“I mean, sure,” I say, feeling the burden of the words. “But my job isn’t the most important thing in the world.”
It’s strange hearing that sentence aloud. But it also feels true and good, like it’s something that I’ve been wanting to say for a while now.
I’ve always thought it would be crazy to prioritize a relationship over a job. But the truth is that my relationship with Rory fills me up so much more than work does.
I’ve been holding on to the idea that once I’m in a leadership role, once I’m partner, and then once I’m CEO, the dynamic will change, and work will be something wonderful that completes me rather than depletes me. But I’m less sure than ever that that day will ever arrive. I might keep straining and sacrificing myself for something that will never love me back.
Maybe my chat with Blake earlier today has rubbed off on me. Loving her improved work–life balance, she’s even contemplating quitting her job altogether. It didn’t seem as crazy a prospect as it once had. The usual edge of stress in her voice was gone, and she sounded happier than I’d ever heard her. Though perhaps some of that was from her smugness about Rory and I being together, as she insisted she called it all along, since I first told her I was having a guy over for Thanksgiving.
“Would you resent me,” Rory poses, “if you moved back and didn’t make partner this year?”
“No, I wouldn’t resent you,” I say, and I know it’s true, though I might resent myself for not sticking it out, especially since I’m so close to the promotion. “I could also just look for a new job,” I suggest. “There are a couple Fortune 500 companies in West Michigan. It’s not like it’sentirelycornfields. I could be a big fish in a little pond.”
I expected to be scrounging up excitement for Rory’s sake, but I’m surprised and satisfied to find that the positivity is my own. But part of me remains conflicted, wondering if it would feel too much like I was quitting on my career ambitions to actually be able to enjoy living there.
“Let’s keep thinking about it,” Rory says, never one for rushing decisions. “It’ll all work out.”
The suave British-accented intercom on the bus announces that Percival Street will be next. It’s Rory’s stop, and he hoists up his backpack, checking all around to make sure he hasn’t left anything behind.
“Yeah,” I agree, though I’m agitated that we haven’t solved it. “It’ll all work out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
We have our first big outing as a couple that weekend. Jules and Nina have spontaneously moved up their wedding to capitalize on a cancellation at the venue, which apparently resulted in a massive discount if they took it. Jules isn’t worried if people can’t make the new date, she’s confessed, as long as they still send gifts. “But that doesn’t count you, Kat,” she’d clarified. “You’d better be there for bridesmaid duties, which just means standing up there to catch Nina if she faints at the sight of me, and giving a bloody good laugh during my vows. I’ve gone for comedy over quality.”
The wedding is in a quaint Cotswolds village a couple hours outside London. Rory and I aren’t fond of the idea of renting a car and driving on the other side of the road through precariously narrow country lanes, so we take a train, then transfer to a bus. It’s a scenic ride, winding through one postcard-perfect town after another, each high street packed with idyllic teahouses, Tudor-style taverns, and chippies selling fish and chips with mushy peas toeager tourists. Beyond the villages, public footpaths traverse the grassy farmland, dappled with sheep and cows. It reminds me of Michigan in a soothing sort of way.
But as the bus crawls along at a snail’s pace, I start getting stressed that we’re going to be late to the ceremony. It wouldn’t be a good look, especially for my first time being a bridesmaid.
“It’ll be okay,” Rory says, much more at ease on buses than planes. “Worst thing that happens is we break down and call an Uber.”
“They don’t have Uber out here,” I say, scowling. “I’ve already checked.”
“Then we’ll walk,” Rory says. “It’ll be an adventure.”
“Jules and Nina’s wedding is supposed to be the adventure,” I retort. “Not showing up late and muddy like Lizzie Bennet after hiking to Netherfield through the moor in the rainstorm.”
“Lizzie who?” Rory asks.
“Bennet,” I reply pointedly. “FromPride and Prejudice.”
I never thought I’d be with someone who didn’t understand myPride and Prejudicereferences. It sends me pouting for a few minutes, until Rory nearly breaks his back opening the jammed-shut window of the bus to get me some fresh air.
“You okay?” he asks, fanning me with the paper menu from the teahouse, which he asked the waiter if we could keep because he knows I like to hold onto sentimental souvenirs. “I can ask the driver for a trash bag if you’re going to be sick.”
It breaks through my bad mood. Rory is no Mr. Darcy, but he’s my perfect guy.
When the bus finally huffs up to a stop at Bourton on the Water, a sleepy, thatched-roof town split by a narrow river and flanked bylush parks, we head straight to our hotel. Named the Mousetrap Inn, it’s a cobbled stone house at the far end of the high street, with a classic English country pub downstairs. It’s only midafternoon, but the barrel-keg bar—which doubles as the front desk—is already rowdy.
The ruddy-faced bartender shows us up to our room on the first floor. “Nice and cozy, innit?” he says with a droll chuckle. “’Fraid the hot water isn’t working at the mo’, but do give a shout if there’s anything we can do.” With that, he ambles back down to the bar.
“Sorry it’s so small,” I say to Rory, looking around at the tiny space with a sunken double bed, linen-sized closet, and scrunched bathroom. “It didn’t look like this online.”
“What do you mean?” Rory counters. “This is great.” His optimism has no edge of irony, and it makes me smile as I unpack my toiletries on the bathroom windowsill since there’s no counter space.
Hurriedly, I do my hair and makeup and slide into my bridesmaid dress, a yellow chiffon gown that Nina picked out. It’s meant to be tea length but reaches the floor on me. I pair it with a navy shawl and close-toed shoes to adapt the summer colors to the late February weather.
When I emerge, Rory doesn’t whistle when he sees me, and his jaw doesn’t drop to the floor. But he stops matting down his cowlick with his comb and stares. “You look great,” he says. “Beautiful, I mean.”
