If Only (16 page)

It was Griffin’s words, actually, that solidified the deal. He told me not to leave without fighting. That he was, in his way, giving me his blessing to follow my heart. And I am. I will. But it’s not a boy I’m fighting for. It’s me.

I look at them both. “I feel like my experience here, what I’m supposed to get from it, is still beginning, but my year is halfway over. I’ve already done the research, and changing my plane ticket from May to August will only cost the equivalent of one-hundred-fifty American dollars.”

My mom can’t hold back any longer. “August? What are you going to do from May until August?”

“I’m going to travel.”

“With whom? How are you going to pay for it? What about getting ready for your senior year?” This time it’s my dad.

I have thought through all of the questions they would possibly ask me and made sure I was prepared.

“Well, for spring break I’m going to Greece with Elaina. Her family has already invited me. That’s when she is going to talk her parents into letting her come with me and her boyfriend, Duncan, for the summer.”

“Elaina, your roommate?” my mom asks.

“I thought Elaina was her friend from the bar,” my dad adds.

“
Who
is Duncan?” they ask in unison.

My eyes roll. “I live with Elaina
and
she works at the bar. Dad, I love that my extracurricular activities hold a firm spot in your memory.” My dad raises his pint in mock toast. “And Duncan is her boyfriend and my friend. They are both fourth-year students who just started dating, thanks to me, and they want to spend the summer with each other and me, too. I’ve known them both since the first day I got here. They are fine, upstanding citizens who will protect me should danger abound on our travels.”

“Not funny, Jordan. Your dad and I love that you are having this wonderful experience, but the only thing that keeps us sane is knowing you aren’t wandering around over here. The school claims responsibility for you.”

She doesn’t have a very solid argument. “You guys know I sometimes travel on weekends, right? And I got to London all by myself to meet you at Jane and Graham’s place.” I raise my eyebrows, indicating vindication for this round.

They glance at each other now, more silent conspiracy. But the looks on both of their faces have softened.

“As for the issue of money, Elaina helped get me a job at the Blue Lantern, where she works. I’m going to be a bartender. And there’s nothing I need to do to prep for senior year other than pick my classes, and I do that online anyway.”

They are both still silent, so I take my cue to continue.

“I’m grateful for getting to be here this year, but how many chances am I going to have to do something like this? I’m already spending my entire winter holiday in London, which is great. I’m glad you guys came, so happy I get to stay with family and experience London like a local. But then I’m going to Greece for spring holiday. I’m in Europe for almost a year. How can I leave without seeing as much of it as possible?”

I’ve covered all the bases, answered all their questions. They know they have no logical reason to say no other than their own parental worry.

“I won’t be alone. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Mom’s eyes are glassy. “I’ll always worry about you, Jordan. Whether you’re twenty or forty, whether you are living in my house or living halfway across the world. It’s my job. I
have
to do it.” She sniffles, though no tears escape. And she’s smiling.

I lock eyes on my father. “Dad?”

He shakes his head and sighs. “I guess you’ve got it all figured out.”

Now I’m beaming. “Is that a yes?”

They look at each other and then back at me, both nodding, slowly and reluctantly, but it’s a yes.

I spring out of my chair and to the other side of the table, wrapping an arm around each of them.

“Thank you! Thank you! Oh my God, thank you!” I kiss each of them on the cheek, not caring about the onlookers who stare at my outburst.

“You’re going to text us every day,” Mom demands.

“Of course.”

“And Skype with us at least once a week,” Dad adds.

“Absolutely, like I’ve been doing since September already.”

We’re all smiling and hugging, and there may be some tears. We’re definitely embarrassing the hell out of ourselves in public, but once again, I don’t care.

When I sit back down on my side of the table, my mother’s smile fades slightly.

“Have you told Sam?”

I haven’t thought about Sam yet, how to tell her I’m going to be gone another ten weeks.

“No.” I look down, feeling slightly ashamed that I’ve made this decision without telling her about it. “I wanted to wait and make sure you guys said yes before I gave her a reason to hate me.” I promised Sam I wouldn’t forget her, and I haven’t. I miss her terribly. But I also know how much I want to do this.

“Sweetie,” Mom starts, “how can you think that? Don’t you know how happy she is for you?”

I shrug, feeling so far away from her. I
am
so far away from her. What scares me is not her reaction to my decision but the whole idea of going home after so long. What if our friendship isn’t the same? What if she changes? What if I do? Every time I write in my journal, I think about sharing the experience with Sam. I try to recapture the moment vividly enough to bring her back here with me when I get home. But what if none of it is enough? I’m scared the life I left in September won’t be there when I get back in August.

Forcing a smile, I say, “I’ll call her tonight, when I get back to the house.”

I don’t, though. When I get back to my cousins’ house, I crash the moment my head hits the pillow. Year’s Eve is only a day away. I promise myself to check in with Sam then.

“Where are you lot off to today?”

It’s Graham, Victoria’s father. With my parents headed back to Chicago, it’s just me and the Londoners for the last of my holiday. We’re nearly out the door with Hugh, Victoria’s boyfriend, to who knows where. She told me it was a surprise, so I’m eager for her response.

“So close,” she moans before turning to face him. “I thought we’d show Jordan ’round the less touristy spots, maybe Hackney. I wanted to let her see it in the daylight before heading to the club for the New Year tomorrow.
Ci correct, Papa?
” Her tight brown curls bounce with her words, but I focus on Victoria’s mouth, the one that just switched from English to French. She’s been doing this since I arrived. After spending a month in Paris last summer, she claims she can’t help but break into French every now and then. I think she likes to show off her flawless accent, but either way I like it. I have two years of high-school French under my belt, and Victoria promised to teach me some naughty stuff, more than the standard
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
that most Americans love to sing regardless of whether they know what it means.

“
Oui.
Sounds lovely,” her dad says. “When should we expect you back? Your mum and I want to see Jordan for her last official night with us.”

“
Au revoir!
We’ll be back in time for supper.” Victoria gives him a quick peck on the cheek, and I wave. The next thing I know we are out the door and on our way to the tube.

“Why does where we’re going need to be a secret?”

Victoria smiles wickedly. “Because. I told you.
C’est une
surprise
. Besides, I did tell him where we’re going. Hackney. So, there’s your only hint.” She throws her head high, proud of her little covert operation.

Right, like I have any idea where Hackney is or what’s there. This whole surprise thing makes me nervous. I remind myself I’ve spent a week with Victoria already, and she’s given me no reason to fear or distrust her. Until now, that is.

The last surprise I received was my journal from Sam, and a wave of guilt washes over me as I think of it. I’ve done as promised, recorded my experiences to share with her later, but not having shared them with her personally feels wrong. None of us talk much on the tube, so I pull out my journal and write a letter to Sam in its pages. Maybe, if I explain to her in writing what I’m feeling right now, sharing it with her later will either bring us closer together or maybe back together from where we may have drifted.

When the train stops about a half hour later, I follow Victoria and Hugh onto the platform and up the steps to the street. We walk for a few blocks through the artiest section of London I’ve seen so far before Victoria stops at a storefront. Neon red lighting frames the picture window and a blue, neon sign in the center reads
Prick
. Above and below said store name are the words
Tattoos
and
Piercing,
respectively.

“Pick your prick, love,” Victoria chants. “Today we are making a memory—
une mémoire
.”

I should be panicking. I don’t even have my ears pierced. After plenty of begging, my mom finally took me to get my ears pierced when I was six. Though I survived the actual procedure without a tear, every day my mom had to clean and turn the new earrings, I was a mess. Apparently, my ears are too sensitive to various metals, including gold, and we ended up taking out the earrings and letting the holes close up. Since then I’ve had no desire to attempt an ear re-piercing, let alone poke a hole in any other spot, visible or not, on my body. But that’s only one option. The other is something else entirely, and I never knew until now that I wanted it.

“I’m in,” I say.

Victoria bounces on her feet. “
Formidable!
”

I look at Hugh and shrug.

He gestures toward the doorway. “She means brilliant. Come on, now. After you, ladies.”

I start to follow Victoria in but then stop short of the doorway.

“Wait!” I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the shop’s neon sign and then text it to Sam. Maybe I’m not ready to talk, but I do want to connect.

“I’m ready.” I throw the phone back in my bag and step inside.

Chapter Fourteen

“How are you two going to kiss when the clock strikes twelve tomorrow night?”

Her brown eyes are slits, and Victoria brandishes her hand at me, indicating what most Americans would read as the number two. After three months in the UK, though, I know she’s flipping me off. But I still laugh. Tall, lanky Hugh’s expression lengthens his already long face.

“I’m not sure you two thought this through.” I can’t
not
laugh. I sit in what looks like a dentist’s chair in the coolest-looking tattoo station—a brick wall with everything from a stuffed goat head to painted masks, replete with a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling—though I have no barometer for comparison. I’ve never been in a tattoo shop before. Victoria and Hugh have been upstairs on the main floor, where the piercing takes place. Hugh pierced his bottom lip, Victoria her tongue. New Year’s Eve is tomorrow.

“The thwelling will go down in a day,” she insists, flipping me off Brit style again, but I still snort. “
Pas de problème,
” she says, but I know enough French to disagree. Based on the way she’s speaking right now, it
is
a problem.

Stuart, my tattoo artist, puts some ointment on my finished ink. The moment I realized I wanted to walk through Prick’s doors, I knew exactly what I was going to do. I look down at my left wrist, still hot and pulsing with the memory of the needle, and I smile. Sam’s been with me the whole time, though we’re so far apart. When I sat down in the chair, I showed Stuart Sam’s inscription in my journal,
Alef, Hey, Vet, Hey
.
Ahava
. Love.

Sam’s not a crier, and though that night was our last night seeing each other, I was still surprised at her display of emotion when we said good-bye. I knew she loved me, always has, so I wasn’t surprised when she told me. It was seeing that word, a Hebrew word she would have had to research to find, that caught me off guard. Back then I took it as her way of telling me what she thought of our friendship, in case she couldn’t say it in person. But that’s not how I read it now. All this time I’ve tried to be more like her, tucking away my expectations in place of living in the moment. All this time I’ve been afraid of what she’d think of me for not being able to give up the reissued V-card to Griffin. Deep down, that’s why I’ve avoided her calls. But when I look at the inscription on my wrist, copied exactly in Sam’s script, it means so much more. She may have slept with the hot bartender days after becoming single, but that’s not me, never could be me. I tried to be that girl and failed, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe Sam will understand. She sent me here with a message to start living, but she sent me here with love, too.

As soon as Stuart’s done with the ointment, I pull out my phone and see a text waiting from Sam, a response to the photo of the storefront. It reads:
Holy shit, girl! What’d you do?

I take a picture of my wrist, which now displays a twin of her inscription to me. I write
Thank you
and then hit send. She replies immediately with a heart.

Other than inquiring what the word on my wrist means, Victoria and Hugh are quiet, no doubt willing their respective mouths to heal faster than humanly possible. I feel bad for how uncomfortable they look but not enough to curb a small sputter of laughter.

Starving, I ask, “Is lunch out of the question?” My smile dims from amused to timid.

Victoria lets out a melodramatic sigh. “I thuppose not.
Mangeons.
”

I turn to Hugh for confirmation. “That means eat?”

He nods.

Though relieved, I also worry she’ll still be speaking like that tomorrow night. I can’t imagine an entire evening with French Sylvester the Cat.

On the way to the stairs leading from the basement to the first floor, we pass two other stations, one with an artist busy at work on the shoulder of a guy with full tattoo sleeves. In the other are two guys, one standing and waiting impatiently and the other sitting on the edge of the tattoo chair pulling a shirt back over his head. With Hugh already starting up the stairs, Victoria looks at the currently headless torso, then back at me and whispers, “
Mon dieu!
”