Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
EMILY
I’m in hell.
The Brit Air queue at Heathrow, two days before Christmas, is a special circle of travel hell. And bizarrely, all of the people suffering in the line ahead of me chose to enter it of their own free will.
I would rather spend the holidays alone in a hole than travel this close to the big day.
But I can’t spend them in London, so…here I am.
In hell, inching forward at a snail’s pace and praying the woman at the counter can be convinced to sell me a ticket this close to takeoff.
It’s too late to buy one online, but still three hours before the plane is set to board, and I don’t have any luggage to check.
I don’t have any luggage at all.
It’s all either lost or abandoned.
I couldn’t bring myself to go back to Oliver’s flat to fetch the rest of my things. I couldn’t risk seeing him again, being forced to confront him and the evidence of my own stupidity.
I’m not ready to face that yet.
The depth of my na?veté is too painful.
I can’t believe I trusted that he truly thought I was “brilliant.” Can’t believe I assumed he knew me well enough to realize his interference would be offensive, let alone well enough to have real feelings.
I can’t believe I thought he was in love with me, and I really can’t believe I still think I’m in love with him.
Or that the end of a fake, week-long relationship can possibly hurt this much…
The pain gnaws away in my chest, stealing all the holiday joy, leaving me feeling truly wretched and alone.
I have to get home. As quickly as possible.
Home, where I can lock the door and hide under the covers and cry the pain away in peace without any paparazzi around to document my shame.
Hold it together, Darling. Just ten more hours, give or take, and you can crumble in private, as God intended.
As the line inches forward again, I clutch my coat and briefcase for strength, thanking the benevolent forces of the universe that I always carry my passport on my person.
The guidebooks tell you not to, but I find I’m asked for my passport far more often than one might assume—at hotels, museums, the pharmacy after I forgot my birth control prescription the last time I was here.
The world is an increasingly distrustful, passport-checking, outsider-hating place.
Maybe that’s why Oliver did what he did, because he knew an outsider wouldn’t get anywhere in London without help. Maybe it wasn’t because he secretly thinks I’m a loser.
But even if that’s the case, it doesn’t matter. A lie is a lie, and I’m a list maker, a fact checker, a source verifier, not a liar. I can’t build a life with someone who lies and manipulates, even if they do it with good intentions.
No.
This is it.
The end.
And I’ll be flying home a far sadder woman, which is especially tragic considering I didn’t even realize how sad I was before.
It wasn’t until Olly reminded me how incredible it feels to dive headfirst into the joy of the holidays, into the joy of falling in love, that I realized I’ve been cut off from that deep well of happiness for a long time.
I’ve been stressed out and on the edge of burnout for far too long. I was living a gray, faded life until Olly reminded me how gorgeous things are in color.
And now…
Now, it’s back to a plate of gray with extra sad sauce.
“Next!” the agent calls. The line creeps forward a few feet, but the couple in front of me is too busy arguing to notice.
“We should have taken the earlier train,” the man hisses, American accent sharp with frustration.
“I’m not the one who takes forever to pack,” his wife shoots back. “You should have done it last night, like I told you.”
He rolls his eyes as he mutters, “Because you’re always right. Jill is perfect and always right.”
“I am right,” she says, hurt creeping into her voice. “At least about things like this. That’s why you ask me to plan our trips and keep us on schedule. But if you don’t think I do a good job of it anymore, then we can—”
“You did a great job,” he cuts in with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m just stressed about missing the flight. And mad at myself for not listening to you last night.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’m grumpy this morning, too. I’m not ready to go back.”
“Me, either.” He pulls her into a hug, oblivious to the dozens of eyeballs boring into his back, willing them to grab their suitcases and move along. “But we’ll come back soon. And next time, we’ll make it to that castle you wanted to see on the west coast. I promise.”
My throat tightens.
I want someone to hug me and promise to take me to a castle on the west coast.
Someone like Olly, who never rolls his eyes at me or treats me with disdain, even for a second.
No, he just lies to you and treats you like a loser who can’t succeed without her sexy British boyfriend pulling strings for her in the background.
“Well, isn’t that better than being a jerk?” I mutter beneath my breath.
“Next, please,” the agent calls again.
Jill, who is always right, and her moderately dickish husband finally move up.
So do I, but I’m no longer certain I want to be in this line. I am, for better or worse, completely straight, and most straight men are a pain—as Moderately Dickish has so helpfully reminded me.
Even the ones who don’t act like cranky, petulant children in line at the airport aren’t usually anything to get excited about.
My best experiences with men have been steady, mostly fun friendships that petered out when my partner cheated or dropped the emotional ball.
My worst have involved brushes with staggering emotional immaturity, insufferable entitlement, or deep-seated resentment of women.
A lot of straight men seem to loathe women, to feel threatened by us despite the fact that women are the ones who’ve spent thousands of years being subjugated, attacked, or un-alived by men.
Finding a decent partner is difficult.
Finding one who gives you pep talks, makes you laugh, and isn’t weird, selfish, or dysfunctional in bed is practically unheard of. Add in the rich, handsome, and highly successful parts, and Oliver is a unicorn.
Hell, he’s something even more rare and magical than a unicorn.
He’s a unicorn holding a four-leaf clover during a solar eclipse, under a sky of dazzling northern lights, during a once-in-a-lifetime planetary alignment.
And he might be my best and only shot at a once-in-a-lifetime love.
But the lies! The uptight, stressed-out voice in my head demands.
But is she stressed out because the lying is really a dealbreaker or because falling in love this fast is a threat to everything the rational, list-making side of my personality holds dear?
I’m about to do what must be done to get to the bottom of this—namely, get out of line, find a quiet place to sit, and make a very detailed list—when a sharp bark of laughter echoes through the air.
It’s followed by another, higher-pitched giggle, and behind me, an excited murmur ripples through the crowd.
Probably another celebrity sighting. London airports are apparently full of them. There were two soccer players and a pop star here when I first arrived last week. I had plenty of time to witness the fuss everyone was making over them while filing the report on my luggage.
The murmuring gets louder.
More laughter.
Then two security guards rush past our line, radios crackling.
I turn, growing concerned, just as a Cockney accent rises above the crowd. “Aw, let him be, copper! Can’t you see the bloke’s in love?”
“Good Lord,” a woman gasps. “Is he in his smalls?”
Pushing up on tiptoe, I look where everyone else is looking, my heart lurching when I see the source of all the uproar.
It’s Oliver.
Jogging through the terminal in a Christmas sweater and…nothing else.
I mean, he’s wearing his boxer briefs, but no shoes, no coat, no suit pants or jacket. He’s basically half naked in the airport, holding what looks like a large piece of a cardboard box, while confused-looking security guards trail behind him.
Every cell phone in a hundred-meter radius is instantly out and aimed his way, documenting what appears to be the complete mental breakdown of the fifth in line to the throne, hot on the heels of the Lion King breakdown of the first.
But I know he isn’t having a breakdown.
I instantly understand what this is, and the sweet, crazy bravery of it brings tears to my eyes.
Someone at Heathrow central command must get it, too.
Because a split second later, the opening notes of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” crackle through the loudspeakers, and a happy sob bursts from my throat.
It’s just like in Bridget Jones, when she runs through the snow in nothing but her knickers and a camisole to prove her love to Darcy.
And now…
Now, Oliver Featherswallow, my solar eclipse unicorn, is doing the same for me.
And it’s terrifying. And wonderful. And terrifying, and I’m pretty sure my extremities are going numb as I stumble forward, ducking under the ribbon of fabric keeping our line contained.
Almost instantly, Oliver spots me, his eyes flashing with relief as he changes direction, aiming himself my way.
I try to aim myself his way, too, only to find my legs petrified by fear.
What if I screw this up? What if I crash and burn in front of God and the people of London and the press who are always lurking nearby? Again?
Or, even worse, what if big romantic gestures aren’t enough to make this work? What if I end up getting on that plane this afternoon and flying away? What if this is the last time I’ll ever see Olly in person?
The thought is so horrible, it turns my stomach.
As I stand there, fighting the urge to be sick, Oliver closes the last of the distance between us without hesitation, clearly ready to fight for our future.
And if he can put it all on the line, so can I.