Chapter 7
67 hours until the wedding
As the train pulls out of London, I imagine how I might sketch the city skyline. Long, broad strokes for the towering skyscrapers. Shading where the tallest buildings cast their shadows. Unlike the Seattle skyline, which is compact, London seems to stretch on forever, blurring only where the edge of the city meets the gray sky.
Jack leans over and gestures to a pointy-looking building called the Shard, and something called the Gherkin, which he says is what British people call pickles. And he is right, the building totally looks like a giant pickle.
“Have you done a lot of traveling?” I ask, impressed by his knowledge of the city. Then again, the only other time I’ve left the country was a spring break trip to Cancun in college, and it’s easy to be impressed when Senor Frog’s is the extent of your international travel.
“I’ve been to Paris, Tokyo, Rio, Munich, and Rome,” he says, ticking the cities off on his fingers.
“And where’s your favorite?”
“Wherever I’m going next.”
“And where’s next?”
“After the wedding I’m going to Naples for a few days. I always try to stop by when I’m in Europe.”
“Really? For business or pleasure?”
“Pizza, which definitely falls into the pleasure category,” he says, a dreamy look befalling him.
My eyes widen, surprised. “You’re going to Naples just for pizza?”
“I mean, yeah…?” He looks at me like he can’t believe I’d even ask. “The art of Neapolitan-style pizza making has granted Naples UNESCO World Heritage status. It’s serious business.”
“I admire how dedicated and informed you are about pizza,” I tell him.
His mouth creaks out an uneven smile. “There’s this amazing no-frills spot, Pizzeria Vergini, around the corner from Palazzo dello Spagnolo, that has the best pizza in the world. In my opinion.”
“ The world ? How much pizza did you have to eat to come to that conclusion?”
His eyes snag to mine, mouth expanding into a conspiratorial grin. “A lot.”
I release a wistful sigh and draw my knees up into my chest, feet balancing on the edge of my seat. “I wish I could do something like that, go somewhere just because I felt like it.”
“Why can’t you?” he asks.
“I told you, I’m sort of broke right now. Besides, I’ve got a lot going on.”
I think about the mountain of boxes in my parents’ garage and the single suitcase I’ve been living out of for the past two months, and how my life feels like one of those old IKEA commercials with the packages all haphazardly piled on top of the VW Bug, ready to come crashing down at any moment.
“What do you have going on?” Jack asks.
I shift my weight, eyes skipping toward the window, then back to Jack. “Stuff.”
“Like?”
“My sister’s wedding.”
And waiting to see if Carter wants to get back together .
“Your sister’s wedding will be over in four days,” he says. “Doesn’t exactly seem like a major barrier.”
“But then I have to help with the thank-you cards and organizing the gifts,” I explain. “Being the maid of honor is a lot more responsibility than the best man. All you have to do is make sure he’s sober enough to get down the aisle, tell a few cringey jokes, and call it a day. Meanwhile, I’ve spent the last few months designing place cards and seating charts and planning the bachelorette party.”
“Okay, first of all, my speech won’t be cringey. And second, I had to plan the bachelor party. So, no, it hasn’t all been a cakewalk.”
“Oh, you mean going to a strip club? Yeah, sounds like a ton of effort.”
Jack’s eyes flash, mouth turning up, like he can’t decide whether he’s amused or annoyed with me. “All right, so after you finish your mountain of wedding duties, where would you want to go if you could go anywhere?” he asks.
“Paris,” I say without hesitation.
His face lights up, interested. “Why Paris?”
I fidget with the tray table attached to the seat in front of me. “I’ve just always wanted to go.”
“Then you should do it.”
He says it with such ease, like traveling to Paris is as simple as breathing. But of course it’s not.
When I was a junior in college, I got accepted to a study abroad program in Paris—ten magical weeks of art and language immersion in the heart of the French capital—but Carter told me he didn’t want me to go. That it would be too much time apart and he wasn’t sure our relationship could withstand the distance. I was disappointed, but things were starting to get serious with us. He’d just told me he loved me for the first time, and we’d already begun looking for an off-campus apartment together. It seemed like a bad time to jet off to France for two and half months, so I stayed in Seattle that quarter.
After we graduated from college, I tried to convince Carter that we should take a trip to Paris. We’d stay in cheap hostels, and picnic in the Luxembourg Gardens, and stroll through Musée d’Orsay, and linger over long lunches at Café de Flore. But not long after graduation, Carter got accepted to grad school, so we packed up everything we owned and moved to New York, where we spent nine months in a closet-sized apartment that cost more than a brand-new car, with neighbors who were absolutely selling drugs, while Carter studied photography at Parsons.
Carter lasted two semesters before deciding that the professors didn’t understand his art and he didn’t want to be bound by capitalistic dictates of what was “good.” After that, we moved back to Seattle, where Carter landed a cushy office job at his parents’ custom cabinetry company while he figured out what he wanted to do next.
I tried to love New York, but it was never my thing. It was too busy. Too crowded. Too expensive. Too far away from my family. But Carter had this infectious ability to make everything feel special and exciting. He was the life of every party—a human disco ball—and it was easy to get excited about whatever he was enthused by. It was part of why I first fell in love with him.
When he wasn’t in school and I wasn’t working whatever temp corporate job I had that week, we spent weekends exploring the city: barhopping in Greenwich Village and gallery openings in Tribeca and watching the sunset from Brooklyn Bridge Park, passing cheap bottles of wine back and forth.
There’d been nights we felt infinite, like Carter and I were part of the same space-time continuum, and we’d always be together, in every possible timeline, past, present, and future. Like New York was the first big step for the two of us. A step toward forever.
I hadn’t felt I needed Paris when we had each other.
But now, in light of the break, the same memories that once felt shiny and sparkly, proof of how great we were together, feel tainted, painted instead in shades of gray.
Now I wonder if I’ve been clinging to a distorted, Instagram-filter version of our relationship. A version where relationship nirvana was always one milestone away. If Carter and I could just move in together. Meet the parents. Go to New York. Get engaged. Insert next thing here , it would solidify our relationship and prove just how in love, and happy, and committed we were.
If I could just be exactly what Carter wanted, then everything would be okay.
But what if I’ve been chasing the wrong things? What if in my desire to secure a relationship with Carter, I’ve lost sight of myself, of what I want? If I’ve let opportunities and dreams and wants slip through the cracks, lost in the pursuit of a future that was never guaranteed?
The question tangles in my chest, a gnarled rope of unease, and I slide lower in my seat, only half paying attention as London passes by in a blur.
Once we get outside of central London, the buildings become shabbier and more run-down. Then finally we leave London behind, and we are racing through wide expanses of green as far as the eye can see. Rolling fields and pastures continue for miles and miles, dotted by the occasional village crowned by a looming church spire.
Each village looks like the type of place where nothing bad happens, except for a murder that’s conveniently solved by a nosy but brilliant older woman who never leaves home without her knitting needles.
After I’ve gotten my fill of passing scenery, I reach into my purse and pull out the book my mom gave me.
It’s called Finding Mr. Right and features a stock photo of a Handsome Man? on the cover.
Despite numerous explanations, my mom still doesn’t understand the difference between Carter and me “taking a break” and “breaking up.” Though it’s hard to say if that’s due to a generational disconnect, or because after eight years with the same guy and no ring, she’s gotten desperate and decided to take matters into her own hands.
I didn’t think I would actually read the book, but then I got bored on the flight and decided to give it a try. It’s not bad though—mostly life advice about female empowerment and finding your own inner heroine. Something I suppose I could use some more of.
I flip open to my bookmark and resume where I left off. Chapter Six : Reclaiming Your Feminine Energy. This chapter is all about harnessing your femininity and discovering the power of your own sexual energy .
I’m just about to find out about the power of the female orgasm when I feel Jack’s eyes on me.
“Have you found him yet?” he asks.
I look up. “Who?”
He gestures to the book in my lap. “ Mr. Right .”
I purse my lips, one eyebrow flicking upward. “You’re reading over my shoulder? Again?”
“I mean with a riveting title like Finding Mr. Right , how could I not?”
“My mom gave it to me,” I tell him. “And don’t get too excited, it’s mostly self-help stuff.”
“So you’re not looking for a man?”
“No. There’s actually a lot of good material in here about…” I shuffle through a few pages. “Female empowerment and feminine energy.”
Jack’s eyes take a skeptical lap around my face. “Feminine energy?”
“Yeah, like harnessing your inner goddess.”
A laugh rattles in the back of his throat. “Your inner goddess ? Come on, you don’t believe that, do you?”
I frown. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Trust me, if you want to attract a man you don’t need to find your inner goddess or whatever.”
“Okay, Mr. Guru. And what do you suggest?”
“Straight men are very simple,” he says. “All you need to do is wear a push-up bra and look confused in Home Depot.”
“Is that where you hang out when you’re not picking up women in hotel lobbies?”
His mouth tilts up, clearly amused. “I’ve had great luck in the power tools section.”
I snort. “As much as I appreciate your extremely regressive dating advice, I think I’d prefer to meet someone who is actually interested in me , not just using me as a prop for their own fragile male ego.”
“I thought you weren’t looking for a man?” he asks, catching my eye.
“I’m not.”
“But if you were…?”
I groan, sinking lower in my seat. “Can we go back to the part where you give me one-word answers and pretend I don’t exist?”
“I thought you wanted to get to know one another?”
“I changed my mind.”
He settles back, arms folded over his chest, perusing me with interest. After a beat, he says, “I’ve thought about it, and I think you’re right. We should try getting to know one another. Especially considering I’ll be attending your family’s Thanksgiving from now on.”
“First of all, you’re not coming to my family’s Thanksgiving because you’re not invited. And second, I already told you we’re not having sex.”
Jack laughs. “I don’t mean know each other in the biblical sense. I was thinking we could play a game.”
I sit up a little straighter, eyes narrowing. “I don’t know if I want to play the kinds of games you like to play. Something tells me you don’t mean I Spy.”
“How about I ask you a question, then you ask me one back,” he says. “Like Twenty Questions.”
“I haven’t played that since high school. It was always the same questions. Who do you have a crush on? Are you a virgin? ” I pause, twisting my mouth. “Though, now that I think about it, this sounds right up your alley.”
A bitten-off grin stretches all the way from his mouth to his eyes. “I was going to ask you what your thoughts were on carbon-neutral tax incentives, but if you want to make this game more interesting, be my guest.”
Playing any kind of game with Jack Houghton is probably a bad idea, but I can’t say I’m not at least a little curious. Know your enemy and all that.
“I’ll tell you if you tell me?” I try.
His grin widens. “Now who sounds like a high school boy?”
I look around the train car as though worried someone might overhear us before turning back and whispering, “You go first.”
Jack’s eyebrows lift toward his hairline. “Are you worried the elderly woman behind us might be scandalized by the story of you losing your virginity in a squeaky twin bed?”
Damn. He’s good. How did he know?
“No,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “But I believe it’s your turn, Mr. Houghton.”
He presses the tips of his fingers together, features growing serious like he’s preparing to defend a thesis. After a pause, he says, “I was seventeen in Holly Paulson’s basement. And as soon as we were done her super strict parents got home and I had to hide in the garage. Naked. With the condom still on.”
I cup my palm over my mouth, smothering a laugh. “How romantic.”
“Oh yeah, super romantic. Especially when her dad came into the garage looking for something in the freezer and I had to stay crouched behind a Weedwacker, clutching my dick.”
“And was it worth it?” I ask.
“All two minutes of it.”
“Glad to know I didn’t waste my time last night,” I say.
He doesn’t respond, just gives me a heated look that all but screams, You have no idea what you’re missing out on , which would normally annoy me, but for reasons that probably have to do with the lingering scent of his cologne and the insufferably sexy piece of hair that keeps falling into his eyes, my insides twist like a sponge being wrung out.
“All right, your turn,” he says.
“I didn’t lose my virginity until college,” I tell him. “It was with Carter. We were each other’s first.”
I remember the night six months into our relationship when I’d arrived at his dorm room wearing a matching bra and panty set I’d spent hours picking out, along with a pocketful of different condom types because I wasn’t sure if I should buy ribbed for her pleasure , lambskin, latex, or flavored.
We’d made out to the new Coldplay album before proceeding to do the deed in his lofted dorm bed where the mattress squeaked so bad I’m pretty sure the whole hall heard the cacophony of our inexperienced lovemaking. It wasn’t exactly the rose-petal-strewn fantasy suite I’d pictured, but hey, no one’s first time is perfect, right? And the sex had gotten better over time as we learned what we liked and how we liked it.
“So you’ve only ever slept with one guy?” Jack asks.
His tone isn’t judgmental per se, but he’s giving me a look like I’ve just told him I’ve never tried chocolate before.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” I say stiffly. “And just so you know, the sex was good,” I add, unable to help myself.
“How would you know if you’ve only been with one person?”
“Because I can tell.”
“How?”
“What do you want? A detailed explanation of his oral technique?”
The corner of Jack’s mouth twitches, like he’s doing everything in his power to not laugh. “If so, would this be another sex tip I can put next to effort ?”
“Ha ha. Funny.” I glare at him. “I’m just saying. I don’t have to fuck a bunch of dudes and compare notes to know when it’s good.” He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “And before you say it, I know what I like, and I don’t need some random Chad-Bro to come along and show me what I’m missing out on.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“But you were thinking it.”
He angles his body toward mine, brows narrowed. “You sure like jumping to conclusions about people, don’t you?”
Heat percolates under my skin, but I can’t tell if it’s because of what he’s just said or the way he’s looking at me, like there’s something on my face he’s trying to decode. I clear my throat, eager to change the subject. “Okay. My turn. What’s your deal with marriage?”
Jack’s jaw tenses. “I don’t have a deal.”
“Puh-lease. You told me marriage was a trap. So what gives?”
“I just don’t think humans are meant to be with one person forever,” he says. “People change and evolve, and it would be silly to think that your soulmate at age twenty will be the same person at age fifty.”
“But isn’t that the point of love?” I ask. “To change and evolve together?”
He shakes his head. “But that’s my point, what if two people evolve apart? What then? You stay together because a piece of paper says so?”
“It’s not just a piece of paper,” I say. “It’s a commitment. A promise.”
“Well, promises get broken all the time,” he says. “It’s a setup for failure.”
“So what? You’re going to die alone?”
“I said I’m against marriage, not celibate,” he says, eyes cutting across mine. “I’m just more into expiration dating.”
“Expiration dating?” I ask.
“Like you see someone with the full knowledge that it has an expiration date,” he says. “No endgame. No labels. No commitment bullshit. Just a good time.”
I cough out a laugh. “Have you thought about writing love poems? Or Hallmark cards?”
“Have you ever considered that the idea of forced monogamy is a social construct?”
I lean across the gap between seats. “Is that what you told Ashley?”
He looks up and down the carriage like he’s expecting someone to pop out. “Who’s Ashley?”
I roll my eyes, exasperated. “Allison’s friend whom you slept with and ghosted. Ring any bells?”
Awareness slips over his features before morphing into a scowl. “That was a one-night stand. What do you expect me to do? Write her a sonnet?”
I lean closer, pressing my thumb to his forehead, pretending to examine his skull.
“What are you doing?” he asks, shrinking away from me.
“Oh, I’m just curious if we could donate your brain to science. Do you think misanthropy is genetic? Or more of a nature versus nurture thing?”
“Very funny.”
“One more question. For science ,” I add. “Do you really not have a heart? Or did someone break it?”
“No broken hearts,” he says tightly. “Mine is perfectly intact, thanks.”
“Likely story.”
The peak of his lip twitches. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, come on.” I gesticulate vaguely. “I don’t buy your little I don’t believe in love routine. Someone broke your heart, didn’t they?”
His posture stiffens and he looks away.
“Romance and happily ever after are just oral traditions that have become so ingrained into our collective psyche that we can’t tell the difference between the big screen and reality anymore,” he says after a beat. “We use romance, or its absence, as an explanation for everything, as a way to find meaning within the meaningless. It’s just a story we’ve told ourselves as a coping mechanism.”
“ Or …” I shoot him a look. “Guys are so desperate to avoid vulnerability, they’ll make up branches of psychology out of whole cloth just to explain their commitment-phobia. Exhibit A.” I gesture to Jack. “And exhibit B, Jean-Paul Sartre, who I’m pretty sure you just paraphrased.”
Jack frowns. “I’m not a commitment-phobe, I’m a realist.”
“Isn’t that sort of cliché?” I ask. “The guy who engages in meaningless hookups with women whose names he won’t remember, professing he doesn’t fall in love?”
Jack’s mouth sets into a tense line, eyes drifting past me to the window where endless pastures pass in a blur. “If love is waiting for a guy you spent eight years with to text you back, I think I’ll pass.”
Discomfort roils under my skin and I open my mouth, ready to be angry, to tell him he’s wrong, that he doesn’t understand, but there’s a slight crack at the end of his voice that catches me off guard, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe the words aren’t for me at all.