Chapter 6
69 hours until the wedding
From the hotel we take the bus back to Heathrow Airport, where we board the Tube to central London.
When I heard the word tube , I envisioned one of those sleek bullet trains like in Japan, but instead I discover the Tube is actually a rickety underground train that smells of dust mites and urine. And the floor is suspiciously sticky.
A cool female voice reminds us to mind the gap between the train and platform as the automatic train doors close with a mechanic hiss behind us.
As soon as we settle into our seats, Jack pulls out his phone. But whatever he sees on his screen clearly pisses him off, because he makes a kind of low growl sound before promptly shoving his phone back into his pocket.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “Fine.”
“Work?” I try.
“No.”
I’m not exactly thrilled about traveling with Jack, but I suppose the least we can do is get to know the basics about one another.
“What kind of work do you do?” I ask.
“Environmental.”
“Like what? Are you a conservationist? Or one of those people who prostrate themselves in front of buildings scheduled for demolition?”
“No.”
“Was that Doug guy who called this morning from work?”
“No.”
“Are you going to give me anything more than one-word answers?”
“No.”
Great. Such a conversationalist. I wonder if Oprah has to put up with this kind of shit.
“You know, if we’re going to travel together, we could at least get to know one another.”
He sits up, narrowed eyes weaving across my face. “Why? You’ve already made up your mind about me. I’d hate to interfere with all your pious judgments.”
“I don’t think you need my help. Seems like you’ve been doing a great job proving me right all on your own.”
He grimaces but doesn’t answer, and I redirect my attention to the window, hoping to get what might be my only glimpse of London, but the train travels underground and the windows turn dark.
The smooth operator voice tells us that this train terminates somewhere called Cockfosters , and I slouch lower into the scratchy eighties upholstery before pulling out my own phone, where Carter’s text stares back at me. The one I still haven’t replied to.
I test out, Hey Carter, I thought about you in the shower last night. Do you ever think about me?
Too desperate? I erase it and try again.
Carter, I’m on my way to Ireland with the best man. I saw his abs and he could be Ryan Gosling’s body double. Oh, and he wanted to have sex with me. Have a nice life.
I snort, then delete it.
“What are you doing?”
I jump in my seat, eyes darting up to meet Jack, who’s watching me with interest.
“Nothing!” I press my phone to my chest so he can’t see the screen.
Jack’s brows scrunch with disbelief. “Are you trying to make him jealous?” he asks.
The space between my brows pinches. “Oh, so privacy only applies to you and your phone calls but not me and my texts?”
“Is that why you were in the shower so long last night?” he asks, ignoring the question. “Because you were thinking about your ex?”
“I was not!”
Okay, fine, I was, but not like that .
He gives me a knowing look. “It was a pretty long shower, Ada.”
My inner fuse scorches right down the middle and I let out a huff of frustration. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I wasn’t going to send that.”
“Then why did you type it?”
“It was a joke.”
“A joke?”
“Yes, a joke ,” I say more firmly.
But he doesn’t seem to buy it.
“I mean if you want to make him jealous, I’m sure we could think of something,” he says, giving me a heated look that translates into a dozen crackling embers under my skin.
“I don’t want to make him jealous. I just…” But I don’t finish that sentence because what I really want is for Carter to show up with a boom box outside my window. Or for him to hijack a high school stadium and sing “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.” I want him to tell me he’s sorry, that he loves me and he made a mistake. But somehow, I don’t think Mr. I-Don’t-Believe-in-Marriage would understand.
After a beat, Jack asks, “Have you been with anyone else since the break?”
I sit up, body jolting into defense mode. “You can’t ask me that.”
He blinks. “I can’t? I thought you wanted to get to know each other better?”
I glare at him, lips curling into a scowl. It’s not his business, but there’s a not-so-tiny part of me that wants to tell him the truth, if only to prove that things aren’t over between Carter and me.
“No. I haven’t been with anyone else,” I say stiffly. “And neither has he.”
“How do you know?”
“Because if he had, he would have told me. It’s called trust.”
I don’t know that for sure, but I’d rather tell myself that’s the case than imagine the alternative.
Jack studies me, dark eyes scanning with interest. “Have you thought about trying to get over him by getting under someone else?”
I snort. “You mean someone like you?”
“No, not me.” He gives me a look. “I’m just saying. Could be a better alternative to moping around, sending cringey, desperate messages.”
“I told you; I wasn’t going to send that.”
He puts his hands up in a sign of surrender and I shoot him one more glare before burying my gaze in my lap, skin burning with frustration.
Seriously?
What does Jack expect me to do? Forget about the guy? Pretend like the last eight years didn’t happen?
Maybe that’s what Jack would do, because he apparently has the emotional depth of a kiddie pool, but I’m not going to throw away everything Carter and I have built together for a meaningless hookup.
It’s not just that I don’t want to sleep with someone else, it’s the idea of change, of losing the last puzzle piece in the rapidly crumbling picture of my life. It’s the idea of giving up, not just on us, but on the future. The thing that was supposed to be certain.
When Carter and I got together in college, everything about our relationship seemed easy and carefree. Our biggest problems were deciding which parties to go to and if I could get into the accounting pre-req this quarter or next.
Then we graduated and real life set in. Suddenly we had jobs and commutes and bills and student loans and we were always tired. The shift was hard on both of us, but it hit Carter a little harder. I could see it in the slump of his shoulders and the way he didn’t laugh as much. It felt a little bit like losing him, so when he told me he hated his cubicle job and wanted to quit, I supported him.
After that, he tried a whole slew of things. Marine biology, architecture, photography—always looking for something new, something exciting, something to stave off the unfulfilling monotony of adult life. And for a while it felt like an adventure. One we were on together. One where each new path was an opportunity to grow and deepen our bond. To prove that this stage of our relationship could be just as strong as it had been in college.
But now, almost three months into the break, I can’t help but wonder if maybe I was just another stopover on Carter’s endless pursuit for newness. If, while I’ve been clinging to visions of forever, Carter’s still looking for that next adventure, this time without me.
After changing from the Piccadilly Line to the Northern Line, we arrive at Euston Station, where tourists and Londoners alike dart in and out of shops like they’re all in fast-forward, suitcases trailing behind them, selfie sticks raised. A train whistle echoes in the distance and a muffled voice comes over a loudspeaker announcing that platform fourteen has been delayed.
Hopefully someday, under better circumstances, I’ll be able to come back and see London properly, but for now, this is all I get, so I drink in as much as I can. The expansive skylight overhead, letting in beams of light. The signs that say Toilet instead of Restroom . Souvenir stalls selling T-shirts that say hokey things like My aunt went to London and all I got was this T-shirt. The unfamiliar stores that all have fancy-sounding names like Holland & Barrett and Marks & Spencer and Waitrose. The quiet hum of accented English and a dozen other languages I can’t quite untangle.
“Are we near Buckingham Palace? That’s where the king lives, right?” I ask, huffing as I try to keep up with Jack’s long strides as we hurry toward our platform.
“I guess.”
“And what about the tower where King Henry the Eighth beheaded his wives?”
“I think it was only the one wife.”
“Are you sure?”
“Not really.”
“I read something about how the king flies a different flag when he’s home? Is that true?”
“No idea.”
“I thought you said you’d been here before?”
“I have, but it wasn’t on a Rick Steves tour.”
“Didn’t you do any sightseeing?”
“No, it was a business trip.”
“Well, if I came for business, I would make time to see the city.”
He shoots me a sideways look. “What is this? 60 Minutes ?”
“I’m just making conversation!”
“How about we focus on making it to our train on time, then you can continue your little interview. Okay?”
Annoyance balloons inside me and I stop in my tracks, arms roped over my chest. “What was it you were saying about being cordial earlier, because—”
Jack holds up his hand to stop me. “We’re already late. So either you can keep up, or I can pick you up and carry you to the train. Your choice.”
My skin flushes as I fight back an image of Jack tossing me over his shoulder, firm hands gripping the backs of my thighs. I’d hate it. Obviously. But unwanted heat gathers between my legs, blurring the line between anger and arousal.
“No,” I say, voice tight. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Good.”
Jack keeps walking, but as soon as his back is to me, I give him the finger. It’s the little things.
When we arrive at our platform there’s a small huddle of other passengers waiting for the train.
“See? We didn’t miss it.”
Jack checks the reader board hovering over the platform. “Barely. It’s scheduled to arrive any minute. You have your ticket?” He looks me over like he’s sure I’ve misplaced it in the three seconds since I scanned it to get through the ticket barrier.
I wave my ticket in front of his face. “You don’t have to babysit me,” I say just as our train rolls onto the platform and my voice is lost in the rumble of the tracks and cool intercom voice announcing that the train terminating at Glasgow Central has arrived at platform two.
The doors to car twenty-three slide open and we board the train along with the other passengers. Jack walks ahead of me and I do everything in my power to not look at his butt in those jeans.
I’ve never been a butt girl. I’m more into a firm chest. And those V-shaped things that no one knows what to call. But Jack has an objectively nice butt. Nice enough to possibly make a convert out of me.
“Top or bottom?” Jack asks as the train doors shut behind us with a smooth click.
I freeze. “W-what?”
“Where do you want to sit?” He gestures to a skinny set of stairs to the left of the doors. “The top level or the bottom?”
“Oh, right.” I feel my face flush. “Up top sounds good.”
As soon as he turns away, I release a shallow exhale.
Get a grip, pervert . And for the love of God, stop thinking about sex. Or Jack. Or his butt. Definitely his butt.
My mind travels to the vibrator stowed in my suitcase and how deeply unfair it is that I won’t be able to use it until we arrive in Belfast.
At the top of the narrow staircase, we find two open seats.
I attempt to lift my suitcase into the overhead compartment, but apparently I have the upper body strength of a toddler, and my knees buckle under the weight.
I try again, but it slips, nearly colliding with the man in the seat in front of me.
Is this why people go to the gym? So they can avoid these embarrassing scenarios? Because if that’s the case, I have a renewed interest in working out.
“You want help?” Jack asks from behind me.
“No. I’ve got it,” I say, just as a poorly timed bead of sweat runs down the side of my neck.
“Here. I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Jack says, leaning over and placing his hand on the suitcase.
“ Stop. I don’t need your help.” I twist away from him, but Jack reaches around my waist, hands grazing the exposed skin between my jeans and the hem of my top.
“Come on. Just let me help you,” he says with a huff. “You’re gonna get hurt.”
“What part of ‘I’ve got it’ don’t you understand?”
Using the suitcase as leverage, I try to push him away, but he doesn’t loosen his grip and we yank it back and forth like we’re playing an overheated game of tug-of-war.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice an older woman watching us, eyes wide like she’s worried there’s about to be a domestic incident. I shoot her an apologetic look.
“Fine,” I whisper, loosening my grip. “Just stop making a scene.”
“Me? I’m not the one making a scene.”
“ Yes , you are.”
“ No , I’m not.”
I shove my bag into his chest with aggravated force. “Here.”
He winces, stumbling backward. “What’s in this thing? Cinder blocks? The tears of children?”
I give him a dirty look and size up his small duffel bag. “Oh, yeah? And what’s in yours? Cash to stuff in strippers’ thongs?”
“At least cash doesn’t weigh much.”
I roll my eyes. It’s so unfair how easy it is for men to pack light. All they need is a toothbrush, a pair of boxers, and one of those men’s three-in-one products that can be used as shampoo, bodywash, and motor oil.
Despite his protestations, Jack lifts my bag with ease and tucks it into the overhead compartment like it’s light as air. His biceps don’t even flex. How annoying.
Once our luggage is stowed, I slide into the window seat and Jack takes the seat beside me. His thigh lingers against mine for a second before he readjusts himself.
“We should arrive in Glasgow later this evening, then we can take a bus to the ferry terminal tomorrow,” he says, glancing at his watch. “If all goes according to plan, we’ll get to the castle around midafternoon.”
“That’s a big if considering how this trip has gone so far.”
I mentally review the schedule. That means we should get there just in time for the rehearsal dinner with stag and hen nights to follow.
I shoot Allison a quick text.
Ada We’re on our way. Is everything okay?
She texts back instantly.
Allison
It will be when you get here.
In another time and place I might have interpreted her text to mean she misses me, that she can’t imagine this day without me by her side. But given how things have been between us lately, I know her tone is less I need my big sister and more I’m pissed . Like it’s somehow my fault the flight got canceled. Like this is all some conspiracy to ruin her wedding.
I’m sure she’s just stressed—an expensive, international wedding to a guy you hardly know will do that to you—but it hurts knowing it didn’t used to be like this with us. That before Collin, Allison and I were really close.
Before my mom married my stepdad, she was a single mom, which meant that growing up, I spent a lot of time as Allison’s primary caregiver. I was the one who helped with homework and got dinner ready and made sure she got to bed on time when mom worked late at the hospital. Then when we got older, I was the person Allison came to when she needed advice about friends or if she should get bangs (she shouldn’t). It was my wardrobe she would raid when she needed a new outfit, and I was who she came to when she didn’t know how to use a tampon.
I wasn’t just her sister. I was her person . Her best friend. Her confidant. Her steady rock amid the swells of life.
Then Allison discovered boys. And they discovered her back. And with that discovery came heartbreak. Lots of it. Nights spent sobbing in my arms and midnight ice cream runs that eventually became wine runs. But one thing remained. Every time she had her heart broken, she came to me.
I was the one who stroked her hair and told her she was going to be okay, that Will or Zach or Fred or Josh or whoever the hell it was that week was a loser who didn’t deserve her. Then we’d eat ice cream and watch The Parent Trap .
But not every breakup could be solved with Dennis Quaid and ice cream. Some breakups were messier, uglier. Some involved me driving to California in the middle of the night to pick her up when she called me in tears that she’d caught her boyfriend cheating. Others involved me filing police reports for stalking and hours spent with the phone company, getting her number changed.
Part of me admires my sister’s endless optimism in love. Her steadfast assurance that despite heartbreak and betrayal and downright disappointment, happily ever after is just around the corner. But another part of me wishes I could lock my sister away in a tower, Mother Gothel–style, to keep her safe from all the jerks and assholes of the world.
Of course I’m frustrated that she’s not heeding my advice when it comes to Collin and this wedding. That she’s apparently decided to have amnesia regarding all her past relationships. And all the times I’ve swooped in and saved the day. But mostly I’m worried that this will be her biggest heartbreak yet.
And I won’t be able to protect her from it.