There.
I survived my first walk in this city.
Here on this block, there’s nothing I need armor for. London is just like anyplace else. It’s a skein of locations, addresses, people.
People like Heath, whoever he is.
And, yes, people like Poppy.
Wherever she is.
Poppy is merely one of several million people in this city. I haven’t seen my one-time best friend since the summer I studied in London for my master’s program, visiting her after my mother died, needing her shoulder to lean on as I grieved the loss of the woman I’d admired, the woman I’d wanted to be like. A woman who loved big and hard, with all her heart, until her dying day.
Poppy had been there for me in college when Mom got sick, when she went through chemo and then lost her battle to cancer after only one year. Poppy was the sister I’d never had, a rock to lean on.
She was my person for a while, and I was hers.
I needed her especially because, Jacob, the guy I’d fallen for in grad school, broke up with me while we were studying together in London. One afternoon while strolling through Hyde Park, I pointed out a flower that reminded me of my mom. He sighed heavily, held out his hands, and announced that he couldn’t do this anymore.
“Do what?” I’d asked, utterly thrown.
“I can’t handle your grief.”
I’d sputtered in shock, but he had it all together. He said he preferred me happy, and asked when I was going to move on? It had been a year since she’d died, after all, he’d said. Wasn’t it time I got over being sad about it and bringing him down too?
No, I’d told him sharply by a colorful flowerbed. There was no statute of limitations on grief.
“Then, this is goodbye,” he’d said, and then he left.
Left me crying by the tulips.
When I told Poppy that night over a bottle of wine at a tavern, she was livid. She’d remained that way for weeks, outraged, concerned for me and my feelings.
But not so concerned after all, it turned out.
Now, as I walk along the river, I flash back to a week ago in my apartment in New York, to Emerson and TJ asking what I’d do if I saw her.
Mostly I hope to avoid her, since I don’t know how I’d handle it if we met.
But maybe I can simply avoid Chelsea, her stomping ground.
She owns a gallery there. Runs it with him.
London belongs to her—not to me.
I don’t hurt like that anymore, but I’d rather not run into her either.
And that ought to be easy enough. I have a new flat, a terrific shot at becoming a VP at my company, and maybe I can see my Englishman again.
I stop at the bank of the river, gazing at the water that winds through the city.
What side of the Thames does the man I met last night live on?
What is he doing right now?
Is he daydreaming of last night too?
Maybe I can see him again. Have a little London fling. Something to make me miss New York less.
With this delicious sex-sated feeling of possibility running through my veins, London doesn’t seem quite so bad.
And the present is pretty good.
So good, in fact, that I’m not going to lose sight of the friendships that matter most to me.
For starters, I give TJ and Emerson what they asked for. I lean against the stone railing, arrange myself in a jaunty pose, and snap a selfie to send to my crew.
Then, I click on the video and talk to the camera as I walk. “Hey, guys. Just wanted you to know you always give the best advice, and naturally, I took it. Do I look like I met a sexy stranger last night?” I slow my pace, angling my phone towards the river and all her bridges, since my friends will want to see them. “Because I sure did. Met him, romanced him, and then took him to—”
I hear myself and wince, then stop recording. I sound so jokey, so what up, girl, and I hate it.
Nothing about last night felt silly.
Nothing felt . . . disposable.
Last night felt like it was supposed to happen.
A surreal sensation runs through my body, the sense I’m being a little ridiculous but also respectful.
I’m not sure how the two things coexist, but they do.
I delete the recording. I can’t make a gossipy video about last night, even to send to two of my closest friends. Instead, I call Emerson.
The phone barely rings before she answers. “Are you dead? Because that’s the only reason anyone calls anymore.”
I laugh. “Yes, I’m calling you from my grave. Just wanted to give you the funeral deets and request that you say something nice about me.”
“I’ll tell the story of how we met,” she says.