London Is the Best City in America

“Look, if he calls the house, will you just tell him I’m looking for him? I was supposed to meet him at midnight. But I’m going to be a little late.”

Midnight. I was supposed to meet Matt at midnight. I turned and looked at the clock: 11:36. Oh, my God. It was 11:36. The diner was fifteen minutes away. If I got up right now and didn’t even shower—if I put on the first thing I saw—I might be able to be there on time.

“Hey, Josh, I really have to go,” I said. “I’ll see you when you get back here okay?”

But he didn’t hear me.

“What?” he said.

There was no time to repeat.

So I just hung up.

There were a couple of rules of the universe that I had learned, and felt like I could stand by. The first was that if I was in a rush to get anywhere—whether it was to get married or get to where I was going or to find out what happened next in my life—I would inevitably be late for it, slow myself down, as soon as I dared say the words out loud, as soon as I admitted, even in my head, that I wanted to be somewhere else, right then.

The second was that my mother would make me eat something first.

I opened the front door, holding the car keys, to find her and my dad on the other side of it, no longer in their wedding clothes—my dad carrying the tallest white box I’d ever seen.

“When did you get home?” he said from behind it.

“When did you guys get home?” I said.

I started shaking out my bad foot, holding on to the doorknob for support. My mom instinctively looked down at it, her eyes moving up and checking out my outfit: sky pajama pants with very sparkly clouds all over them, and a white V-neck T-shirt that said “I ? Mt. Airy Lodge” across the chest in matching sky blue.

“That’s a great look for you,” she said, nodding at my outfit before motioning for me to get out of the way so my dad could get into the house. She followed behind him. “Come into the kitchen with me for a minute. I want to talk to you.”

“Mom, I’m really late,” I said, pointing to the front door with the scribbled note still on it.

She was already in the kitchen. “Well, you’re going to have to be a little later then,” she called back to me.

I crumpled the note up, following her into the kitchen, reluctantly, and taking a seat on one of the stools. My dad was putting the box on the counter. He removed the top, slowly, revealing the glorious yellow pineapple cake. All six tiers of it.

“It’s bad luck not to eat some of the wedding cake,” my mom said, taking a seat on the stool across from me, pushing her hair back off her face.

“But they didn’t get married,” I said.

She gave me a look. “Are you going to argue with me about everything for my entire life? Let me know now.”

My dad kissed us both on the forehead—my mom first, then me—before heading toward the stairs. “You can bring mine up to me,” he said. “I need to take a shower for the next nine hours.”

“I’ll meet you in there,” my mom said, watching him go. And, just like when I was little and lived here, I had the same strange reaction I always had when I watched them flirt: somewhere between nausea and relief. She turned back to me, smiling. “Now,” she said, taking two forks out of the container on the counter, handing one to me. “I want to hear exactly what you’re thinking.”

“About what, Mom?

“Where your brother’s going now. After he deals with tonight, obviously, and this mess he’s made. Which is quite a mess, I might add.” She closed her eyes, as if against the whole situation. “Do you think that he is going to see her now? To his other friend?”

“You know about his other friend?” I said. “You know about Elizabeth?”

“Is that her name?” She held her bite of cake in front of her mouth. “That’s a nice name,” she said.

“That seems to be the consensus.”

She put the bi

te of cake in her mouth, starting to chew slowly. “Eat just a little,” she said.

I shook my head, looking at the bottom tier—the sugary-white inside showing from where my mom had taken her scoop. “I can’t,” I said. “I told you. I’m really running late.”