I wasn’t exactly a saint either, flying all over the country for my job and only making time for him on weekends. All the cracks showed through when he decided things were good enough to get married, and I decided that good enough just wasn’t good enough.
It was downright petrifying to walk away after four years with him, after picturing a future together and thinking everything was following the life plan. And then having to face being single and alone again, in my thirties no less. But it was still less frightening than it would’ve been to walk down the aisle with that gut feeling that it wasn’t right, that I was settling for someone who didn’t cherish me.
My bus beau will cherish me. The proposal will be swoon worthy, and after a heartfelt speech on a Santorini beach, or perhaps a Parisian balcony, he’ll offer me his grandmother’s diamond, fitted on a modern band engraved with our initials and an ellipsis to symbolize the blending of past, present, and future.
“Bonkers,” Jules mutters now, cutting through my trance. “Well, I’m gassed for you, babes, I am.” She recovers, tossing a throw pillow affectionately my way. “But just in case it doesn’t work out—”
“Which it will,” I say, catching the pillow and rocking it against my chest. “He and I are on the same page.”
“Deffo. ’Appy days.”
Her skeptical inflection doesn’t faze me. Nothing can touch me up here. Nothing except the ping of an email. It’s my boss asking ifI’m joining the weekly status meeting, which is the passive aggressive way of scolding me for being one minute late.
I wish I were above caring about such earthly things as work meetings, but alas, I’m gunning for that promotion and need to be on my A game until decisions are made in December. Just three months from now, I could be the youngest female partner in the history of Leo & Sons Consulting Group. I won’t be derailed now, not even by a prince.
Shooing Jules out of the flat, I hastily dial in on my computer, trying to compose myself. My face is still flushed, and my heartbeat hasn’t gotten back on track and now never wants to.
The faces of four white men, all different stages of balding, fill the squares on my screen. It’s my boss, plus the executive team for our client, Turpi Oil. They’re one of Europe’s biggest oil and gas companies, and they’ve hired us to improve their profitability as fossil fuels go out of style and new environmental regulations threaten their preeminence.
“Good of you to join us, Kitten,” the CEO says. The others snigger, as if this demeaning pet name is very clever.
Toxic masculinity runs as deep in the office as the wells where Turpi drills for oil in the North Sea. I abstain from apologizing for being late because I know it will come back to haunt me. It will ring in my boss’s ears when he’s thinking about promotion candidates—the girlySorrythat he’ll associate with weakness, with subservience. Not with leadership.
“Shall I kick it off?” I ask, deepening my voice an octave or two to hit the pitch that they’ll equate with credibility.
The clones nod curtly in unison, so I start running through the agenda items, fielding questions seamlessly, as if on autopilot.
The whole time, though, I’m not really there. I’m snuggled up in the memory of those dark brown eyes flashing at mine—intomine—like they were taking a picture so we could frame it above our fireplace mantel someday and slow dance in front of it each night, forever paying homage to how it all began.
CHAPTER THREE
I hardly sleep that night and not even because of the sagging mattress. All night I’m wired, my mind filling in the blanks about him and us, stringing together story lines out of shimmering thread. And my heart sewing those stories into its lining, patching up holes and transforming the frayed fabric into a soft quilt of possibility.
By the time my alarm goes off, it feels like I’ve known him all my life.
He’s an Oxford man, born into West London wealth and connections. Though he doesn’t have to work, he chooses to anyway, determined to carve his own path. He’s launching a campaign to be a Member of Parliament so he can use his platform for good and improve socioeconomic equality throughout Britain and beyond.
Our work schedules might present a challenge, but we’ll make it work. Perhaps I’ll request more UK-based cases, or he’ll travel with me and postpone his campaign for a couple years until we’re ready to settle down in a South Kensington mansion, with asummer chateau in the Lake District and a beach villa in Mallorca for romantic getaways.
His name is something stately like Alexander, never shortened to Alex except by cricket coaches and calculus tutors. The oldest of three children, he played somewhat of a parental role to his siblings growing up, as his parents were absorbed in, and addicted to, the ceaseless see-and-be-seen circuit of upper-crust English society. Having every opportunity to be spoiled, he’s escaped unscathed—winningly humble, with the quiet confidence that comes from knowing that nothing is out of reach.
The smaller details of which boarding school he went to, or if he’s a tea or coffee person, are second to the soul-level connection we’ve established. That said, I get the feeling it was Eton and that he takes an oat flat white with just a dash of cinnamon.
It’s not like I believe the factual truth of everything I’ve conjured up, but I certainly believe the intuitive truth of it, which is what matters.
If I were still in my twenties, I’d text the seventeen best friends in my group chat:Getting ready to see bus crush again, wish me luck!!!And nanoseconds later, my phone would be blowing up with all-caps replies ofAAH YOU’VE GOT THIS!!andDIBS ON MOH AT THE WEDDING!!!
But thirties life isn’t like that. My friends from the post-college Manhattan years are married now, settled in the sleepy Connecticut suburbs. They’ve all gotten on the same marriage train that I hadn’t realized had pulled up to the station until it was already gone. I’d gotten my chance to jump aboard with Mateo, but it had felt like I’d be following other people’s happiness rather than finding it myself. My best friend Blake does a good job of checking inpretty often, but she just doesn’t have that much time, what with a baby, husband, and an investment banking job. And now the five-hour time difference between us.
I’m not bitter about how we’ve drifted apart, though I do sometimes miss the feeling of being swaddled by so much sisterly love, staying up late rehashing the hellish dates (humorous in hindsight), when I’d cling to their zealous assurances of“That man-child is not worthy of you!!!”And the next night, I’d comfort them with the very same words, meaning every one.
But there’s no space for nostalgia right now, not with the fresh memory of Alexander lighting the way like the Narnia lamppost.
I wonder if he’s been thinking about me this much. Men don’t usually getquiteso carried away with these things, but he seems to be more in touch with his feelings than the average guy, so there’s a better than even chance.
Out of necessity, I take a bath because the shower nozzle has the weakest water pressure I’ve ever seen. It’s a freestanding ceramic tub with characterful legs that make the whole thing wobble precariously when I sit up or recline.
I even shave, which has become quite the rarity. No, Alexander won’t see my legs up close (yet), but it still makes me feel a bit more like a velvety vixen.
