over us, and we walk past Tesco and Barclays into Camden Passage, a narrow, no-cars-allowed cobblestone street, packed tightly with speckled-brick shops and high-end hairdressers. It’s my favorite street in London, but it feels too crowded today, like there’s no space to breathe. Weekend market vendors have squeezed in to set up pop-up stalls selling antiques and jewelry, costume hats and watercolor canvases, vinyl CDs and gourmet cheese.
“Holy cow,” Rory says, soaking up the sights like a kid at Disney World. “My mom would love this.”
Abruptly, the rain shifts from drizzle to full-on downpour. Rory finally seems to admit that his broken brolly isn’t up to the challenge, so we seek shelter under the awning of a bridal shop that’s displaying a sequined princess ballgown in the window. It’s exactly the sort of once-in-a-lifetime dress I’ve always dreamed of walking down the aisle in. The gap between where I thought I’d be in my early thirties (married with a couple kids) and where I actually am (completely and utterly single, resorting to falling in love with imaginary men because the real ones are no good) makes me feel even worse about everything.
Everything in me feels antsy to get back home and take another shower. “I should probably start heading back soon,” I say. “For my work call.”
Rory looks like he believes me, which hurts in an unexpected sort of way, though maybe that’s just because everything hurts right now. “No worries,” he says. “Consulting life is a grind, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say with a grimace. “You could say that.”
“That’s one thing I miss about Michigan,” Rory says wistfully. “The culture is more laid back.”
I snort, then try to disguise it as a sneeze. Michiganders are certainly laid back, which is code forunmotivated.
“So what’s your family think of you living in a different country?” Rory asks, as if he didn’t catch the part about me being up against an (imaginary) time crunch.
“They’re fine with it,” I say before I really have to think about an alternative answer. “I haven’t lived near them in years, so London’s not that much different from New York or California.”
“Do you think you’ll move back closer to them someday?” he asks, getting nosy in that way that Kalamazoo people do.
“Highly unlikely,” I say. “I feel like an outsider when I go back. Like my life is on a different track.”
“And you like your track?” He doesn’t say it in a charged way at all, but I clench up into a defensive stance.
“Of course,” I say, slicing the words with an air of superiority. “I want to reach my potential.”
Rory seems to chew on the words before digesting them. “In what way?”
“Rise up at work. Lead a company and have the influence to create large-scale change in the world.” I’ve said this phrase to other people and myself so many times that it comes out smooth and polished.
“So yourcareerpotential,” Rory clarifies.
“Correct,” I say, annoyed at him for not catching on faster. “What other potential is there?”
