Chapter Two #2
She brushed her fingers across the Oxford brochure, remembering how she’d dreamed of cobblestone streets and ancient bookshops, of afternoon tea and Gothic cathedrals. England had been her escape since she was twelve, devouring Jane Austen novels under her bedcovers with a flashlight.
She looked at Ms Jensen’s note again. I think that’s where your story lives.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, trembling slightly, before she navigated to ‘Manage Booking’ and selected ‘Change Destination’. In the search field, she typed: London.
The screen filled with options, fees, and available flights.
A flight leaving tomorrow night caught her eye—a red-eye that would land her in London just as the city was waking up.
Before she could overthink it, before she could make a pro-con list, Eva clicked ‘Select’, paid the change fee, and confirmed the switch.
The confirmation email arrived seconds later, its cheerful subject line almost comically at odds with the seismic shift she felt inside:
Thank you for booking your flight to London Heathrow. Your adventure awaits!
She read it aloud in a British accent and watched her skin prick with goosebumps.
She did it. And it was surprisingly easy. Instead of a trip to Cancún with Richard, it was now a solo travel experience to London.
She stared at the screen, a strange mix of terror and exhilaration washing over her.
She had just made a massive decision without consulting anyone.
The thought was both terrifying and thrilling, like standing at the edge of a cliff and choosing to jump—not because she wanted to fall, but because she needed to know what it felt like to fly.
She pictured that movie scene from Pride and Prejudice where Elizabeth Bennet stands on the edge of the cliff thinking about her choices.
She did the same on the edge of her bed, laptop beside her.
For a brief moment, Eva wondered if this was another mistake.
What if this grand gesture was just another way of running from the uncomfortable truth that maybe she didn’t know who she really was anymore?
What if she got to London and discovered that the dreamy, creative girl from her youth was truly gone?
But as she glanced down at Ms Jensen’s note again, something settled inside her.
The purple ink had faded over the years, but the conviction in those words hadn’t.
Maybe she didn’t need to find herself. Maybe she just needed to remember who she’d been before she’d started letting other people define her.
Her phone came to life once more: Courtney.
“Okay so I know I said twenty minutes but there was a whole dishwasher overflow situation-don’t even ask. I’m at the store now though, so red or white?”
Eva looked around her apartment—at the garbage bags, the box of Richard’s things, the open suitcase spilling resort wear, the laptop still showing her London confirmation.
“Both.”
True to her word, Courtney arrived shortly after, a bottle of wine in each hand and a bag of Cheez-Its tucked under her arm.
“Oh Eves,” Courtney said, taking in the scene of destruction. “You’ve been busy.”
“I booked a flight to London,” Eva blurted out.
Courtney set the wine down carefully. “You did what now?”
“London. Tomorrow night. I changed my Cancún ticket.” Eva held up the Oxford brochure. “I found this. From high school. Remember when I got into that writing programme”
“The one your mom wouldn’t let you go to?” Courtney’s eyes widened. “Holy shit, Eva. You’re actually doing it.”
“I’m doing something,” Eva said. “What exactly that is I’m not one hundred percent sure.”
Courtney pulled her into a fierce hug. “You’re choosing yourself.
Finally.” She pulled back, surveying the apartment again.
“Now, let’s open this wine and I’ll help you sort through Hurricane Richard.
We can’t have you thinking about that shallow idiot while you’re away. You’re having your European awakening.”
The next morning, Eva stood in front of her mirror, applying a fresh coat of red lipstick that matched her nails.
She picked up her blush and this time didn’t even try to tone it down.
Her reflection looked different somehow—there was a brightness in her dark brown eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday, a slight lift to her chin that spoke of resolution rather than resignation.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her mother.
Mom: Still waiting to hear more about last night! Did he give you a ring or just promise it’s coming?
Eva took a deep breath and typed rapidly:
Eva: Richard broke up with me last night. I’m okay. Going to take the vacation anyway—changed my Cancún ticket to London. Leaving tonight.
She hit send before she could second-guess herself, before the habitual need to soften the truth for her mother’s benefit could take over.
Her greatest fear had always been disappointing her parents—especially her mother, who had such clear ideas about what Eva’s life should look like.
Her dad would be more understanding, probably tell her to “follow her gut” like he always did, though he’d ultimately defer to Sandy’s judgement on matters concerning their daughter.
The response was immediate, buzzing through with predictable alarm:
London?!
In December?
By yourself?
At CHRISTMAS?
Call me right now.
Her phone immediately started ringing. Eva stared at it, her mother’s contact photo—taken at last year’s Silver Spur boutique Christmas party—smiling up at her. She let it go to voicemail.
Another text: Eva Ann Coleman, answer your phone this instant.
Eva typed back: Can’t talk now. Packing. I’ll call when I land.
The phone rang again. This time Eva turned it to silent and flipped it face down.
Emergency “call me now” texts from her mom always meant she dropped absolutely everything and called. But not today. Instead, she opened a message to Courtney: Flight’s at 4:40p.m. We still on for airport drop off?
Courtney: All hail the queen!
Or the king. Whatever. YES!
Eva: Thank you! You’re THE best.
Another text came through from Courtney:
Also I’ll handle the Richard stuff. Leave the box and trash bags by the door. I know where he lives.
She wasn’t going to listen to all the reasons why this was impractical or ill-advised or potentially dangerous for a woman travelling alone. She wasn’t going to justify, defend or apologise.
She was just going to go.
That afternoon, she packed her warmest sweaters, her best boots, and more books than was probably reasonable.
This was Christmas, it called for thick knitted scarves and hot mulled wine, not bikinis and cocktails in Cancún.
She tucked her passport into her wallet, checked her ticket for the tenth time, and waited for Courtney’s text saying she was outside.
As she zipped up her carry-on, Eva hesitated.
The Lisa Frank diary still sat on her bedroom floor where she’d left it, closed tight.
She hadn’t looked at it again since finding the Oxford envelope, but she couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d seen.
Or thought she’d seen. That mistletoe couldn’t have been fresh.
It was impossible. But … She walked back to her bedroom and picked up the diary, opening it carefully to that December page.
The mistletoe was still there. Still green.
Still dewy. Still impossible. She stared at it for a long moment, then made a decision.
Gently, she lifted the sprig out—it felt real, substantial, alive—and wrapped it in tissue paper before tucking it into a small pocket of her purse.
She didn’t understand it. She didn’t even fully believe it.
But something told her it belonged on this journey.
If she was chasing impossible dreams, maybe she needed impossible things.
She placed the garbage bags and Richard’s box by the door as instructed. Courtney had already promised to document the delivery of his things with photos ‘for posterity and potential blackmail’.
In her carry-on, she carefully placed Ms Jensen’s note, now protected in a plastic sleeve—a talisman of the road not taken, and the one she was finally brave enough to walk down. It was time to write her own story. Courtney texted at exactly 4.00 p.m., punctual as always:
Your carriage awaits, m’lady
Eva hauled her black hard-sided rolling bag down to the street where Courtney’s beat-up Subaru idled, hazards blinking. Her friend leaped out to help with the luggage, her curly hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head, flour still dusting her chef’s jacket.
“You came straight from work?” Eva asked, touched.
“Are you kidding? My best friend is having an international crisis of self. I wouldn’t miss it.” Courtney slammed the trunk shut. “Plus, I have to hear the latest on your mother’s reaction to saying goodbye to our not-so-golden boy Richard and of course your British escapades.”
As they pulled away from Eva’s apartment, Courtney turned down the radio. “Okay, spill.”
“She’s called seventeen times. I texted her that I was fine but needed space.”
“Bold,” Courtney nodded approvingly. “Very un-Eva-like. I’m here for it.”
They rode in silence for a moment, the Nashville skyline glittering behind them in the low afternoon sun.
“You know what this means, right?” Courtney finally said.
“That I’m having a breakdown?”
“No. That you’re finally having a breakthrough.” Courtney reached over to squeeze her hand. “You’ve spent your whole life trying to be what everyone else wanted. Maybe it’s time you did what YOU want.”
“That’s the problem,” Eva admitted. “I don’t think I know what that is.”
Courtney glanced at her, her expression softening. “You know, Eva, you think because everyone’s got these boxes checked—a good career, a significant other—that that means their life is perfect. Life can still be very difficult even with those boxes checked.”
Eva stared out the window, watching the airport signs approach.