Meant to Be (28 page)

Back in my hotel room, I latch the chain, as if someone is going to bust in and accuse me of stealing. I unfold the note and read the two sets of handwriting: Sarah’s loopy cursive spelling out
What happened to you guys last night?
and Jason’s trademark chicken scratch replying,
I screwed up. In more ways than one
.

I read it over again. And again. And then a fourth time. After the fifth, I wad it up in my hand hard and fling it with all my might across the room. It’s only a small scrap of paper, though, so it flutters and then drops limply near my feet. I don’t know what else to do, so I stomp on it hard. And then again. And then I jump up and down on it.

When I finally stop, I’m out of breath, but a sense of calm comes over me.

So it was a mistake. We
do
hate each other. We
are
complete opposites. It
was
just hormones. It didn’t mean a thing.

I won’t think about it again, ever, not even for a second.

It feels like my brain has been cooked into scrambled eggs. All I know is I need to get the anger
out
, so I drop to the floor, flat on my back, and do a hundred crunches. When I’m done, my abs are tight and burning, my lungs begging for more oxygen.

I sit down on the big fluffy bed and pull the comforter around me
like a cape. Then I drop back on the bed and fall asleep, gaining back all those lost hours from last night.

When I wake from my nap, I realize I’ve missed lunch. Oh well. I still have negative appetite. I spot my towel from the hotel pool hanging over the rack. As soon as I slip into my suit, I feel my muscles start to burn, begging for a good workout.

Up on the rooftop pool, I execute a perfect dive into the water, barely making a splash. I start freestyle, pulling myself hard through the water, but it’s not long before I switch to the butterfly. It’s not my best stroke, but it works my body so hard I can’t think of anything else.

Except the kiss. The kiss that was a mistake. The water isn’t doing its job today. Nothing is muted. In fact, it all seems louder. The kiss was a mistake? But then why did it feel so right at the time? I’ve had enough kisses in my life (okay,
four
) to know that what happened yesterday was different. Special. Downright awesome. My mind wanders back to the moment in the grass, right before the rain, when I could feel his breath in my hair. I’m about to get lost in the memory when reality clicks in and brings me back. Apparently, the “different” feeling was that I’d never been kissed by
accident
. I’d never been kissed by someone who didn’t want to kiss me back. (Even Johnny Cafferty, who
had
to kiss me during spin the bottle at summer camp,
wanted
to kiss me. He told Phoebe and she jostled the bottle at the last second so it landed on him.)

When will I
ever
understand
anything
about love?

Between Mark, Chris, and Jason, I keep getting it wrong. Mark is a dream, Chris is a mystery, and Jason is a mistake. Or maybe they’re all mistakes? I don’t even know anymore.

Then it hits me: all this time, Chris has been asking to see me, to meet up. And I keep turning him down. Why? Because I’m afraid, and that’s a stupid reason to run away from someone who actually likes me—who is actually happy he met me—even though he doesn’t know the
exact
truth about who I am.

If my parents’ relationship has taught me
anything
, it’s that things don’t last forever—they can’t—so I shouldn’t waste a single minute. Connection is a matter of destiny: if Chris turns out to be my MTB, then he won’t care that I’m not really a supermodel. He’ll love me anyway. Besides, he has already met me. Dad always said great reward comes with great risk; it’s time for me to risk something.

I swim over to the edge of the pool where I’ve left my towel and my phone. I flip it open and dash off a new message to Chris.

How bout tonight? —J

I click send, then snap my phone shut and dive in for another punishing lap. I’m halfway through when I realize there’s someone standing on the edge of the pool, right at the end of my lane. I come up for air, swiping the water from my eyes.

“Julia!”

Impossible. I blink, several times, realizing I
must
have a lot of chlorine in my eyes. There’s
no way
. I’m dreaming.

“Fancy meeting you here! I totally forgot the juniors were staying at this hotel.”

Mark Bixford, Man of My Dreams, MTB original, is standing on the pool deck, smiling down at me.

UR on. Meet me @Camden market 2nite for some mulled wine & meandering? —C

M
y phone beeps with a new text, but I’m too stunned to look at it. Or maybe it’s just my brain beeping—some inner alarm going off. MTB! MTB!

“What—what are you doing here!” I exclaim. The combination of the hard workout and the shock makes me sound sputtery and shrill. I grip the side of the pool, resting my chin on the ledge, trying to conceal as much of my body as possible. My Day-Glo swim team one-piece doesn’t exactly have major sex appeal.

“Uh, well, I heard there was a pool on the roof, so I figured I’d come up here and check it out,” he says, shrugging.

“I meant in London,” I say. I’m still blinking chlorine out of my eyes, but I don’t blink too fast, in case he’s some kind of mirage and I could accidentally blink him away.

“My dad got called in last minute to cover fashion week,” he explains, and I remember that his father is kind of a big-deal photographer. Not only does he regularly have spreads in
Vogue
and
Harper’s
, but he
volunteers photographing cancer patients at the children’s hospital. He donates a photo shoot to the Newton North PTA’s charity auction every year. Obviously, Bixford Senior has transferred his awesomeness to his son. “Since I had no spring break plans, he brought me along. I figured a London adventure would be fun.”

“But I thought the hotel wasn’t even open yet. To regular guests, I mean.”
As if that even matters right now, Julia. You are a conversational wizard
.

But Mark doesn’t roll his eyes or sigh or crack a joke. He just nods and explains that his dad knows Mrs. Tennison’s husband’s brother (or whatever), too, and in exchange for some photos to hang in the hotel’s dining room, the Bixfords are staying in the hotel for the rest of the week.

A shiver passes through my body, and I have the sudden realization that Mark Bixford, my MTB, is standing here, and I’m in a pool. I put my hands up on the ledge of the pool and start to haul myself straight up onto the deck. I make it about halfway out of the water when it strikes me that I’m about to be standing in front of Mark Bixford, my MTB,
wearing a wet bathing suit
. The horror sends me plummeting backward into the pool, water splashing onto Mark’s perfectly white sneakers.

I have a moment when I think about staying on the bottom of the pool until I die … or Mark leaves, whichever comes first. But that only lasts a minute before I burst back to the surface, gasping for breath.

“Do you need help?” Mark bends down and offers me one of his hands.
I need a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. And possibly a lobotomy, because my brain is, like, frozen from shock
.

I grasp his hand and he pulls me straight up onto the deck in one fluid motion. I can feel his eyes on me in places I only imagined Mark Bixford’s eyes would go. I’m simultaneously horrified to be wearing my swim team suit and thankful I’m not in a teeny bikini. I cross my arms in front of my chest, then drop them to my sides, then cross my hands at my waist. I must look like I’m doing some kind of half-naked Macarena,
so I dive past Mark for the towel I left before I got into the pool. I wrap it around me like a cape.

“I, uh, well …,” I mumble, praying that my brain will emerge from its watery fog and start to actually function. “I’m going to head downstairs. I need to get dressed.”

“I’ll ride with you,” he says. He follows me toward the elevator and jumps in front of me to punch the button.

The elevator dings down each floor. The noise is loud and crisp and somehow chipper, a signal of something exciting about to start. I can’t believe Mark is actually here and talking to me, not just because he thinks he should. I have to keep sneaking glances at him to be sure it’s not a dream. I hope he doesn’t notice.

I focus on not staring at him, and try not to think about the silence stretching between us, either. I won’t speak, because if I speak, I’ll blow it. There’s water in my left ear—I can feel it—but I refuse to try to shake it out. I am not going to start hopping up and down like a lopsided jackrabbit in front of Mark.

Mark is here
.

I keep repeating it over and over in my head, but it still doesn’t totally feel real. I want to pinch myself. Or him. Or both. Or have
him
pinch
me
.

I must have gotten water in my
brain
.

I stare into the brass elevator doors, which reflect the image of Mark standing next to me. He’s leaning against the back wall of the elevator, his arms crossed over his chest. His sleeves are rolled up, and I can’t stop staring at his tan skin. There are a few freckles dotted along his arm. I want to run my fingers from one to the next, tracing them like some kind of constellation.

Mark is
here
. And talking to me.
Me!

“I heard you had some, um, excitement on the flight over,” he says, arching an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah, the flight was crazy bumpy,” I reply. “How did you—”

Before I can finish my question, the elevator dings twice to indicate that we’ve arrived at my floor, and as the doors slide open, Mark’s reflection disappears … and is replaced by the real-life Jason, who is waiting to get into the elevator.

His dark green thermal has a hole near the hem and the sleeves are all stretched out over his fingers. His messy hair appears to be staging an escape from underneath his crooked baseball cap.

Jason’s eyes flick back and forth from Mark to me, me to Mark.

“Hi!” I shout, entirely too brightly. I push past him before he can do something to embarrass me, and Mark follows me into the hall.

“Hey there,” Jason says, swiveling around to face me, although he keeps his eyes on Mark. Now that I can see them standing across from each other, I can’t believe I was ever hung up on Jason for even .2 seconds. Mark is
perfect
. Jason was right: the kiss was a mistake.

Jason’s expression is hard to decipher. He looks very calm. Unfortunately, it seems like the kind of calm that comes before a tornado whips through your town and deposits three cows and a Pizza Hut on top of your house. I feel my body tense as I wait for the inevitable funnel cloud.

Mark, to his credit, is oblivious.

“Hey, man, good to see you,” Mark says, and offers his hand. Jason eyes it for a moment before leaning in for one of those half-high-five, half-hug back-slap maneuvers guys seem to be so good at. Jason thuds Mark so hard on the back that I think I hear a low “ugh” escape.

“You too,
man
,” Jason replies, a faint note of sarcasm in his voice. Jason turns to me. “So, buddy, I was just looking for you. We’ve got that outdoor-space assignment, so I was thinking we could hit up Covent Garden. You know, sniff some flowers and stuff.”

“It’s not actually a garden,” I reply.

“What?” Jason looks puzzled.

“It’s a shopping district,” I say. I glance over at Mark nervously. I
don’t want him to think I’m some kind of boring know-it-all. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to be paying attention. “There are markets and the Royal Opera House and stuff.”

“Whatever,” Jason says. He positions himself between Mark and me. “Do you wanna go?”

“It doesn’t really fit the assignment,” I reply, uncomfortably adjusting my towel-cape.

Mark glances at his watch. He moves easily around Jason, and I practically melt into a puddle when he smiles at me. “I’m headed over to Hyde Park in a few. My dad’s doing a shoot, and he wanted me to meet him. You could come with me if you want.”

I have a teeny, tiny sliver of a moment when it seems like Mark Bixford might be asking
me
out on a date, but Jason quickly stomps his foot down on that hope and dream.

“That sounds great,” he says, a heavy, affected enthusiasm dripping from his words. “Don’t you think that sounds great, Julia? Almost, I don’t know,
meant to be
?”

I shoot a warning eye at him, and he seems to get the message:
Don’t. Just. Don’t
. I want to slap that snotty grin right off his freckled face, but instead I take a deep breath and smile at Mark.

“Yeah, that’d be fun,” I say, hoping my voice sounds appropriately enthusiastic without too much of a tinge of OMGYESPLEASERIGHTNOW! “I’ll go throw on some clothes,” I say.

“Are you sure?” Mark smiles at me and raises his perfect eyebrows. “I’m sure the people of London would love to see you touring in your swimsuit. I certainly wouldn’t mind.”