“New coat?” I ask, peeling my gaze away.
“Yeah,” Rory says. “My grandma got it for me for Christmas. Even she said that it was time for me to replace my old one, which is saying something, what with how frugal she is.”
“I liked the old one,” I mumble, more to myself than to Rory.
The music from Gail’s blares out into the street, far too loud, and it’s clear that the place is packed to the brim. My stress levelsrise before we even step inside, and the prospect of a private conversation feels impossible.
Rory seems to be thinking along the same lines. “Want to check out another spot?” he suggests. “Kinda loud in there.”
So we keep walking down Upper Street, not talking much. “I like Islington,” Rory comments, swiveling his head this way and that, perhaps to avoid having to look at me. “It’s kind of like Traverse City, except way bigger.”
“Mmm,” is all I say back. I don’t want to think about how this neighborhood reminds him of a Northern Michigan beach town. I just want to get this over with. But Rory doesn’t seem like he’s ever going to broach the real reason we’re here.
When we’ve walked all the way to the southern juncture of Angel, at the four-way cross leading down to Clerkenwell, an open-topped double-decker bus hums past us. It’s one of those hop-on, hop-off buses for tourists.
“I’ve still never been on one of those,” Rory says, looking up at the bus as he continues to fumble around for small talk to avoid the big talk. “Should we get on?”
I wouldn’t have picked a double-decker bus to be the spot where this all ended. Though perhaps it’s a fitting lesson for me, given how a bus was how this all began.
“Sure,” I say, in no mood to keep walking or trying to fight for space in overcapacity cafés. “Let’s do it.”
So we chase the bus to the next stop and get on, heading up the stairs to the open-air top deck, which is mostly empty. For maximum privacy, I take a seat toward the back. Rory sits down right next to me.
The bus lurches into motion, wind snagging my hair and undoing all the effort I put in to look put-together. On a different day,this bus ride might be a London bucket list adventure that makes me squeal with childish glee. But today, it’s defiled by the distress of the occasion. Even the clouds seem to be darkening all of a sudden, like they’re preparing for the worst.
“It’s nice up here,” Rory says, and he’s still looking all around—forward, backward, out the sides at the balconies and fire escapes and Victorian townhomes we pass by. Anywhere but at me.
My patience is peeling off, exposing the coarse temper underneath. Rory doesn’t even have the spine to start the conversation. This is the behavior of a boy, not a man, and I’m too old for these games.
I’ll just have to be the more mature person and start it off. “So,” I say, not bothering to pad my voice. “You wanted to talk?”
Rory looks down at his lap, fiddling with his hands, head drooping a bit. He glances over at me, then back down at his lap, and I wait for him to launch into the slick speech he’s no doubt prepared about why we’re not meant to be.
“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice scraping out like it’s stuck on something. “What you said in the note? It wasn’t a prank or a dare or something?”
He seems genuinely uncertain, and it punches my gut, the notion that he’d think I’d try to dupe him like that.
But here it is, an opportunity to preserve my pride. To tell him that I didn’t actually mean it. That it was a dare or a lonely whim getting the worst of me. I could get out of this mess right here, right now.
I can’t do it, though. I can’t lie to Rory, especially a lie I know would hurt him. “I meant it,” I say, voice thick with unwanted truth. “Every word.”
Rory lifts his head and looks at me—really looks at me—for the first time all day, and I accidentally taste the sweetness of his honey-colored eyes. “Really?” he asks, and he starts blinking quickly, almost like he’s fighting back tears at the fact that he can’t reciprocate my feelings.
I’m in no mood to comfort Rory, not when I’d planned to be cold to him, but I can’t help myself. “I don’t want you to feel bad that you don’t love me,” I mumble, as the bus rattles along, southbound toward the Thames. “It’s not your fault.”
In the midst of the intersecting emotions, my heart bends even more because I can’t imagine ever having this level of selfless compassion for anyone else. I can’t picture ever looking at another man and knowing that I’ll always, always, always go out of my way to put him first. Not in a toxic sort of way that makes me lose or abandon myself, but in a redemptive way that helps me find myself and elevate my wants and needs to something higher than they were before.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“That’s what you think?” Rory asks, forehead pinching into a frown. “That I don’t love you?”
“I mean, yeah,” I say, feeling a dangerous lurch of hope at how surprised he seems by this. “If you felt the same, you wouldn’t be acting all weird and avoidant.”
Rory lets out a helpless sort of laugh. “Of course I would be,” he says. “You know I’m not good with emotions.” He gives a self-deprecating smile, the dimple in his cleft chin deepening. It makes me want to smile too because I think this might be a positive sign, but I’m still unsure and need to hear him say it.
“Okay, here’s my side of things,” he says, sneakers tapping the floor as his knees jitter. “You know that day we met on the bus?”
I nod. How could I forget it? Not to be dramatic, but it was one of the most disappointing days of my life.
