Meant to Be (29 page)

Jason shoots him an irritated look, but I don’t really care, because at this moment, a thousand tiny Julia Lichtensteins are doing cartwheels in my brain.
He’s not just talking to me; he’s flirting with me!

“Just hurry up, okay?” Jason says. “I don’t want to wait all day for you to find the perfect outfit.”

“Yeah, ’cause
that
sounds like me,” I mutter. I really don’t want to start a fight with Jason right now. I don’t know what’s spurred this sudden interest from the guy who has occupied 94.32 percent of my brain ever since he moved back to Newton. All I know is whatever this new reality I’ve entered into is, I worry it’s being held together by Popsicle sticks and old rubber bands. I’m not about to fight with Jason and disturb this delicate, miraculous occurrence.

“Well, hurry up, okay? I want to get going,” Jason says. He slams a button to summon the elevator again. A ding signals its arrival. The doors slide open, and Jason steps in. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“I’ll go with you,” Mark says, throwing his arms into the closing elevator doors. They pop back open and Mark strolls in. “I’ll grab some road snacks. Anything for you, Jules? I don’t know if they make Starburst in the UK.”

The elevator doors slide closed before I can respond, which is probably good. I wouldn’t have been able to speak anyway. I’m too busy hopping up and down, doing a happy dance, my hands over my head, my wet hair whipping back and forth.

The first thing I do when I get back to my room is give myself a once-over in the mirror. My hair is hanging in heavy wet waves, sticking to my shoulders in chestnut clumps. My suit hasn’t ridden up anyplace embarrassing, but still, a Speedo isn’t the attire I’d pick for my first conversation with Mark Bixford in five years. I resist the urge to Skype Phoebe right
now
and shout through the Internet that Mark is talking to
me
, Mark is going on a date with
me
(well … sort of). I have to be downstairs in like, five minutes ago, so our gossip session will have to wait until later.

I change in record time, opting to let my hair air-dry and hoping that it won’t turn into a crazy ball of frizz. While I brush my teeth, I close my eyes and see his smile when he said my name. I see that one tooth that lies on top of the other tooth, making him look just a little bit more—I
don’t know—mortal. I mean, it sounds like he remembered our wedding. And
smiled
. What else could
possibly
matter right now?

When I get to the lobby, I spot Jason and Mark sitting opposite each other in plush wingback chairs. I arrive in time to hear the end of their conversation. Jason is looking toward the bar, where a group of stray models seem to have stopped in for a midafternoon drink.

“Seems like a lot of easy prey around here for you,” Mark says.
Gross
. I don’t want to know anything about Jason’s “prey.” I can’t believe I actually let him kiss me.

As soon as the thought comes to me, though, the sensation of our kiss in the grass surges through me like an electric shock. I suddenly feel too warm, with the kind of heat that brings little pinpricks of sweat right to your temples. I gasp and have to give my head a little shake to get the image to go away. The noise alerts the boys to my presence, and they look up at me.

“Ready?” I ask, a little too brightly.

“Uh-huh,” Jason grunts, and starts for the door without even a glance in Mark’s direction. Not the greatest start.

It takes us about twenty minutes to walk to the entrance to Hyde Park, and every minute is agonizingly awkward. Mark tries to make conversation about London; Jason snorts or rolls his eyes in response; and to compensate, I end up acting like every single word out of Mark’s mouth is a jewel crapped out by a fairy princess. I’m bordering dangerously on reenacting Susan’s ridiculous flirting techniques.

If nothing else, at least the weather seems to be cooperating. Mrs. Tennison seemed so proud of her little “outdoor spaces” assignment, designed to get us off to one of London’s famed parks and out of the pubs and boutiques my classmates are so fond of. After the last two days of rain, I was starting to think our outdoor-spaces assignment was going to be an epic disaster.

I breathe a huge sigh of relief when we finally arrive in Hyde Park,
because I hope it means we’ll have something concrete to talk about. Maybe we can even ditch Jason. Except, of course, I can’t. I mean, I shouldn’t. Because that’s against the rules. And I don’t break rules. Except
with
Jason.

I can feel Jason’s hands in my hair again, his lips on mine, and I’m gasping for breath.

“You okay, Jules?” Mark asks, stopping to see if I need a slap on the back or mouth to mouth (um, maybe?).

“Fine,” I reply. “I just, uh, swallowed a bug, I think.”
Oh. My. God. Did I seriously just say that? Mark is going to think I’m gross
.

Fortunately, he just laughs. “Swallowing can be a hazard,” he says, like we’re sharing some kind of inside joke. I relax again, grateful to him for making me feel at ease.

Jason, on the other hand, is definitely not making me feel at ease. He’s stalking four feet ahead of us—just far enough to seem deliberately rude, but not far enough that we can converse freely without his involvement. I only know one way to distract them from the awkwardness, so I pull out my guidebook and start flipping the pages until I find the listing for Hyde Park, which I marked with a blue Post-it the first time I read this book back in Boston.

“According to my guidebook, Speaker’s Corner is really close by,” I say, my eyes glued to the page.

“What’s that?” Mark asks, peeking over my shoulder at my book.

“It’s an open-air space for debating,” I say, trying to hide the fact that his closeness is practically giving me heart palpitations. “Anyone can get up and speak about … well, anything.”

“I think you should speak, Julia,” Jason says, turning around to shoot me another indecipherable look. “I think you should dazzle us with your theories on MTB!”

I nearly drop my book.

“What’s MTB?” Mark asks, looking closer over my shoulder as if he’s going to find the answer in my Frommer’s guide to London.

“Oh! It’s … uh … just this thing. From social studies,” I say quickly, my mind racing to come up with three little words. “It’s the, um, Massachusetts … Terminal … um, Budget. Yeah, Mass Terminal Budget. Or as it’s more commonly known, the MTB.”

Jason bursts out laughing. I could kill him right now. Since I’m pretty sure homicide is just as illegal on this side of the ocean, I turn on my heel and start walking in the opposite direction, cutting across the grass and toward Speaker’s Corner. I’m happy to see that Mark follows.

Speaker’s Corner reminds me a little bit of back home on Boston Common, minus the tour guides wearing Revolutionary War garb. Various people are milling about in the space. Some speakers are standing on literal soap boxes, others on chairs. Some have constructed elaborate displays; some are waving posters; others are gesticulating wildly.

In one spot on the path, leaning against a fence, is a man speaking out against overpopulation. Directly across from him is a scruffy-looking university student standing on a step stool, trying to convince passing tourists of the virtues of a vegan diet. Runners zip through the crowd, headphones fixed firmly on their ears, and mothers with children hurry by as quickly as they can. But many people have stopped to listen. Occasionally, people shout back at the speakers. One guy keeps yelling, “I’d go vegan if bacon grew on trees, mate!”

We wedge ourselves through the crowd. Most of what I hear just seems stubborn, reactionary, or downright crazy. I start to feel that tense skin-crawl of discomfort. I don’t like crowds, and I don’t like yelling … which means I definitely don’t like yelling crowds. I start to feel a little dizzy: the swell of voices makes my head spin.

I look over my shoulder to make sure Mark and Jason are still close, and as my back is turned, I bump into someone.

I whip around to see a balding man in a shabby suit standing silently in the middle of the path. He’s holding a sign, stark white with bold black block letters. It reads
DON’T BELIEVE ANYONE, INCLUDING ME
.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, but he doesn’t say anything. He just gives me a creepy little smile. “Julia, you okay?” Mark appears behind me, a hand on the small of my back. The heat of his touch seems to anchor me to reality again and draws me back to the present.

Mark is reading the man’s sign, too. “What’s it mean?” he asks.

Again, the man just smiles in response.

Jason appears on my other side. “What’s up?”

“Nothing, I—I want to get out of here,” I say. I push past the man and his sign, and I start quickly for the end of the path where Speaker’s Corner ends and the rest of Hyde Park begins. Mark walks after me, and Jason follows him.

“What was that about?” Jason asks.

“I wasn’t into it,” I say, which is the understatement of the century. “Too crowded.”

“And loud,” Mark says.

Jason shrugs. “I kind of dug it. Especially that last dude.” Jason is keeping his eyes locked on the ground, kicking at pebbles every few feet. “Smart slogan.”

“I don’t really get it,” I say. I have to sidestep awkwardly not to run right into him. Mark, who is walking next to me, moves his hand onto my elbow to steady me.

“What’s to get?”

“I mean, what
is
he?” I ask. I feel frustrated. I’m confused by the cryptic message. I feel like there’s a joke somewhere and I’m not in on it. “ ‘Don’t believe anyone, not even me’? I mean, is it a political statement? Is it a party slogan?”

“He was probably just crazy,” Mark says, shrugging.

“He seemed like the sanest one of the bunch to me,” Jason retorts, then picks up his pace, putting distance between us.

“I still don’t get it,” I say. Trying to loosen my neck, I give my hair a shake. It’s still a bit damp from the pool and it feels like it’s weighing me
down, like someone put a wet blanket on top of my head and is forcing me to walk around with good posture.

“Figures,” Jason calls over his shoulder. Then, out of nowhere, he performs a cartwheel, right there, in the middle of the path.

I almost burst out,
What’s that supposed to mean?
but I swallow back the words. I feel the buzzing building in my legs, like I want to swim until I reach the moon and back. Dealing with Jason and Mark is proving too stressful. I mumble something about needing water and head off toward one of the little food carts parked around the area. I give the vendor an assortment of heavy coins, and he hands me a cool bottle of water, dripping on the outside from being pulled straight out of the tub of ice. I twist the top and chug until half the bottle is gone.

“Easy there, buddy, save some for me.” Jason is standing next to me, and I instinctively look around for Mark.

“He went to the bathroom,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Oh,” I reply, bummed he walked away and annoyed that Jason noticed I was looking for him.

“For real, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say. I thrust the half-empty bottle into his hands. “Like you care.”

“Oh, don’t even start,” Jason says, pushing it back into my hands. “You finish it. You look like you need it.”

“Why are you doing this?” I burst out. Suddenly, I feel like I’m on the brink of tears.

Jason’s eyes flicker. For a moment, he looks uncertain. “Doing what?”

“Making my life a living hell one minute, then acting like you care the next.”

“I’m not acting,” he says. He takes the bottle from my hand, chugs the rest, and tosses it into the recycle bin at the foot of the cart. He steps back into my little circle of personal space, closer this time, so that to meet his eyes, I have to actually tilt my head up. As I raise my gaze, his
hand comes up to cup my chin. He leans in slightly, and the magnetism of the moment and his intense blue eyes nearly pull me in. His head turns slightly to the left. I start to tilt right to meet him, but the memory of his note to Sarah comes slamming back.

I take a quick step back. I stumble backward, nearly knocking down a businesswoman in a crisp black suit who is rolling a wheeled briefcase behind her. I mutter an apology. Jason snags my elbow and leads me away from Miz Business, who is about to have a full-on meltdown over a scuff I’ve added to her smart black pumps. He leads me off the path and into the grass. I keep my eyes on the ground, focusing on lining the toes of my sneakers up perfectly with the edge of the paved path.

“That’s not a good idea,” I say after what seems like an eternity of silence. Jason leans against a scrawny tree, and I worry he’s about to send it keeling right over.

“It isn’t.…” His eyes are dark. I can’t tell from his tone if it’s a question or if he’s agreeing with me.

“No,” I reply, still staring at my sneakers. “We both know that was a mistake. Let’s not repeat it, okay?”

Jason is silent for a second. Then he says, “Yeah, sure.” His bangs have fallen sloppily over his eyes. His gaze flicks over my shoulder, though, and when I turn, I see Mark strolling up the path toward us.

“What’s next?” he asks, flashing that perfectly imperfect grin.

“More wandering,” I reply. I turn to Jason, but he’s already shooting ahead, executing a series of cartwheels down the path. Normally, his behavior would annoy me, but today I’m glad he’s at least putting distance between us. I don’t know what kind of game he’s playing, but I’m not interested in participating.

Mark and I walk along the path side by side. Silence stretches uncomfortably between us. I’m so nervous and self-conscious about making a good impression that I don’t even know what to say to him. I pretend to survey the land around me, letting my gaze skirt over his face
several times, just for a second, so it won’t feel like I’m staring. I notice a tiny scar under his right ear. It’s perfectly round, like a pinprick. I have one just like it on the back of my neck. A chicken pox scar from when I was four. I wonder if that’s how he got his, too.

“I’m glad I met up with you,” he says, and now that he’s spoken to me, I’m able to look straight at him without seeming like a creeper. “I’d be hella bored if I had to be by myself for this whole trip.”