24. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It was over before it began.
The adventure.
The train journey.
Me and Emil.
Bruges was a fairy tale kind of place with its gently curving canals, candy stores, horse-drawn carriages, and storybook buildings.
I was done with fairy tales.
I tried to enjoy all this beautiful town had to offer—its quaint shops, walkways lined with old-fashioned windmills, the unhurried bustle of people going about their everyday lives. But instead of each day growing easier, the only thing that grew was that hollow, nagging feeling.
On my third night, I sat swirling my cup of Belgian hot chocolate in a café. The friendly server had presented it with a flourish, a gorgeously carved lump of chocolate transformed into a blooming flower, along with a piping-hot mug of milk. She explained I had to drop the chocolate into the milk, and it would become a thing of childhood dreams.
I thanked her and watched it sink to the bottom like a rock.
When Sydney and I were young, there were two things I could remember making us feel better: a trip to the movies and hot chocolate. And yet, even stuff as delicious as this couldn’t soothe the cold that had settled into my bones and continued burrowing its way in deeper still. Something had broken off inside me and been left behind at that train station in Cologne.
I passed restaurants sporting throngs of happy patrons, turning down narrow streets without purpose, killing time. Eventually, I found myself in the main cobbled square, the giant belfry looming on my right. Cheerful passersby swarmed beneath its shadow, with many stopping to take selfies. I sighed and mimicked them. Proof I was here, nothing else. I sifted through them, each faked smile dull, the third the most convincing out of them all. Swipe, swipe, swipe—stop.
There was a photo of me in profile, taken in the square in Prague. In it, I gazed up at the top of the church, I guessed, based on the angle. My mind raced, remembering Emil had asked to borrow my phone to snap a few pictures. I thumbed backward. Images of the astronomical clock followed, shards of sunlight piercing across its azure face.
I dove down the rabbit hole, moving farther into the earlier days. The grand halls of the palace in Munich. Ones I’d taken during our hike along the Dolomites, Emil leading the path ahead of me. The Venice canals, and the photo of the two of us in Burano…to the very first of him by himself.
The images played out our story in reverse, and the lightness in Emil’s face dimmed until he bore that surly expression back in Italy. But even there, a hint of humor was still present. I could recognize it now and could practically hear him laughing at my pushy antics to get him to allow me to take them. I swallowed down the lump in my throat. I knew the rest. Some pictures of Croatia and earlier photos, but no Emil.
Back where I began. Alone.
I tucked my phone into a pocket, doing my best to ignore the confusing waves of emotion fighting for a place in my heart. Anger, grief, love, stubbornness. I battled against the tears prickling in the corners of my eyes. I gave up, letting them spill down my cheeks in silence as I headed to my hotel. By the time I walked through the door, my face was dry.
The hostess smiled as I entered. “Hello, did you have a good evening?”
“Yes.”
She perked up at my blasé tone. “Can I help you find anything? We have brochures on activities and sightseeing. Or I could also book you in for a spa. We have some beautiful bathhouses. They’re not far from the old town center.”
My voice went flat. “No, thank you.”
“All right,” she said uncertainly. “Let me know if there’s anything you need.” She returned to rummaging through her papers.
I dejectedly made my way up to the room and face-planted onto the bed. Under other circumstances, I knew I would be in love with this place. It was perfect, quaint, cozy. But my enthusiasm was locked away out of reach, and I wasn’t kidding myself as to why. Bruges had been Emil’s pick. It was tainted. And wandering down a different alley tomorrow wouldn’t help me outrun that fact. Was this how ghosts felt, floating about in limbo, unable to move forward?
I was being dramatic. Of course I was, but it didn’t make any difference. I rolled onto my back, staring up at the white ceiling. There were still two more nights before my reservation in London.
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, rubbing hard. “Get it together,” I muttered.
And then I froze.
I’d done it once. I could do it again. No one was holding me here against my will or waiting around to judge me. I could leave if I wanted to.
I bounded down the stairs, startling the receptionist.
“What’s the easiest way to get from here to London?”
“Um,” she mumbled, “you can reach it by train, bus, or plane. Train and bus tend to be cheaper.”
“Would you be able to help me book it?”
“Of course. What dates? ”
“Now.”
It was a testament to my miserable attitude that she didn’t question me.
“Absolutely,” she said, turning to her computer and clacking away with gusto.
The sun was high in the sky when we pulled into Victoria Station. I hadn’t slept on the bus, wedged between two snorers. I knew I must look and smell a fright as I disembarked.
Good, then no one would bother me.
My first order of business should have been to find a hotel. The city was bursting with tourists as I wandered from the station, following directions to the Houses of Parliament. The crowds tuning in for the toll of Big Ben on the hour, ships cruising the Thames, the huge line for the London Eye—it all pointed to a bustling summer season. Instead, my feet dragged me around the city, my eyes itchy and likely a nice shade of red.
When I unexpectedly found myself turning a corner and facing a long, tree-lined stretch of road framing Buckingham Palace, even the bump of locals and tourists couldn’t move me forward. I glared at the austere building with malice, Emil’s wish list flickering in the back of my mind. It’d been one of his must-sees.
The King’s Guard rode by on colossal horses, who stamped along in unison. Black taxis wove through the large roundabout in the distance. All of it, everyone, eagerly made their way toward the historic spot.
Emptiness ate at my insides as I turned to my left and walked through the park, blocking out the sight.
Manicured garden flowers danced in the delicate breeze. Families unfurled picnic blankets beneath the thick canopy of trees. Pigeons took flight, flurrying about for a new place to beg for morsels. Through the park cut a lazy pond, its surface smooth as mirrored glass.
I wandered onto one of the bridges. Long, wispy tendrils of tree branches reached out from the shore, where swans glided through the water. A floral scent danced on the wind, remarkable in a city this size, which by rights should smell of garbage and exhaust.
People snapped selfies with the palace or the top of the London Eye in the background, the golden sun shining like a smile. And yet, I couldn’t help frowning as I crossed the footbridge, even while soaking in the fun-loving, beautiful spectacle surrounding me. On the other side, I noticed a smattering of dollhouse-sized buildings lining the pond. It was a magical little village of miniature houses and streets beneath the full-grown plants.
The whimsical sight finally brought a smile to my face. It was infectious. A large tree blocked out what was around the next bend. I hurried forward to see what awaited me and stopped dead. My heart soared from my chest at the familiar curve of broad shoulders and thick hair. His back was to me as my feet flew across the ground.
“Emil!”
He turned, a short young woman revealed beside him as he did. She stared up at him adoringly. Everything inside me dropped like a ball of lead. I was back in the sauna, my breath drawn from my body and completely light-headed, all for an entirely different reason.
No. It couldn’t be.
I looked up again, and my shoulders slumped. It was a fair resemblance. Even his face was similar. But it wasn’t Emil. Caught somewhere between relief and disappointment, I ducked my head as they walked by, hand in hand.
I was losing my mind now. Fantastic. I held in a sob. This was mortifying, pathetic, and devastating all at once. I dug through my coat pocket for a napkin, anything to wipe away my tears. I came up with a handful, smoothing out a balled-up one to blow my nose. Just as I was raising it to my face, I spotted the writing .
Gail’s napkin.
Some deeply ingrained code clicked into place.
Robotically, I pulled out my phone, dialing her number with care.
Ring.
Please don’t pick up.
Ring.
Please.
Ring.
Please pick up.
“Hello?”
My mouth opened to respond, but…nothing.
She waited a moment. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
“Hi.”
“Hello. Who is this?”
“Um,” I muttered, feeling idiotic, “it’s Mallory. I don’t know if you remember, but, uh, we met on the plane from Arizona and I’ve written you—”
“Mallory,” Gail said warmly. “I’m so glad to hear your voice. Thank you for all your letters. You are such a doll.”
My throat tightened. “You’re welcome.”
“Where are you off to next?”
“Actually, I’m here. I’m in London.”
I hoped her sharp intake of breath was followed by a smile.
“Are you?”
“Yep. Hanging out in the park by the palace.” I bit my lip. “Do you…only—if you’re busy, it’s not a problem, but—would you like to meet up?”
“Is now a good time?”
It was only twenty minutes later when I turned onto yet another row of cookie-cutter houses. Their white pillars gleamed in the sun, their entrances looking over a small, square park. I found number thirty-seven, taking a deep breath as I shuffled up the stoop.
“Keep it together,” I mumbled. I pressed the doorbell, a muffled chime emanating through the house.
The red door swung open, revealing a beaming Gail.
“Hello, dear.” She swept me into a hug.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” I asked for the thousandth time. Over the phone, she’d offered for me to stay with her. She hadn’t hesitated, but it still felt like I was intruding.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” she said, ushering me through the foyer, waving for me to follow.
I took the best shower of my life before changing into the only semi-clean clothes I had left, the sweatpants and tank top combo I slept in. Gail let me start a wash as I dragged my brush through wet hair. With the machine whirring in the background, I plunked onto a white chair at the table. My skin was flushed after the steam of the shower, a tired calm taking hold in this welcoming setting.
The kitchen was flooded with soft light as the sun sank below the tops of the buildings. An electric kettle whistled behind two waiting cups. Gail opened a package, spreading chocolate-covered biscuits out for grabs. She filled an old-fashioned ceramic teapot with steaming water, popping in the tea before setting it on the silver tray with the cups and bringing it to the table.
“How do you take it?”
“I don’t usually drink tea,” I admitted. “However you make it is fine.”
I watched her pour the tea, followed by a lump of sugar and a smidge of milk into each teacup, plus a biscuit on the side. I picked up mine, blowing on it lightly, and tried a sip.
It was lovely. “Thank you.”
She smiled with anticipation. “So, tell me, was your trip everything you’d dreamed it would be? ”
My cup rattled noisily against the delicate saucer. Gail tried to hide a wince.
“Sorry.” I set the cup and saucer back on the table, pushing them a safe distance away. My face felt pinched, and I worked it into something I hoped looked mildly normal. “Yes, it was great.”
Gail lifted a brow.
I nearly ripped off a nail in my lap, trying to hold in my tears.
Across from me, Gail resigned her own tea to the center of the table. “Mallory, I don’t know you. I don’t know a thing other than what you’ve shared. But I am aware you are here in London early. And you were having quite the adventure, based on your correspondence.” She sat back in her chair, arms crossed as tightly as the look she shot my way. “And I also know that I am no fool.”
I swallowed.
Her fingers rapped across her biceps.
“Well,” I hesitated, then overflowed. The whole beautiful, miserable story came out, right up to the bitter end. To her credit, Gail rarely interrupted. Her expression went stony when I reached the news of the break-in, but turned pensive, then amused as I wound to a close.
At one point, we had shifted from the kitchen to her stylish living room. When I told her about Emil leaving, I grew quiet, glancing into the tiny backyard. Night had fallen. Gail’s neighbors were framed in mini tableaux as they ate in their kitchens or sat watching TV in their living rooms. So normal.
“Hmm,” she hummed thoughtfully.
I drew a stuffy breath through my nose. “That’s it.”
To my surprise, she chuckled.
“What’s funny?”
“You are,” she said. The twinkle in her eyes made no sense.
“I don’t understand.”
“Honey, that’s so far from being ‘it,’ that it’s funny.”
“I’m glad this is so humorous for you,” I said dryly.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” she said. “I know you’re hurting. But where you are right now, how you’re feeling, it’s your own doing.” She shrugged. “And Emil’s, too. That boy did neither of you any favors.”
“What do you mean?” I was tired. All I really wanted was to crawl into a bed and hide from the world, my patience stretched taut.
Instead of answering, Gail slapped her thighs as she stood. “I don’t need to tell you. You’re going to do it for me.”
And she disappeared around the corner. I gaped at the ceiling as I heard her rummaging upstairs. Soon, she was back, carrying a bundle of papers. She held them out to me and, when I took them, I saw my own handwriting.
“You kept them?”
“Of course. I’m a sucker for a good romance.”
I looked at her curiously and was met with that same humorous smirk.
“Read them,” she said simply. “ Really read them. Listen to yourself. You have all the answers. You just can’t see it yet.” Her flowy skirt billowed as she retreated into the kitchen to clean up.
My mouth turned dry as I flipped over the first postcard, then the next letter, carefully reading every word. My tone shifted dramatically, from bubbly in Paris to cooly flat in Mostar. There was a long gap until Venice, when a lighter, more lively version of me hinted through. And more, more, more. A tiny nucleus of warmth set alight inside me, growing stronger and more defiant. I relived the journey, but the gaps in my words spoke louder than the words themselves, the little pieces I’d omitted and kept only for myself. Even still, my anecdotes progressed from the activities and places, narrowing down to one thing. Emil. At some point, it all became about me and Emil.
I folded the last letter, sent from our first night in Prague, and held it to my chest.
“What did you say?”
I opened my eyes, finding Gail watching me from the doorway .
“I said a lot of things.”
Unfazed, Gail leaned against the frame, taking a sip from a fresh cup of tea. She watched me over the brim, waiting.
“I fell for him,” I said reluctantly. Why did it feel humiliating to admit? It was all so new, so confusing. I’d never been in love before. And I didn’t like it, not like this. “That’s why it’s my fault I’m a mess,” I continued. “I let him get to me.”
Her lips twitched. “Okay. That’s part of it, so you can blame yourself there. But how you’re feeling…is that a bad thing?”
“It is, since we can’t be together.”
Gail grunted, raising her eyes to the heavens. “And he left because?”
That was easy. “Because he had to go back to help Amin.”
“No,” she said, wagging a finger. “I mean, yes, but that wasn’t why he left. Think about your last night in Prague. What was he really asking you?”
The last thing I wanted was to revisit that night. “I don’t know,” I said like a stubborn teenager.
“Yes, you do.” She wasn’t going to let me off so easily.
“What does it matter?” I countered. “He’s there. I’m here. I’m leaving. That’s it!”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“He left me!” I said, my voice rising with a crack. “It was his choice.”
Her tone was soft. “And yet, here you are, crying over a boy.”
I scowled, which only made her grin wider.
“Those letters,” she said, redirecting the conversation, “what do they tell you?”
I shrugged.
“What do you see there?”
“Something I want, but can’t happen.”
“Why not?”
“I already told you why.”
“No, that’s an excuse. ”
“You’re acting like I’m the one who chose this,” I snapped.
“You’re angry. That’s good.”
“Because?”
She sighed. “Because angry, sad, heartbroken? They’re all feelings showing you still care. You are still fighting, even if it’s with yourself.” She sat and nestled my hand in hers. “What are you fighting so hard against?”
My words were faint. “That I love him.”
“Good girl.”
“But—”
“That’s not necessary,” she cut me off. “Don’t talk yourself out of this with all the problems. Solve it.”
“I don’t think I can,” I admitted.
She released my hand, folding hers in her lap.
“I’ve been truly in love once in my life, Mallory. I was with her for over forty years and they weren’t nearly enough. There’s time to figure out all the details, but don’t you dare wait to start. Not if it’s real.”
“What about home? My work—”
“Keeping those things doesn’t mean giving it all up. Relationships require compromise, yes. Compromise, not sacrificing one person for the other. When two people care for each other, as equals, they champion the others’ dreams. They fight for them, maybe more than that person does for themselves. No, that’s not the issue at hand here. The real question now is, how far are you willing to go to fight for one another in the long run? How much is it worth to each of you?” She lifted a shoulder, her brow arching as she took a sip of tea.
My lower lip trembled. “What if he doesn’t feel the same?”
She leaned forward, holding my gaze. “How would you feel if you never found out?”
I gave a weepy laugh. “Miserable.”
“Then what do you have to lose?”
If I didn’t act, then everything. Everything a future with him might entail. But was that future even possible?
In my mind, I searched through another of my check-lists, flitting between each true thing, forcing myself to focus on one at a time. I loved him. On some level, I was pretty sure he cared about me. He was afraid. I was afraid. Fear had driven the divide between us, not love. Maybe it could be mended, but it had to be done soon. Otherwise, we’d be on opposite sides of the world, adrift, alone, searching for something we had and lost—something that wasn’t easy to find once in a lifetime, never mind twice.
Suddenly, I was laser-focused. I still had time before my trip home…
“I need to book a flight to Sarajevo.”
Gail grinned.