Poppy’s nose crinkles and I can tell that she doesn’t like my Keys idea, but it doesn’t stop her from saying, “Adair should get to choose.”
“Fine,” Ava relents.
I want to get as far as possible, and I don’t want a bunch of drunk college kids puking on my shoes. If I am going with two friends, there’s a good chance my dad will agree to anything I suggest. I dare myself to think big, and as soon as I do the answer is there.
“I want to go to London.”
Poppy squeals with glee. “It’s perfect. The best shopping in the world. I mean, Paris and Milan are good, too, but—”
“Ugh, I hate jet lag,” Ava says, but a smile has already crept onto the corners of her mouth. “I’ve never shagged a Brit, though. And it’s on my list.”
“Oh, and the Royal wedding is coming, so we can get all the commemorative merchandise and maybe we can even—”
“You are so British sometimes,” Ava says, staring at her. “But, I guess that means I can still seduce Alexander before he’s married.”
“Good luck with that,” Poppy says.
“I have high standards.” The two dissolve into a debate about the Royal family that I quickly tune out. Weddings. Happiness. Love. Even sex. All of it makes me feel sick. But maybe the city being obsessed with a stupid wedding will mean the museums and book stores will be empty.
But all that really matters is that wherever Sterling went there’s no way he’s there. I need to put some distance between us. An ocean is a good place to start, and suddenly, I want to be gone already—away from Valmont and him and the minefield of memories he’s left behind. “Can we leave tonight?”
10
Adair
God bless the British stiff upper lip.
Back in Valmont, if you say you’re having a shitty day, people stop what they’re doing and urge you to tell them about it—until it feels like you’re living out every crappy thing all over again. But in London, I’m finding that people got used to living with pain about a dozen generations back. There’s no wallowing allowed.
I don’t know what I’d do without Poppy, but ever since Sterling left, whenever she sees me looking sad her eyes well with tears. It gets old.
We arrive at our hotel from Heathrow late, and my friends crash as soon as they see the beds. But I’m not ready to sleep. And the only place to get a meal is a late-night cafe across from our hotel, nearly empty in the half hour before closing. My waitress, a young British-Indian girl with dyed-purple pixie hair and a knowing smile, takes one look at me and diagnoses the problem. “You looked like you needed this,” she says, pausing to drop off a slice of four-tiered chocolate cake along with the coffee and sandwich I ordered.
“Is it that obvious?” I say, my head swimming with the disorienting effects of jet lag.
“Yeah,” she says, dropping the bill on the table. “Remember, love. Never let them see you bleed.” Then she is off, disappearing to work on whatever it is waitresses do at closing time.
I decide to take her advice to heart. Wherever Sterling Ford is in the world, if he could somehow close his eyes and see me in London, I don’t want him to see me pining for him or losing one glorious moment of this trip. I want him to see an Adair MacLaine who has moved on to a better life. I want to stay beyond his reach, and beyond my own regret. Which is so much easier to do here than in Valmont.
After coffee and cake, I leave an outrageous tip for the waitress and wander around London for an hour or so. I’ve travelled abroad before, of course, but that was with my family, who subscribe to the idea that people in other countries have nice things worth enjoying, sure—but it would be better if you didn’t have to talk to any of them. I was never allowed to wander, never allowed to sate my curiosity for what was around the corner. It was almost more infuriating than not going at all.
London is the perfect mix of old and new. Our hotel is small but luxurious, located in the poshest area of Belgravia. I’m not sure it’s exactly where I’d want to be for a long stay, but I already know I want to live here. Maybe not for my entire life, but I’m