so I’m allowed to tear into Megan and Skye’s letter. I pull out the card and examine the front. It’s the kind of design you look at and know it costs more than a Hallmark card. The typeface you see boasting artisanal foods in your local overpriced organic market. Kombucha. Kimchi. It’s Skye’s style if I’ve ever seen it—he’s careful and neat, while Megan’s not above doodling over a used index card and handing it to you unceremoniously.
I open the card.
Marty,
As your best friends from the small, lowly state of Kentucky, we want to wish you, Mr. Britain, the best of luck in London.
However, this serves as a binding legal contract. You, the undersigned (we’ve forged your name, so don’t worry about signing), commit to one (1) hour of FaceTime, every Friday night. We’ll still need an excuse to miss all of those Avery High bonfires.
You’re going to do great. And we’re going to miss you, Mart.
Love,
M&S
P.S. It’s Skye—Now that you’re too far away to kill her, I need to confess. Megan told me. And I think you’re awesome, dude.
Crap. Of course she told him.
My tidy, five-person out list has just become six. Mom, Dad, Shane, Aunt Leah, Megan, and now Skye? He’s a friend, a good one, but how did that give Megan the right to out me like that?
I clench my hands, and the edge of the overly designed card crinkles within my fist.
A presence behind me clears her throat. She’s dressed sharply in a uniform that notes her status as a customs officer. “Keep moving along.”
“Right, sorry.” I jam the card back into my bag and start riffling around for my passport. Instinctively, the officer ushers me toward the US passport holder line. The queue, that is, because every word apparently needs a different word in London.
I stop again, and the lady’s stare ventures dangerously close to glare territory.
That’s just not how you welcome someone to your country.
Finally, I spot the red passport and flash it at her. The passport that took ages to get, and is the only reason I’m even on this journey. I pray a silent thanks for my mom being born in Ireland. Her birthright citizenship meant I had this chance to come here. For school, for work, for anything.
I separate from the officer and join the (much shorter) queue to the electronic passport check. Where the other Americans with me on the flight get inundated with queuing, questions, and stamps, I simply walk through with a blank look at a camera and a scan of my passport.
As soon as I leave the area, I look up and see an ad showcasing a wildly British—albeit gaudy—vision. A pub dinner, a pint of beer, and the Union Jack in the background. “Welcome to London.”
The words swirl around in my head. Welcome. To. London. Every step is a new revelation, a new reminder of this mess I’ve gotten myself into. Okay, maybe not a mess, but it’s causing me some anxiety.
Some questions:
What if I don’t like living here? I have no backup plan.
What if the charming accents lose their charm?
How long is it going to take for my luggage to come out on that carousel?
What if it doesn’t? They’ve definitely lost it.
Cue the panting. Again.
Almost instantaneously, my fears about luggage negligence turn out to be for nothing. I grab my suitcase, which was maybe the fourth one to hit the carousel, and I’m on my way.
As I’m shuffled through the airport, I get bombarded by airport shopping. We go from point A to point B in a snake pattern through the shops, carefully placed so you’re forced to see as much merchandise as possible. Toblerones out the ass. Do I look like I need a perfume sample? And why would I want a sample shot of honey bourbon at ten thirty in the morning? I can see the exit, but I can’t get to it, and I don’t need to make a list because that alone will make me lose my shit if people don’t stop rushing by.
Imagine being in a corn maze back in the States. It’s like that, but you’re sneezing because of perfume, not hay. It’s wild. But as I walk through the green passageway, declaring that I have nothing to declare to customs, my confused fury melts into confused …
Feelings. There are definitely feelings here.
Some guy’s holding a sign that reads Pierce. My last name. There’s a smiley face after it. It takes me a second to process this information because