The Statistical Probability Of Love At First Sight (18 page)

There’s a whole wedding party just outside the door, a new bride and bottles of champagne, and there’s a schedule to keep, an order to the day. But as he sits here listening, it’s as if he has nowhere else to be. It’s as if nothing could possibly be more important than this. Than
her
. And so Hadley keeps talking.

She tells him about her conversation with Oliver, about the long hours when there was nothing to do but talk, as they huddled together over the endless ocean. She tells him about Oliver’s ridiculous research projects and about the movie with the ducks and how she’d stupidly assumed he was going to a wedding, too. She even tells him about the whiskey.

She doesn’t tell him about the kiss at customs.

By the time she gets to the part about losing him at the airport, she’s talking so fast she’s tripping over the words. It’s like some sort of valve has opened up inside of her, and she can’t seem to stop. When she tells him about the funeral in Paddington, how her worst suspicions had all turned out to be true, he reaches out and places a hand on top of hers.

“I should have told you,” she says, then wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “Actually, I shouldn’t have gone at all.”

Dad doesn’t say anything, and Hadley is grateful. She’s not sure how to put the next part into words, the look in Oliver’s eyes, so dark and solemn, like the gathering of a distant storm. Just beyond the door there’s a burst of laughter, followed by scattered clapping. She takes a deep breath.

“I was trying to help,” she says quietly. But she knows this isn’t entirely true. “I wanted to see him again.”

“That’s sweet,” Dad says, and Hadley shakes her head.

“It’s not. I mean, I only knew him for a few hours. It’s ridiculous. It makes no sense.”

Dad smiles, then reaches up to straighten his crooked bow tie. “That’s the way these things work, kiddo,” he says. “Love isn’t supposed to make sense. It’s completely illogical.”

Hadley lifts her chin.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “It’s just that Mom said the exact same thing.”

“About Oliver?”

“No, just in general.”

“She’s a smart lady, your mom,” he says, and the way he says it—without a trace of irony, without one ounce of self-awareness—makes Hadley say the one thing she’s spent more than a year trying not to say aloud.

“Then why did you leave her?”

Dad’s mouth falls open, and he leans back as if the words were something physical. “Hadley,” he begins, his voice low, but she jerks her head back and forth.

“Never mind,” she says. “Forget it.”

In one motion he’s on his feet, and Hadley thinks maybe he’s going to leave the room. But instead, he sits beside her on the bed. She rearranges herself so that they’re side by side, so that they don’t have to look at each other.

“I still love your mom,” he says quietly, and Hadley is about to interrupt him, but he pushes ahead before she has a chance. “It’s different now, obviously. And there’s a lot of guilt in there, too. But she still means a lot to me. You have to know that.”

“Then how could you—”

“Leave?”

Hadley nods.

“I had to,” he says simply. “But it didn’t mean I was leaving
you
.”

“You moved to
England
.”

“I know,” he says with a sigh. “But it wasn’t about you.”

“Right,” Hadley says, feeling a familiar spark of anger inside of her. “It was about
you
.”

She wants him to argue, to fight back, to play the part of the selfish guy having a midlife crisis, the one she’s built up in her head for all these days and weeks and months. But instead, he just sits there with his head hanging low, his hands clasped in his lap, looking utterly defeated.

“I fell in love,” he says helplessly. His bow tie has fallen to one side again, and Hadley is reminded that it is, after all, his wedding day. He rubs his jaw absently, his eyes on the door. “I don’t expect you to understand. I know I screwed up. I know I’m the world’s worst father. I know, I know, I know. Trust me, I know.”

Hadley remains silent, waiting for him to continue. Because what can she say? Soon he’ll have a new baby, a chance to do it all over again. This time, he can be better. This time, he can be there.

He places his fingers along the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off a headache. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I know we can’t go back. But I’d like to start over, if you’re willing.” He nods toward the other room. “I know everything’s different, and that it will take some time, but I’d really like you to be part of my new life, too.”

Hadley glances down at her dress. The exhaustion she’s been fighting for hours has started to creep in like the tide, like someone’s pulling a blanket up over her.

“I liked our old life just fine,” she says with a frown.

“I know. But I need you now, too.”

“So does Mom.”

“I know.”

“I just wish…”

“What?”

“That you’d stayed.”

“I know,” he says for the millionth time. She waits for him to argue that they’re better off this way, which is what Mom always says during conversations like these.

But he doesn’t.

Hadley blows a strand of loose hair from her face. What had Oliver said earlier? That her dad had the guts
not
to stick around. She wonders now if that could possibly be true. It’s hard to imagine what their life would be like if he’d only just come home like he was supposed to that Christmas and left Charlotte behind. Would things have been better that way? Or would they have been like Oliver’s family, the weight of their unhappiness heavy as a blanket over each of them, stifling and oppressive and so very silent? Hadley knows as well as anyone that even the
not saying
can balloon into something bigger than words themselves, the way it had with her and Dad, the way it might have with him and Mom, had things turned out differently. Were they really better off this way? It was impossible to know.

But what she does know is this: He’s happy now. She can see it all over his face, even now, as he sits hunched on the edge of the bed like something broken, afraid to turn and face her. Even now, despite all this, there’s a light behind his eyes that refuses to go out. It’s the same light that Hadley’s seen in Mom when she’s with Harrison.

It’s the same light she thought she saw in Oliver on the plane.

“Dad?” she says, and her voice is very small. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

He’s unable to hide his surprise. “You are?”

“Of course.”

They’re quiet for a moment, and then he looks at her again. “Know what would make me even happier?”

She raises her eyebrows expectantly.

“If you’d come visit us sometime.”

“Us?”

He grins. “Yeah, in Oxford.”

Hadley tries to picture what their house might look like, but can only call to mind some English country cottage she’d probably seen in a movie. She wonders if there’s a room for her there, but she can’t quite bring herself to ask. Even if there is, it will probably belong to the baby soon anyway.

Before she can answer, there’s a knock on the door, and they both look over.

“Come in,” Dad says, and Violet appears. Hadley’s amused to see that she’s swaying ever so slightly in her heels, an empty glass of champagne in one hand.

“Thirty-minute warning,” she announces, waving her watch in their direction. Behind her, Hadley can see Charlotte lean back from where she’s sitting in an overstuffed armchair, surrounded by the other bridesmaids.

“No, take your time,” she calls to them. “It’s not like they can start without us.”

Dad glances over at Hadley, then gives her shoulder a little pat as he stands up. “I think we’re all sorted in here anyway,” he says, and as she rises to follow him out, Hadley catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, puffy eyes and all.

“I think I might need a little—”

“Agreed,” Violet says, taking her by the arm. She motions to the other women, who set down their glasses and scurry over to the bathroom as one. Once they’re all huddled around the mirror and everyone’s got some sort of tool—a hairbrush or a comb, mascara or a curling iron—Violet begins the round of questioning.

“So what were the tears about, then?”

Hadley would like to shake her head, but she’s afraid to move; there are too many people poking and prodding her.

“Nothing,” she says stiffly as Whitney hesitates in front of her, a tube of lipstick at the ready.

“Your dad?”

“No.”

“Must be tough, though,” says Hillary. “Watching him get married again.”

“Yeah,” Violet says from where she’s stooped on the floor. “But those weren’t family tears.”

Whitney rakes her fingers through Hadley’s hair. “What were they, then?”

“Those were boy tears,” Violet says with a smile.

Jocelyn is trying to get the stain out of Hadley’s dress with a mystifying combination of water and white wine. “I love it,” she says. “Tell us all about him.”

Hadley can feel herself blushing furiously. “No, it’s nothing like that,” she says. “I swear.”

They exchange glances, and Hillary laughs. “Who’s the lucky bloke?”

“Nobody,” Hadley says again. “Really.”

“I don’t believe you for one second,” Violet says, then leans down so that her face is even with Hadley’s in the mirror. “But I will say this: Once we’re through here, if that boy comes within ten feet of you tonight, he won’t stand a chance.”

“Don’t worry,” Hadley says with a sigh. “He won’t.”

It takes only twenty minutes for them to perform their second miracle of the day, and when they’re finished Hadley feels like a different person entirely from the one who limped back from the funeral an hour ago. The rest of the bridesmaids stay behind in the bathroom, turning their attention back to their own ensembles, and when Hadley emerges on her own she’s surprised to find only Dad and Charlotte in the suite. The others have all returned to their own rooms to get ready.

“Wow,” Charlotte says, giving her a finger a little twirl. Hadley spins around obligingly, and Dad claps a few times.

“You look great,” he says, and Hadley smiles at Charlotte, standing there in her wedding dress, the ring on her finger throwing off bits of light.

“
You
look great,” she tells her, because it’s true.

“Yes, but
I
haven’t been traveling since yesterday,” she says. “You must be completely knackered.”

Hadley feels a twang in her chest at the word, which reminds her so sharply of Oliver. For months now, the sound of Charlotte’s accent has been enough to kick-start a massive headache. But suddenly it doesn’t seem so bad at all. In fact, she thinks she could get used to it.

“I
am
knackered,” she says with a weary smile. “But it’s been worth the trip.”

Charlotte’s eyes are bright. “I’m glad to hear that. Hopefully it will be the first of many. Andrew was just telling me you might come for a visit soon?”

“Oh,” Hadley says, “I don’t know—”

“You
must
,” Charlotte says, crossing back into the sitting room, where she grabs the computer again, carrying it out like a tray of appetizers and then sweeping aside a few napkins and coasters to make room for it on the bar. “We’d so love to see you. And we’ve just renovated. I was showing everyone the photos earlier.”

“Honey, is now really the—” Dad starts to say, but Charlotte cuts him off.

“Oh, it’ll only take a minute,” she says, smiling at Hadley. They stand side by side at the bar, waiting for the images to load. “Here’s the kitchen,” Charlotte says as the first picture appears. “It looks out over the garden.”

Hadley leans in to look closer, trying to spot any remnants of Dad’s previous life, his coffee mug or his rain coat or the old pair of slippers he refused to throw out. Charlotte flips from one photo to the next and Hadley’s mind races to catch up as she tries to picture Dad and Charlotte in these rooms, eating bacon and eggs at the wooden table or leaning an umbrella up against the wall in the entryway.

“And here’s the spare bedroom,” Charlotte says, glancing at Dad, who’s leaning against the wall a few feet behind them, his arms crossed and his face unreadable. “Your room, for whenever you come see us.”

The next photo is Dad’s office, and Hadley squints to get a closer look. Though he left all his old furniture behind in Connecticut, this new version looks nearly the same: similar desk, similar bookshelves, even a familiar-looking pencil holder. The layout is identical, though this room looks slightly smaller, and the windows are staggered in different intervals along the two walls.

Charlotte is saying something about the way Dad is so particular about his office, but Hadley isn’t listening. She’s too busy peering at the framed photos on the walls within the picture.

“Wait,” she says, just as Charlotte is about to click through to the next one.

“Recognize them?” Dad says from the other side of the room, but Hadley doesn’t turn around. Because she
does
recognize them. Right there, in the photos within a photo, she can see their backyard in Connecticut. In one of the pictures she spots a portion of the old swingset they’ve never taken down, the birdfeeder that still hangs just outside his office, the hedges that he always watered so obsessively during the driest of summers. In the other she sees the lavender bushes and the old apple tree with its twisted branches. When he sits in the leather chair at his new desk and looks at the photos, it must seem like he’s home again, gazing out a different set of windows entirely.

All of a sudden, Dad is beside her.

“When did you take these?”

“The summer I left for Oxford.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he says quietly. “Because I always loved watching you play out the windows. And I couldn’t imagine getting any work done in an office without them.”

“They’re not windows, though.”

Dad smiles. “You’re not the only one who copes by imagining things,” he says, and Hadley laughs. “Sometimes I like to pretend I’m back home again.”

Charlotte, who has been watching them with a look of great delight, turns her attention back to the computer, where she zooms in on the photo so that they can see a close-up of the frames. “You have a beautiful garden,” she says, pointing at the tiny pixelated lavender bushes on the screen.