Meant to Be (13 page)

Been thinking of you too. But need to know u better b4 we meet again. More texting? —J

I flip the phone shut and set about my nighttime routine. With my face washed, my teeth brushed and flossed, every part of me moisturized, and my clothes set out for the next morning, I’m finally ready to end the day. By the time I crawl into bed for the night (dangerously close to the time I need to wake up in the morning), I’m feeling much better. I am, after all, a very lucky lady. I’m curled up in the most comfortable bed ever (seriously, it feels like sleeping in a hug), in a gorgeous hotel room in London. I have eight more days of exciting and interesting travel and a mysterious stranger who wants to kiss me. Bet Phoebe didn’t have that in mind when she instructed me to find adventure in London.

What I need is a plan. I love plans, especially when they’re written down with my favorite pencil using pretty little bullet points, but I’m too tired to get out of bed now. Instead, head sinking into the feather pillow, I lie back, staring at the stylishly tarnished brass chandelier over me, and start to think.

First of all, I
have
to get off this rule-breaking kick. Sneaking out? Drinking? I’m lucky I didn’t get caught. I also have to find out who Chris is. Besides, I’d like to have some more time to charm him with my wit—or at least my proper use of grammar—so he doesn’t bolt in the opposite direction when he realizes I’m not
exactly
the model I’ve been claiming to be.

Of course, this whole situation is made a thousand times more
complicated by my getting dragged through London by the king rule breaker himself, Jason Lippincott.

Suddenly, I realize that being tethered to Jason for the next eight days may not be such a bad thing. Sure, he’s supremely annoying and has more than once nearly ruined my life, but that kid probably has plenty of devious spy tactics to help me find my mystery man. Let
him
break the rules, and I’ll trail behind, reaping the reward, hopefully in the form of awesome European smooching—or snogging, as the Brits would say—with my mystery guy. And if I have to write a few extra essays and tolerate a few extra hours with Jason to do it, well, then that’s a deal I’m willing to make.

Who knows? Maybe by the end of this trip I’ll have fallen in love with more than just the city.

Mark who? :P —J

W
hen my alarm buzzes, my head is so clear, and my outlook so sunny, there might as well be chirping birds flitting around the room and cheerful little mice waiting to dress me for a ball. I stretch my legs, still a little tight from last night’s lap session, then throw back the plush hotel comforter and bound out of bed.

I step into my favorite jeans, topped with a tank and a vintage flannel button-up Phoebe gave me last year. It’s so old and worn it’s like wearing a basket of kittens (but not in a weird way). I double-check my bag to be sure I have everything for the day’s visits (guidebook, map, agenda, fully charged phone, a book in case I get caught somewhere with nothing to do, ibuprofen, gum, a pencil case with four fully sharpened number-two pencils … you know, the basics). Satisfied, I head down to the hotel dining room.

Last night’s laps cleared my head, but they’ve also awakened my swimmer’s appetite, and I realize I’m absolutely
starving
.

The hotel kitchen staff is ready for me, though, and when I arrive
downstairs in the dining room, I’m greeted by the most incredible buffet table I’ve ever seen. Rows of gleaming silver chafing dishes are overflowing with golden French toast, pancakes dotted with fat red berries, crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, and home fries (is that what they call them here?). Past those I spy a separate table nearly sagging under the weight of various pastries, baked goods, and bowls of whipped butter and clotted cream. I heap portions of everything onto my gold-rimmed plate. If there’s a heaven, it’s this buffet—inside a library with no one around but me. And maybe Phoebe. And my mom.

And Mark.

“Carbs much?” Evie says sarcastically as she flounces past me.

I nearly lose my grip on the heavy plate, and the Belgian waffle perched precariously on top of my two scones nearly tumbles to the ground, a dollop of maple syrup oozing onto my sleeve. She rolls her eyes, placing one half of a grapefruit on her otherwise empty plate, and flounces off to join Sarah at a table in the middle of the room. I make a face at her receding back, wipe the syrup from my flannel, and find my way to an empty table in the corner.

I dive into the food along with my copy of
Pride and Prejudice
. I’m lost in the scene where Mr. Darcy proposes to Elizabeth when I feel someone hovering over me. It’s Jason, in his standard uniform of jeans that look like they haven’t been washed since before ninth-grade gym; a ratty, pilled old North Face fleece; and his Sox cap, perpetually askew. I’d bet all the money in my pocket that underneath his fleece is a Bruins tee.

“Where’d you disappear to last night, Book Licker?” he asks, as though
I
were the one to ditch
him
. He balances a plate even more overflowing than mine.

“Back to the hotel,” I reply coldly. I make a conscious—and, I think, very mature—decision to ignore the nickname. I feel good, and I’m going to hold on to that mood. I plop a spoonful of clotted cream onto a bite of
waffle, wondering if my blood sugar is too high for me to get angry right now. I might be experiencing some kind of food euphoria.

“By yourself?” His eyes grow wide.

“Yup,” I reply. I shovel a forkful of waffle into my mouth and try to sound confident. “I wanted to get some swimming in.”

“I see,” he says. He brushes his bangs from his eyes. They fall right back over his face, and after two more attempts, he finally gives up and shoves them under his baseball cap. “You really shouldn’t wander around by yourself, you know. There are some crazies out there.”

“Right,” I say. “Because being with you is totally normal.”

“Ha-ha.” He slides into the seat across from mine, unzipping his fleece. I see that I’m right about the Bruins tee. “Seriously, Julia. I would have walked you back to the hotel. Just let me know next time.”

He seems genuine, but his tone makes me feel even lamer, like some pathetic lonely girl who can’t even get someone to walk home with her. That’s twice in the past ten minutes someone has tried to make me feel like a loser, and I’m kind of over it. It’s time to take control of this day, so I decide to set my newly hatched plan into motion.

“Well, I wanted to text with Chris,” I say. I peek over my fork to catch his reaction. Jason just rolls his eyes.

“Continuing your little
textplorations
solo, eh? That’s a dangerous game,” he says. He grabs a bread item slathered with something I don’t recognize and takes a giant bite. Immediately, his nose crinkles and his mouth screws up into a deep grimace. He swallows hard, then grabs my napkin off my lap and starts furiously wiping his tongue.

“What are you eating?” I ask.

“Marmite,” he spits. He steals my glass of cranberry juice and slugs it down. “Ugh, it tastes like a salty dirt pile.”

“Why did you cover your toast in it if you didn’t know what it was?”

“When in Rome,” he says. He flips his toast over so the offending
Marmite is no longer facing him. “Isn’t that why you’re on this random text adventure?”

I open my mouth to reply but am interrupted by Sarah, who practically skips up to our table, her loose blond waves bobbing on her shoulders.

“Oh my God, are you so psyched about the Stratford-upon-Avon trip?” she asks, her eyes trained on Jason. In her world, I’m not even here.

“The what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Stratford-upon-Avon,” Sarah repeats slowly.

“Shakespeare’s birthplace,” I say, jumping in. I run my finger through a river of maple syrup and lick it off. Sarah wrinkles her nose at me, but I don’t care. This maple syrup is liquid love. While she’s watching, I pick up a cheese blintz and take an enormous bite. Sarah looks like she’s tallying calories in her head.

“Evie saw online that there are going to be a bunch of other American schools there from all over the place,” Sarah explains, turning away from me and back to Jason. “It’s going to be a
major
party scene.”

“Screw literature; let’s drink,” I mumble to myself through crumbs of cheese pastry.

“Excuse me?” Sarah glares at me.

“Nothing,” I reply, tossing my napkin onto my plate. “Sounds awesome.”

“I’m psyched we’re actually getting out of London for a day,” Sarah sighs exaggeratedly. “I’m already bored. So you’re going?”

“We’re all going,” I say. “It’s required.”

“You heard the lady,” Jason says, pointing a thumb in my direction. “I guess we’re going.”

“We?” I ask with heavy skepticism, though it’s purely for show. I’m, to quote Sarah, “so psyched” for the Stratford-upon-Avon trip. Not only
is it Shakespeare’s birthplace, it’s where my parents got their wedding rings, and I definitely plan on stopping by the little antique shop where they found them.

“Yes, buddy,” he says, tapping the table with his fist for emphasis. “You and I are buddies, and as buddies, we will show our buddy-ness by attending the Stratford-upon-Avon trip. Together.”

“
Or
because you
have
to be with your buddy,” Sarah says in that obnoxious tone of voice she’s so fond of. She adjusts her brown leather hobo on her shoulder, spins around, and skips back toward Evie.

“Look,” I say as soon as Jason turns his attention back to me. “Let’s get one thing straight. I am really excited about this trip, and not for the major party scene or whatever you call it. As soon as we get there, we’ll be parting ways. My liver and I are not interested in a repeat of the other night. You can party, and I can take in the culture.”

Jason smirks at me. “You and I have very different definitions of ‘culture,’ Book Licker.”

“You and I have very different definitions of everything,” I say.

“Speaking of culture …” Jason leans over and snatches a plump strawberry off my plate. I was saving it to dip in the powdered sugar left behind by my waffles, and it’s all I can do not to reach over and take it right back. “You haven’t forgotten our little agreement, have you?”

“I’ll write your stupid essays,” I snap. I catch myself and say in a more normal tone of voice, “So long as you keep up your end of the bargain.”

“You have yourself a deal,” he says. He holds out his hand. I roll my eyes and shake.

“A deal with the devil,” I mutter. I hope I haven’t traded away
too
much of my soul.

“Okay, everyone!” Mrs. Tennison calls from the other side of the room. “Bus is here! Finish up your breakfasts!”

I stand up and head toward the bus without waiting for Jason. I can
only hope that today’s adventures will be a little less adventurous than my last adventures.

“It’s huge!”

“That’s what she said!”

Cue riotous laughter as our bus rumbles past Big Ben.

I want to roll my eyes, but I’m afraid pretty soon they’re going to get stuck in the back of my head, and penis puns are really not worth my permanent facial damage.

By the time our bus pulls up to the Tower of London, my expectations for the day are somewhere in the basement. Call me a cynic, but since Jason spent the
entire
time we toured Big Ben talking about how satisfied Mrs. Ben must be, my guess is that a landmark famous for its crown
jewels
is not going to bring out his most charming comments, either.

But from the moment we walk in the door, he is quiet. He’s not cracking jokes or laughing or snorting or high-fiving anyone. He’s simply following the rest of the tour, listening to the guides and (can it be?) actually reading the historical markers along the way.

We leave the Waterloo Barracks, home to the crown jewels, and Mrs. Tennison tells us to find our partners and discuss what we’ve seen so far.

“Remember, this is
perfect
subject material for a reflection paper,” she says, her eyes aglow with the excitement of homework. “Don’t simply
discuss. Dissect!
The work will be easier later!”