overall grade and convince herself she didn’t even need to do the work.
These little peculiarities in my friend group run through my mind. My email loads, and a dozen emails light up the screen.
They’re mostly from Megan.
“Fuck,” I say out loud, to no one. “Fuck fuck fuck.”
I connect to Wi-Fi and make a call. It’s still early Sunday morning in Kentucky, but she’ll pick up. Two rings. Three.
She picks up.
But she doesn’t say anything.
“Megan? Megan, I’m so sorry.”
“Did you just get back from the hospital?” she asks. “Did London’s power go out?”
“No. I’m sorry I missed our FaceTime; it totally slipped my mind. I went to Cardiff—in Wales, you know?—with that guy I was telling you about and a couple friends here.”
Again, she’s silent.
And then she’s not. “This was intensely hurtful. You are thousands of miles away from me and you go completely MIA, I can’t find any social media updates because you have no social media, and I can’t even leave you a voice mail.”
I rest my face in my hand.
“You’ve always had this fucking problem, Mart. You check out and you’re oblivious to everyone around you.”
“That’s not—” I start.
“Not true? Sure. Did you talk to your parents about this Wales trip? It’s Sunday, so you know they’re going to want a full report on your ‘new church’ or whatever—what was the sermon? Tell us about your new pastor. I shouldn’t have to remind you to do that, but I know you, and I know them.” She pauses. Her breathing comes in shallow puffs, but it feels heavy coming through the phone.
Fuck.
“I know, I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. Tell Skye I’m sorry too.”
“I’m not your housekeeper. Clean this up with him yourself.”
It’s hard to handle. I did this. I know I did. I want to shut down. I am shutting down. Like I always could do back home. Like I can never afford to do here.
“I, um … I have to practice.”
“My family is going to the Outer Banks next week, so you’re off the hook,” she says. “Might want to put the following Friday on your calendar now if you want to salvage this at all.”
She hangs up. I hang up too. I ignore the emails on my computer since none of them are about auditions. I grab my oboe and storm out of the apartment, ignoring the pain in my gut that’s half from skipping a couple of meals and half from the abject horror that just happened. I know I have to make it up to her, to them, but I don’t know how.
But she was wrong about me being oblivious. For the first time, I feel present. I’m falling for someone, and I am incredibly aware of the points of pain all across my body: chest, shoulders, neck. Tension holds me together like a suspension bridge, and I beg for that normalcy, that complacency, that’s followed me along my entire life. It’s like I’ve been thrown behind the steering wheel of a semi and I’m doing my best not to overturn and cause a sixty-car pileup.
I check out the practice rooms at Knightsbridge, but all ten of them are full. I make a mental note that midday Sunday is not a great time to get a room. I could practice at the apartment, but I don’t even want to be there, with my computer and all my emails mocking me.
My stomach growls. I need to eat something. But every single time I think about getting food, the thought of Pierce’s hands grazing my stomach hits me. I feel stuck. I feel trapped. I can’t practice, and I can’t eat.
I wander down the tree-lined, stone-paved street until I come to Regent’s Park. It’s not too far. A girl jogs past me on the right; two dogs play off leash to my left. Everyone seems more content than me, or more driven or something. I can’t place it. Is adulthood learning how to fake it? Maybe. Probably.
Local parks in my part of Kentucky are sparse, often flat. They usually have one track that wraps the perimeter. They might have tennis courts or swing sets, but that’s about as exotic as it gets. London parks are massive, sprawling. You could go on a run here every day and never take the same path.
I don’t mind getting lost in here. Turn after turn, I pass some amazing sights—a charming open-air theatre, a mini-rose garden—and now I find myself immersed in a statuesque path. Meaning a path with a