TJ wiggles a brow. “Go old school and bar it up,” he says.
“Guess that means I need a killer pickup line,” I say.
I spend the next week prepping to leave the country, stuffing my days with paperwork and goodbyes. I catch the train to New Haven to grab a quick lunch with my mentor, a curator at the university’s art museum. “Your mom would be so proud of you,” curly-haired Andrea tells me with a warm smile. “And I am too.”
Her words make me feel a little better about getting on the plane. So do TJ’s and Emerson’s as they feed me pickup lines all week.
Then I get on the plane for London, eager to work.
But first—one-night stand, here I come.
3
HEATH
I survive five days of this mad state of affairs at work, but Emily hasn’t yet rendered her verdict—will it be Riya or Freddy who’s my new . . . partner? I worry the delay means she’ll assign me both, and the joke will be on me.
But for the weekend, I’m free.
On Friday evening, I escape the office by way of the stairs, avoiding lift chatter and happy-hour invites.
When I reach the main level, I peer to the left, the right. The coast is clear, so I cruise through the lobby. Once I’m safely on the street, I walk quickly away from the building, heading toward the river as the fog rolls in.
Ah, yes.
It’s everywhere, this beautiful beast.
Up the river, down the river, like a smoky gray animal, brandishing its claws.
I stop when I reach the bridge, where I fish my camera from my pocket and snap a picture.
I’ll call it Coming to Get You.
It seems a good omen, catching that moment, and the weekend coasts on like that, a mix of reading and walking, stories and photos. My friend Griffin sends me a text, asking me if I’ve ever been to the apothecary garden in Chelsea near the Thames, and if he should add it to his tours.
I bristle because I have not been there yet.
But no is an unacceptable answer, so I immediately make my way over to the Chelsea Physic Garden, which happens to be open that Saturday. I slip through a little gate in the garden wall, then wander the pathways.
I record my trek past the flower beds and orchards, snapping photos of plants, and sending him them along with details about the foliage.
These are the oldest medicinal gardens in London, home to more than five thousand plants which experts have claimed can cure all kinds of malady.
Maybe there’s a plant here that can cure my woes. But what are they? Loneliness? Grumpiness? Or maybe there’s no tincture for being malcontent.
Later that day, I find Nigel and some of my other mates for a game of chess in the park. It’s quiet, barely a word spoken. I beat Nigel, and leave the game mostly satisfied.
On Sunday evening, I head out of my flat in Covent Garden to meet my younger brother at Sticks and Stones, a nearby bar. He lives in New York, but he’s in the homeland for a month for the world premiere of a new play on the West End. And So It Begins. The show is dark on Sundays, so it’s our catch-up time.
Jude’s already at the counter, all sun-streaked blond hair and soon-to-be-a-movie-star grin, chatting with the bartender.
When he spots me, he turns away from her, and rises from the stool. “You made it through an entire week of peopling,” Jude announces as I stride toward him. “Congratulations.”
I make a quieting motion, as if quelling thunderous applause. “Please hold the standing ovation until later. They haven’t yet announced a verdict.”
He cuffs me on the shoulder, then settles back onto his stool. “Ah, well, I simply meant . . . you’re alive.”
“Miracles do happen,” I say.
“That’s what I tell myself every day as I stare at the phone like a dog waiting for supper, just hoping and praying Davis Milo will call to cast me in his next Oscar-nommed film.”
I roll my eyes. “Dramatic much?”
“Dramatic always, I should hope,” he says.
“And I’ve no doubt Milo will offer you the lead in his next big film.” I do believe that from the bottom of my heart.
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Jude says.
“Also, need I remind you of the film buzz you’re getting for If Found Please Return, and oh, gee, the play you just opened here?”
“You don’t have to remind me, but I love it when you do.”
“I know, Jude. I know.” I pat his shoulder. He likes praise, and it’s easy to give it to him, so I don’t mind.
I settle in at the bar, order a gin from the bartender, then turn to my brother again. He gives me an expectant look and a keep it rolling gesture. “So, they forced you to work with other people. Was it as horrific as you expected?”