Chapter Twenty
Alex
Nothing sounds more glorious than a nap. Too bad I don’t have time for one. My flight leaves later this evening, and Mom and Richard want to take me out to dinner on the way to the airport. Which I’m looking forward to. I just hope I can stay awake long enough to enjoy it.
Slowly, I drag myself upstairs. Mason’s in his room, plucking away at his guitar, and I detour there instead, flopping on his bed with a loud groan.
The music stops, and I motion for him to continue. Maybe his impressive rendition of Metallica’s “One” will keep me from drifting into an easy slumber. But he doesn’t continue. In fact, I can hear him unplug and turn off his amp. “Haven’t you heard of knocking?”
“Door was open. That insinuates an invitation.”
The bed dips as he sits beside me. “How was the party?”
“Fine,” I mumble into his comforter.
“And Brian? Do you like him any better?”
I can feel my lip curl, and I roll over on my back. Mason’s had more opportunities to get to know him, and even though he insists he’s a good guy, I still can’t see the appeal. “Ugh, no. He plays pickleball, for Christ’s sake.”
“What’s wrong with pickleball?”
“I don’t know…it’s…pickleball!”
He arches a brow like he wants me to elaborate, but honestly, I thought the name in itself was reason enough.
“It’s preppy and trendy and dumb.”
“Do you even know how to play pickleball?”
“No.”
He pats my shoulder like he’s trying to calm an angry toddler. “And you’re sure this has nothing to do with your feelings for Jules?”
Okay, wow, shots fired. Am I that easy to read? I toss a pillow at his face. “Of course it’s about my feelings for Jules. I don’t get what she sees in him. He’s rich and annoying.”
“Rich and annoying and plays pickleball,” Mason repeats. “Been listening to your sad eighties playlist?” he teases.
I glare. “No.”
He hums, not believing me. And he shouldn’t. It’s been on repeat since Jules announced her engagement.
His expression softens. “Alex. You should tell her.”
“Tell her what?” He gives me a look that says “You know what,” and I shake my head.
“She’s engaged, Mase. As evidenced by the shindig I just attended and the oversized rock on her finger.
” The image of her giving me a sad smile and handing me my helmet, then turning to take Brian’s hand will be etched in my mind for an eternity.
He squeezes my arm. “I know it’s hard, but you should still tell her. Don’t you think she deserves to know you’re in love with her?”
I take back the pillow and press it against my stomach, clutching it like a lifeline. “She’s happy. I don’t want to ruin that.”
“So you get to stay miserable?” he counters.
Yes. I’ll be miserable every day in every life if it means Jules gets to be happy.
“I’ll be okay. Once I get through the wedding, I’ll figure out how to move on.
Again.” He opens his mouth, probably to protest, but I’m tired, and I really don’t want to talk about it anymore.
“How’s Sarah?” I ask before he can utter a word.
It’s been a while since he talked about her.
His mouth closes, and he looks away. “We broke up.”
“Mase,” I say, letting his name hang in the air between us. How the hell did I not know they broke up? Am I that bad a sister? “When? Why?”
“Last month. I didn’t tell you because Jules had just got engaged, and you seemed pretty upset. And you know why.” His tone is as sharp as the look he gives me.
My stomach sinks. I was afraid he might do this. Push her away to spare her from possible heartache. I just thought, after four years together, he was going to be the one to announce an engagement.
“You can have relationships,” I remind him quietly.
“So can you.”
We sit in silence, the mood shifting into something downright depressing. In our attempted chivalry, it seems we ended up just hurting ourselves. Truth be told, it kind of sucks. I put my head on his shoulder. “We’re a mess.”
He wraps his arm around me. “It’s the Pestano way.”
“Mom’s not a mess, though.”
“She’s an Avery now,” he reminds me. “Plus, Mom’s the best of us all.”
“Is that why you still live with her?”
He stands, causing me to fall over, looking insulted. “Excuse you. I’ve been saving up for a house.”
I want to ask if he was saving for a house to build a life with Sarah before he pissed it all away, but I don’t. “Wow, look at you. Saving for a house. So grown-up.”
“Gotta use Dad’s child support money for something.” He sits at his desk and turns on his computer.
“Yeah,” I agree. It’s the only good thing he ever did for us.
Sure, he peaced out, and we never saw him again, but he used to send Mom a few hundred bucks each month until Mason and I were eighteen.
On our eighteenth birthdays, she explained that she’d put most of it aside, and it was ours to do with it what we wanted.
Mason, naturally, did the smart thing and put his in a money market.
I used mine to travel. The rest went to help Mom pay for NYU.
The photos tacked above Mason’s desk catch my eyes. There’s one of Sarah, his friends, one of me, Jules, and Chloe, and the rest are the postcards I’ve sent him. They line the wall, a road map of the places I’ve been. Places Mason has never seen for himself.
“Do you want to go see the Northern Lights?” I ask abruptly.
He glances over his shoulder and chuckles. “What?”
“I was thinking of checking out the Northern Lights. It’s on your list. You pick out all these places and then never go. So let’s go.”
“You want to take me to Alaska?” he asks.
“Norway, actually.”
The smile fades, and he turns back around. “We’ll see.”
He’s stingy about his money, but I have a little bit saved up from all my random jobs, and I start to offer to pay for the trip, but Mom appears in the doorway.
“What are you two up to?”
“Trying to convince Mason to see the Northern Lights,” I tell her.
“In Norway,” he says, his tone indicating something along the lines of “Can you believe it?”
Mom seems surprised and hesitates just a little before redirecting her expression into something a little less worried. “Oh, that’s fun.”
No one says anything else, and I start to get a little frustrated. My whole life, he’s pressed me to visit all the cool places I’ve wanted to see. I thought for sure he’d be anxious to go to one of his own.
Mom gives me a pointed look. “Richard wants to know where you want to go for dinner.”
Suddenly, I’m starving, and I think about all the crappy places that sell greasy food, and I wish I could go to them all. “Anywhere I can get a cheeseburger.”
“So McDonald’s?” Mom jokes.
“Yeah, I’m dying for a Happy Meal.” Mom chuckles, and I stretch, somehow finding the energy to haul myself off Mason’s bed. “Richard can choose. Let me get in the shower real quick, and I’ll be ready to go.”
“Yeah,” Mason says. “I can smell you from here.”
Mom and Mason both start to laugh, and I flip them the bird as I walk into the bathroom. “Hilarious. You’re both hilarious.”
Autumn in London is my favorite. It’s chilly but not too cold, and everything seems to take on a golden hue. The changing color of the leaves is just as beautiful here as it is back home, and Richmond Park feels majestic, like a place straight out of one of Jules’s fantasy novels.
The downside? They don’t overindulge in Halloween quite like we do in the States.
It makes me yearn for Virginia, for decorations as far as the eye can see as early as August. Of taking trips to Spirit Halloween to test all the new animatronics and pumpkin patches with cider and slides and homemade candy apples.
Thankfully, there’s still plenty of pumpkin spice and apple tarts and caramel candy, so when Jules sends me a picture of yet another seasonal latte, I’m prepared and send her one back.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket on my way home from work, and I assume it’s Jules. But when I swipe on the notification, I stop walking.
It’s from Simone. It’s been a few months since we’ve caught up, and I smile when I see her name pop up.
In your neck of the woods for a work thing and found myself with an evening off. Care to grab dinner?
You’re in London?
For the next few days. You up for it?
The last time we saw each other was last December when I was home for Christmas.
We went out for coffee and caught up on our lives while she was on a lunch break from work.
It wasn’t nearly enough time, especially since she’s one of the only people I still talk to from high school. It would be good to see her.
Dinner sounds great. What time are you free? Where are you staying?
We finish today at five. Just tell me when and where. First drink is on me.
She sends me her location, and I slip my phone back in my pocket, trying to think of someplace fun to take her. And when the perfect place comes to my mind, I pick up the pace. Anxious to get home and to spend time with an old friend.
We lie side by side, sweaty and out of breath. So we didn’t quite make it to dinner. But we did make it to happy hour and managed to snag a few appetizers. But when the eye contact lingered just a little too long, I knew I wasn’t going to be introducing her to my favorite Greek spot in Soho.
Simone bursts into a fit of giggles. It’s contagious, and soon enough, we’re both laughing as if we just got away with doing something scandalous. “We probably shouldn’t have done that,” she says once the laughter finally subsides.
“No, probably not,” I agree.
Just because it wasn’t the best idea doesn’t mean I regret it. It’s been a while since I’ve fallen into bed with a beautiful woman who wasn’t after something serious. At least with Simone, I know she isn’t after a relationship.
She turns on her side to face me. “It was fun, though. Even if you were thinking about someone else.”
“What? No, I wasn’t,” I say, insulted and shocked. A perfectly manicured brow raises, and she stares at me, clearly not convinced. “I wasn’t.” I laugh. Then it dawns on me. “Wait, were you?”