“Hunky-dory,” I say in an affected English accent because apparently that’s my nervous tick. “I have your Christmas gift,” I say, suddenly very shy, like I’m still in my awkward braces-with-rubber-bands phase (a phase that unfortunately extended into my junior year of high school).
Trying to tap into my self-assured businesswoman side, I walk up to Rory at his desk and hand him my phone, where the itinerary forRory Cooper: London Heathrow to Kalamazoo, Michigan, is displayed.
Rory takes my phone and stares down at it. “What’s this?” he asks, eyes scanning the screen. As he reads the words, his expression bends into a frown. “No,” he starts. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s a plane ticket home for Christmas,” I say matter-of-factly, like I’m leading a work presentation. “It’s already purchased. Nonrefundable.”
“No,” he repeats, and it’s the closest to being upset I’ve ever seen him. His voice doesn’t rise in volume, but he’s firm and decisive. “There’s no way I can accept this. Zero chance.”
“Yes you can,” I say, though I find myself wondering if this was too ridiculous a thing to do for a new friend. I’ve only knownhim two months, if you take out the time that I spent thinking he was Alexander, which seems like a logical span of time to exclude, considering I got absolutely everything wrong about him. Everything except the fact that he was someone I would enjoy being around.
I picture him and Emily holding hands as they walk through the sleepy, shabby streets of Kalamazoo, from burgers at Burdick’s over to beers at Bell’s. The image fills me with a mix of grumpiness and graciousness, knowing it’s what Rory wants and that I can help it come true.
“I’ve racked up an absurd amount of airline miles from consulting travel,” I tell him, with the persuasive air of a consultant who’s ticking through the numbers in a PowerPoint deck. “A bunch of them are expiring soon, so you’re doing me a favor really.”
He keeps staring, looking down at my phone, then up at me, then back at the phone. It still takes another fifteen minutes to convince him to consider the idea. Even then, he remains unsure.
“Rory,” I say, getting exasperated, “if you don’t get on that plane, it’s a wasted ticket. And it’ll be a waste of a carbon footprint, too, for a plane to fly with an empty seat.”
This finally does the trick. “Are you sure?” he says, and I feel his mind racing to come up with a hundred more reasons that he shouldn’t accept it.
“Extremely sure,” I say in my brusque corporate manner that doesn’t take no for an answer. “We leave tomorrow, so you’d better get packing.”
Excitement seeps onto his face. Eyes widening, he looks boyishly adorable from under his Santa hat and beard. I want to take a picture but decide just to snap a memory instead.
“I can’t believe this,” he says, physically bouncing on his toes with giddy jitters. “I’ll repay you, I promise.”
“You’d better not,” I warn. “That violates the definition of a gift.”
I can tell he’s not going to let the matter drop, but he stops bringing it up—for now, at least. “You’re the best, Kat,” he says, looking me squarely in the eye, though the shape feels circular somehow, too gentle for boxy edges. “Seriously.”
“I know I am,” I say, passing it off with sarcasm so I don’t have to dwell on how his words make me feel like I can do anything I want—and more than that, like I’ve already doneeverythingI want. Like this one little gesture has filled me more than all my work-related accomplishments.
I stay for a little longer, joining in as Rory cleans up the classroom. Meticulously, he lines up the book bins and chairs just so, sorting all the folders and markers by color and erasing the whiteboard over and over until it looks scrubbed brand-new. As he’s checking and rechecking the plugs and wires and windows, he keeps apologizing for taking so long.
“Sorry, it always takes me a while to leave places,” he explains. “Especially when I’ll be gone a couple weeks.” He says it in an informative sort of way that makes it clear that he understands his quirks, and this is just the regimen he needs to follow so he can feel well when he walks out the door.
“Take your time,” I say, though I catch myself wishing he’d hurry up so we could walk out together and maybe go look at the Christmas lights on Oxford Street before returning to our flats to pack. I try to hide my impatience, but Rory picks up on it, and it’s clear I’m only adding to his stress.
So, pretending to be late dialing in for a work call, I head out so I won’t be hovering. I don’t want him to feel any pressure to go faster. I don’t want him to have to change or apologize for who he is or how he is.
I hope Emily doesn’t want him to change either. I hope she loves him the way I would love him if I loved him.
Which I don’t, of course. It’s hard to explain, but it makes sense in my head.
Or maybe in my heart, but there’s no point lingering. He’s as good as engaged to Emily at this point.
And so, scowling at the nerve of my imagination, I walk myself home. Or at least I walk myself back to Marlow House and the warped-floorboard apartment that I’m calling home until I settle down in a proper one. If I ever do.
The thought of a nomadic life used to feel so exotic, sofree, back when I started out in consulting. Traveling all over the country or even the world, with no attachments or anchors. But now it just feels depressing, like I’ll always be drifting around the globe, carting my carry-on suitcases from one place to the next. Always getting ready to pack up and leave again, all by myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I offer to share an Uber with Rory the next morning, but he says that he’ll just meet me at the airport. Something tells me he’s one of those people who insists on arriving at airports a full three hours early.
Sure enough, when I reach our gate in Heathrow’s international terminal, I find him hovering beside a few other overly eager passengers who are waiting for the boarding process to begin. With both hands, he’s clutching his passport and printed-out boarding pass, as if worried they might stage a getaway.
“There you are!” he says, looking hugely relieved to see me. “We’re about to start boarding.”
