Meant to Be (38 page)

“Me too,” I reply. His text said he’d wait all night, but apparently he
wasn’t telling the truth (though to be fair, I’ve been pretty lax about telling the truth this whole time). It just feels like time to give up. “I’m pretty sure it’s been way too long.”

“Who’s this boy who’s stood you up?”

“How did you know it was a boy?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s always a boy, isn’t it?” She rolls her eyes and taps her purple-polished fingernails on the bar, one after the other in quick succession. I feel oddly at ease with her. Maybe it’s because I haven’t heard from Phoebe in a while, but it feels good to have someone to talk to. I don’t mind opening up.

“This may sound weird, but I’m looking for a guy I met only once. We’ve been texting all week.”

Her smile falters; her eyes narrow a bit. She looks slightly confused. “Me too,” she says.

“What do you mean, ‘me too’?” I ask.

“I’m waiting for a guy I only met one time. My mobile has been chirping away all week from his texts. I told him to meet me here.”

“Wow. Strange coincidence,” I say, but even as I say it, I can tell the word “coincidence” seems wrong. I hope my words aren’t coming out as fuzzy as my brain feels. “I’ve been hunting this guy—Chris—all week long. He finally gives me a place to meet him and then doesn’t show up.”

She bursts out laughing. “My name is Chris! Well, Christina, but no one calls me that ’cept for my grandmum. Isn’t that weird?”

“Weird,” I repeat, accidentally mimicking her British accent.
Weeyad
, it sounds like. The throbbing from earlier is back, and I feel like my brain is wearing a big fuzzy sweater. It seems a little too hot in here, too, and I tug at the collar of my shirt to try to get some air circulating.
What is in this beer?
“Is it hot in here? Do you feel hot? I feel hot as hell.”

“Well, you know what Churchill says. ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going,’ ” she says with a little chuckle into her drink.

The quote hits me like a fist to the face. Oh my God. It can’t be. As I
fumble around for something to say, the truth starts to take shape in the back of my brain. It slowly snakes its way to the front of my mind like a slow-motion bolt of lightning, and I feel the heat starting to roll down into my stomach.

“Who are
you
waiting to meet?” I ask, bracing for the answer.

“His name is Jason,” she says. “I met him at a party last weekend. He’s American.”

Oh. My. God.

“I know Jason” is what finally comes out of my mouth after what I suspect is a full minute of opening and shutting it.

“You do?” She swivels on her stool until our knees are touching. Now she’s starting to look confused.

“Yeah, he’s one of my classmates. We’re on this trip together. We were both at the house party last weekend. That’s where you met him,” I explain, as much to myself as to her.

“Do you think he’s coming?” she asks hopefully.

“Uh, he’s … well, he’s … unavailable.” I know it’s a lie (or maybe not—there
is
the blond girl from Harrods), but even if he hates me, I can’t bear the thought of Jason hooking up with someone else who isn’t me, let alone this spunky, well-read, clearly very interesting and smart beautiful blond. Not to mention that her name is Chris.

I get my Chris before he gets his, dammit.

And just like that, realization breaks over me like a wave, dragging me into the undertow of reality.

I’m waiting for Chris. Her name is Chris. She’s waiting for Jason. Our texts flash before my eyes. All addressed to and signed simply “J.”

This
is
my Chris. Somehow, I’ve been texting
her
.

I feel sick, and I push my half-drunk beer back across the bar. I need a water. Now. I wave at the bartender, but he doesn’t see me. My throat feels like someone poured the contents of a saltshaker into it, and I’m struggling to swallow without gagging.

“Oh my God. Listen—you haven’t been waiting for Jason. You’ve been waiting for me.” I can barely get out a whisper. “I sent you those texts.”

“But you sounded like a guy on the phone!” she exclaims, and I instantly think back to that moment at the Tate when Jason wrestled the phone from my hand and answered it. Oh God. If only I had been quicker, held the phone tighter, this could have all been sorted out a week ago!

I can’t even believe this is happening to me. How did this become my life? The beer is now sloshing around in my stomach like one of those water park wave pools.

I hear the door to the pub open, but I’m not ready to look at anything yet. I keep my face down and my eyes shut tight.

“Holy wow, he’s cute,” I hear Chris mutter, and my heart skips a beat. Even though I know Chris is … well, not my sexy dream guy, I still hold out hope that somehow, my bespectacled, Shakespeare-reading hottie is going to walk through the door. I open my eyes, and there’s the shock of my life.

It’s Mark.

He does look cute. He looks like he stole his outfit straight off a mannequin, in distressed jeans, a white oxford, and a gray cardigan. Only Mark could make a cardigan work. And though I know objectively that he’s gorgeous, I don’t feel the same stomach-dropping adoration I’ve felt every other time I’ve seen him over the last 242-plus days. I’m shocked to realize that I feel nothing.

“Julia!” he says. “I haven’t seen you since you ran off. Did you get your homework done?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say. The mumbly self-consciousness I felt every other time I’ve talked to him is gone. I’ve been dodging him since his indecent proposal. “What are you doing here?”

“Dad says this place is awesome. Thought I’d check it out,” he says, and then his eyes catch Chris. “Nice scenery.”

“Are you going to—” I start, but Mark cuts me off. His eyes are focused completely on the nearly six-foot-tall beauty sitting next to me.

“What’s your name?” he says, practically bumping me off my stool as he wedges himself between Chris and me.

She giggles. “I’m Chris.”

“Chris, huh? I like that name. It’s sexy,” he says, his voice like honey. I never noticed how smooth he sounds, and not in a good way. More like if this were the ’70s, he’d be wearing a leisure suit. I grimace at the thought. “And
you
are definitely sexy.”

Oh ick. Seriously?

“Okay, well, I’m going to—” I say, but again, Mark cuts me off.

He gestures to my stool, the one I’m
currently sitting on
, and says, “Do you mind?”

I can’t believe he’s asking me to vacate my seat so he can hit on some girl. Not two days ago, he was hitting on
me
. How did I not notice this guy is a total
dog
? I hear Jason’s voice in my ear, calling Mark charming, only now I recognize the sarcasm. Everything he said about Mark suddenly makes so much more sense. He knew all along.

And he was trying to tell me.

I hop off the stool and look for a table. Behind me, Mark and Chris are chatting away. It’s clear Chris no longer has any need for her mysterious “J,” be it Jason or me. The jealousy monster has a tight grip on me. I suddenly feel the most alone I’ve felt on this entire trip. I need a friend. I need Phoebe.

I take out my phone and hold it in my hand, noticing no sign of any response from Phoebe, despite my earlier bomb-dropping text about falling for Jason.
Where is she?

And this is when the last piece of the puzzle snaps into place. I drop my phone and it clatters to the floor.

If Chris was texting Jason, but I was responding, then I must have Jason’s phone.
And he must have mine
.

I close my eyes—and now I see it. I’m tipping head over heels down the stone steps after that party last weekend, the contents of my purse scattered. My phone is at the top step; then it’s gone. Next thing I know, Jason is dragging me off the pavement and telling me he has my phone. Only it’s not my phone. It’s his. Which means he still has mine.

Which means … The dots start connecting fast. All those texts from “C”? They were meant for Jason, not me. All those texts from Sarah? Same. And this explains why Phoebe stopped calling or texting me.…

Wait a minute. If Jason has had my phone this whole time, then … oh, NO. Phoebe has probably been texting Jason! No
wonder
he knew about Mark, and MTB, and … Oh God, what ELSE does he know?

I scoop the phone up off the ground and do the only thing I can think of to do. I text myself.

— where the hell are you? —J

I
’m about to press send when I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder. I spin around and come face to face with Jason.

His hair is still messy and covered with his ratty old Sox cap, but he’s wearing the blue cashmere sweater from the night of the house party. Just as that night, the fabric pulls the blue out of his eyes, and I’m nearly blinded by the vivid color. His arms are full, a bouquet of hydrangeas wrapped in brown paper in one hand and a small green leather-bound book in the other.

I don’t know what to say, where to start, so instead, I point to the book.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Oh, uh, I think it’s a replacement,” he says, clearing his throat, “for your Shakespeare book. The pocket one.”

I take the book and clutch it to my chest like a security blanket. Nothing seems right-side up right now, but at least I have my Shakespeare.

“I read a few pages,” he says, his eyes focused on the book. “It didn’t suck.”

With my arms now full of Shakespeare, he simply sets the flowers down on the bar. When I don’t move or say anything, he gestures to the gifts. “This is—this is because I’m sorry. About our fight earlier.”

A huge lump fills my throat.
I’m sorry, too
, I want to say, but what comes out is “I thought you would hate me.”

His eyes are full of warm light. I want to dive into them and swim. “I could never hate you. I realized when you freaked at me about blowing you off that you must have seen me with my cousin Fiona. You’re pretty sneaky for a rule follower,” he says with a sheepish grin.

My cheeks start to glow red as I remember the blond girl, the supposed supermodel, sliding the paper across the table into Jason’s hand.

“Your cousin?” I repeat, because I’m still too confused to produce full sentences or follow simple lines of thought.

“Yeah,” he replies. He hoists himself up onto an empty stool, then pulls out the one next to him for me. I climb onto it, still clutching the book. “I haven’t seen her since I was little, but I figured I ought to look her up. You know, after you encouraged me.”

“I did?”

“Yeah. On the London Eye, when you suggested I go to the old house. Well, I did. And it sucked, but then it made me realize I could do something about it. So I called her up. She was actually pretty psyched to hear from me, and she showed me a bookstore where I could find your pocket Shakespeare.”

“But what are the flowers for?”

He inhales deeply. “This is the hard part,” he says, swiping a hand through his hair. “Your phone is … well, it’s
my
phone. And, uh … ugh, well—”

“Jason, I know about the phone,” I say. I release my—er,
his
—phone from my vise grip and set it on the bar in front of him, then give it a little
spin with a flick of my finger. He looks at it whizzing around on the bar, then slowly raises his head until his eyes meet mine. I see a mix of terror and relief wash across his face.

“You do? For how long?”

“Um, about five minutes,” I say, gesturing down the bar to Chris and Mark. “I believe you know Chris, from the party?” Jason leans over his stool and catches sight of the pink streaks in her hair, then quickly jumps back toward the bar and ducks behind me like I’m some kind of human shield.

“Don’t worry,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You’re free and clear. Take another look.”

Jason peeks out from behind me, and that’s when he sees Mark. He sits up straight, and I notice his fist start to clench a little.

“That guy?” he says, and I can hear the disgust in his voice, loud and clear. “What is he doing here?”

“Oh, you know, bro, just pickin’ up chicks,” I reply in my most brotastic accent.

“I
hate
that guy,” Jason says, but I see him start to relax a little. “He’s always running his mouth about a different girl. Does the whole world have to hear about his conquests?”

“Conquests?”
I sputter.

“Seriously, that guy is a walking high school cliché. He’s also probably a walking petri dish. I can’t imagine all the stuff he’s picked up, if half of what he says is true.” Jason glances down at the phone, then back at me, a few lines of worry forming across his forehead. “Wait, you’re not still … are you? With him?”

“Oh God no,” I say, and the force of the reply is enough to make Jason burst out laughing. “That guy is definitely
not
my MTB.”

Jason stops laughing and looks right into my eyes. The pressure of his gaze nearly makes me lean back on my stool, but I want to be closer to him, so I push forward.

“Does that mean you know who is?” he asks. “Your MTB, I mean.”