Chapter 10
London
Hayes
“Are you sure you don’t want a spritz?” Brady asks as we wait outside for the car picking us up from Heathrow. I crane my neck to try and see beyond the terminal. I’ve been in Europe all of forty minutes and so far, it feels like being at any large airport, not that I’ve been in many.
“No thanks,” I say. He knows my beauty routine begins and ends with a bar of Ivory soap. I even use it to wash my hair. When Brady found that out, I thought he was going to actually go into cardiac arrest.
“What is that stuff anyway?” I ask.
“It’s an all-organic instantaneous moisture revitalization.” His eyes scan the label.
“Pfft.” I push a judgmental breath of air through my lips. “Moisture can’t be instant. It doesn’t have velocity.” So many of the products I’ve seen Brady use take scientific terms and turn them into something completely inaccurate.
“Well, this moisture is instant.” He ignores my criticism and sprays his face again. This time it’s so close to mine that I get a significant whiff. The scent is crisp with a bit of sweetness. “It does smell good,” I say.
Brady wiggles the small bottle in front of my face. “Are you sure you don’t want some?” He has this way of smiling that invites participation. It says, stop watching from the sidelines and jump in.
“Fine,” I say. I put down my backpack, fold my arms and close my eyes. Brady gently sprays my face from one cheek, over my eyes, down my nose and to the other cheek. I try to stifle a giggle as the sensation shoots electrical signals to the somatosensory cortex.
“There,” he says. “How do you feel? Refreshed?”
I take a second to observe the experience and put my hand to my face.
My skin doesn’t feel as tight, and my stubble is less rough.
“Yes, in fact. I do. The scent gave me a boost of energy, which is not surprising as many studies have shown olfactory senses can often produce profound changes in mood and brain chemistry.”
“That fast?” Brady nods.
“Absolutely,” I say stepping right into his trap.
“One might even say that it happened in an instant.” He emphasizes the last word to make it clear it’s a dig and then he plops it in his bag, zips it shut and smiles smugly. I don’t say anything. A well-played move is a well-played move.
As we wait for the car, Brady calls his sister Claire and his niece Gemma despite the early hour back home. I text my dad, but I know he’s driving to Shinemart for his shift. I try not to eavesdrop on Brady’s call but can’t help overhearing how excited he is to talk to both of them.
“I’ll send you lots of postcards, Gemma, and I’ve already hidden a care kit for each week I’m gone.
The postcards will have instructions for finding each one.
” Even over the noise of the terminal, I can hear her squeal with delight through the phone.
Brady tells her to go back to bed but Gemma begs him to sing “Stop! In the Name of Love” with her.
So he does, complete with choreography. Right there in the terminal.
It would take a judicial order to get me to sing in public.
The car arrives and as soon as the driver steps out Brady is chatting him up.
I hang back. I’m never sure how to make small talk and wind up embarrassing myself by talking too much to avoid awkward silences, but Brady is an expert.
He starts by asks the driver how his day is going and by the time we are done loading the luggage Brady knows more about him than most of my first cousins know about me.
“Should take us over an hour with traffic. I asked him to go the long way around so you can get your bearings. London is confusing.” Brady says as we get in the car.
He puts on a pair of sunglasses and falls asleep before we’ve pulled out.
This is my first time in Europe, and I want to see everything.
My body flinches as we pull out onto the main road and cars driving on the opposite side of the road make it clear that I’m not in Alabama.
The buildings start off as a mix of cement industrial facilities punctuated by gleaming skyscrapers.
And as we make our way to surface roads those are replaced by smaller art deco buildings and charming brick cottages with pointed roofs from another century.
I’m studying each building trying to observe the architectural details so I can identify the period.
Eventually we make it to the center of the city. We pass a long stretch of green. Behind a short fence I can see trees dense with bright emerald leaves and a oval pond with swans. Hyde Park. I make a note to get a run in on the park trails one evening.
Then I spot the Royal Albert Hall, a circular red brick building with a massive dome and stone facade in the middle of the South Kensington neighborhood beyond the cafes and shops. The ornate details around the neighborhood make me feel like I’ve been transported to a Dickens novel.
But the thing that makes me feel like I’m really here is ahead, according to the road signs.
The urban streets give way to even more greenery, and then in a dramatic reveal the sun strikes the gleaming pale stone of Buckingham Palace.
The black and gold gates in front of the palace are as iconic as the crowds of tourists taking pictures, trying to make the guards giggle or hoping to catch a glimpse of a royal.
Union Jack flags on long strands of bunting ripple in the breeze.
This is the London I’ve seen in pictures and movies. I can’t believe I’m here. It sure beats being in the cage of the garage hoping a leaky fuel pump doesn’t explode on me.
I turn my head to look back and get another glimpse of the palace.
I gently tap Brady without thinking. I want to share this with him.
I know he’s been here many times before, so I should let him sleep.
His shoulders turn like he might wake up, but then he yawns and shifts in his seat.
He moves his head from the window to my shoulder.
I freeze for a second. Maybe it’s too much physical connection.
I move my arm to see if I can gently shift him back toward the window.
There is the tiniest bit of saliva escaping from the corner of his mouth, which would make him jump up in a panic if he knew.
What he doesn’t know is that it’s these moments of accidental imperfection that made me fall so hard for him, like how he can’t stop a burp after a single sip of beer and gets so embarrassed.
I put my arm back and let his body rest on mine.
It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just comfortable.
We travel along St. James’s Park and then coming into vision I see the Gothic steeples of Westminster Abbey.
I know the structure was built in the thirteenth century thanks to a required humanities class at Clarkson.
I’m sure it’s the oldest building I’ve ever seen in my life.
Beyond that is Big Ben standing next to the River Thames.
I can’t help imagining Peter, Wendy and the Darling boys flying around it.
Brady lets out an undignified snort, which makes me laugh.
I look down at him sleeping and it pulls me away from my sightseeing and lets me study his face without him knowing.
Brady has opened so many doors for me, emotionally, intellectually even sexually.
Especially sexually. The things I have seen and done because of him are next level, and even though he can make me crazy, and I don’t like the fact that he thinks the ends always justify the means, even if we aren’t a couple and never will be again, at least we get to share this experience.
I’m grateful for that. Brady looks so innocent sleeping on my shoulder it makes me think that maybe I can find a way to trust him again.