I’m late to it all. I just hope I’m not too late.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I quit my job!!I text Blake, from the back of the cab.
WHAT!?!!!she replies, all caps with an excess of exclamation points, like we’re back in our early twenties, enchanted by everything and jaded by nothing.YOU SAW THE LIGHT!!!
Finally did!!I assure her, then send her incoming call to voicemail.Will call you later—on a mission now!
The cab gets backed up in traffic a few blocks from Trafalgar Square. Unwilling to wait, I get out and run the remaining distance along the north bank of the Thames. Passing the docked riverboats bobbing on the water, I outpace morning joggers, propelled by my newfound freedom. I’m tempted to toss my work phone into the river, but I don’t want to pollute, so I keep it stashed in my pocket, to be deposited at a recycling center later.
As I turn a bend, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament come into view before me, all their grandiose glory rising up against the textured fabric of pastel, purple-gray clouds. The goldensandstone spires and meticulously etched turrets are backlit by the sun, which, though it isn’t out, seems nearer than usual for a London morning.
Exiting the river path and crossing the street (my eyes finally know which way to look for oncoming traffic), I make my way inland a few blocks until I reach the square. Protestors are squeezed together, from the monument all the way up to the steps of the National Gallery. They’re not loud, but the hum of their chanting is a distinct change from the clamor of traffic, construction, and car horns.
Trying to locate Rory based on the angle of the earlier TV report, I hear the students before I see them—the youthful voices raising the pitch of the whole crowd: “Clean up and green up!”
And there he is, next to the nearest fountain. Rory, standing there with a little boy on his shoulders so the student can see over the crowd. The boy is holding up a posterboard sign with a water cycle drawing on it.
Squirming my way through the crowd, I hurry toward them. But the closer I get, the slower I move. My nerves start to fail me.
I had the courage to quit my job today. But I’m not sure I’m brave enough to face the man I used to love.
The man you still love.
He asked for space, and here I am turning up without warning. Not only that, but in a setting with his students. I consider turning around and heading back to Marlow House.
But my body rejects the idea with the same confidence that it rejected Harold’s requests earlier. I can’t waste another moment.
So I walk toward him. But before Rory sees me, Mala comes running over, tugging on her mom’s hand. “Miss Kat!” Malashrieks, reaching out for a hug that I gratefully return. “Guess what, Miss Kat? I was on the telly—you won’t believe it!”
“I saw you,” I assure her. “Can I have your autograph?”
She’s positively giddy, hopping up and down, long braids flapping freely. “I do hope I go viral,” she declares.
Smiling to myself, I think of how the world has changed since I was Mala’s age, but how it’s not all for the worse.
“And also, guess what else happened, Miss Kat?” She gestures for me to lean down so she can whisper in my ear. “It worked!” she hisses. “When I told JB that I fancied him, he didn’tsayit back, but now he gives me all his Percy Pig sweets instead of stealing mine.” Mala beams, like this is the most romantic of all gestures. Which, to be fair, it pretty much is for primary school.
“I guess I owe you those chocolate biscuits,” I tell her.
“Indeed you do,” she says happily. “Say, did it work for you, Miss Kat? Did you tell yourAmericanperson you loved them?”
“I did,” I say, lowering my voice. “I’m not sure if it worked.”
“It didn’t?” Mala’s face drops, and she looks distraught. “But who wouldn’t love you, Miss Kat?” she asks, eyes stretched and solemn. “That’s what I want to know.”
The comment breaks my heart a bit, but in the sort of way that’s needed to let the light in.
Rory has noticed me. He’s lowered the boy off his shoulders and is now standing in front of me. “What’re you doing here?” he asks, avoiding direct eye contact by fiddling with the zipper on his raincoat.
It probably deserves to be a loaded question since I’m disregarding his request for space and because my client is responsible for the oil spill. But there’s no venom in his voice, just vigilance.
“I quit,” I tell him. His impassive expression doesn’t change, so I say it again. “I quit my job.”
Rory seems to turn the words over a few times, as if checking for fraud. “You did what?”
In a well-timed way, Mala’s mom diverts Mala’s attention to the news cameras, giving Rory and me a moment to talk, just the two of us.
