I took the envelope from him. It was thick with unsold tickets. “Thank you,” I said, trying to be polite.
“We’ll try,” said Dash, in a tone I knew to mean, I’d sooner play Pictionary all night with Lily’s dreadful cousin Mark and his new wife.
Rupert Jest said, “And please, do feel free to post about it.” He murmured, “Serena refused to post in support. She’s just awful, to be honest.”
No wonder they needed a dog to salvage their screen chemistry. The star-crossed lovers of The Thames of Our Lives had none offscreen.
“I wonder what that’s like, to not like someone you work with,” I said to Dash as we passed by huge billboards for The Thames of Our Lives on the Embankment.
I snuggled tightly onto Dash. My happy place. We were on a Thames River boat cruise, which Dash had told me was the most efficient, and relaxing, way to see the most tourist destinations in London without actually having to go to any of those destinations. (Therefore, more time for book and record stores, museums and libraries, strolling through parks and shops, and eating ice cream and English chocolates.) Within a matter of minutes on the riverboat, I’d seen the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, and the London Eye, which Dash mercifully did not take me on for an aboveground view of London because he knows I’m scared of heights and prone to vertigo and nausea. Seagoing, however, was pure joy. I loved the chilly air, the wind, the sights, and especially having Dash all to myself, my head on his shoulder. Then the Tower of London appeared in the distance and I thought of the horrible things involving heads that happened there, and I placed a grateful kiss on Dash’s precious neck.
“If it’s anything like going to school with people you don’t like, probably not so fun,” said Dash.
“Do you hate Oxford?”
“Not at all. I’m just not so sure I’ve found my ‘tribe’ there.”
“Where do you think your tribe is?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Who are your tribe? Besides me, of course.”
“Thank you for not saying #SquadGoals. In New York, I feel like I knew the answer to that question. Here? Gem, and that’s pretty much it. So far.”
I love my family, but I’d probably be bummed too, if my one human connection in the place I’d most longed to live turned out to be my grandmother. If only Dash liked dogs more, he wouldn’t be struggling so hard. I said, “You’ve only been here a few months. You just need more time to find your people. If I decide to go to Pembroke, I’ll be close by. Would that help?”
I wanted him to say, “If you were here, that would make everything right. It would be a dream come true.” Instead, Dash said, “Or, you living here would distract me so much that I really never find my way.”
In my fantasy of living in England, close to Dash, I hadn’t considered that angle. I knew he was right and just being honest, but I also felt slighted that his first instinct wasn’t to proclaim extreme enthusiasm for my potential move closer to him.
I asked, “Would it make you happy if I came to school here too?”
“It wouldn’t make me unhappy.”
That was a distressingly dissatisfying answer. “Are you saying you think I wouldn’t like it here, or you might not like me being here?”
We untangled and faced each other. He appeared taken aback. “I didn’t say either. I’d love it if you were here. I’m just not sure if I want to be here. And living in a foreign country is harder than I expected. You’re so used to your comfort zone in Manhattan. Your family. Your dogs. I worry you’d have a harder time acclimating here than you think.”
“You’re saying I couldn’t hack it?”
“I didn’t say that all!” He kissed me, mostly to shut me up, I’m pretty sure. But I enjoyed the kiss anyway. Fantastic. When our lips parted, he said, “I wanted so badly to come here, but it’s not as great as I thought it would be. I don’t want that to happen to you. Just think it through, is all I’m saying.” He paused, then added, “Although knowing you, so long as you have dogs near, you’ll be fine no matter where you go. I wish I had that ability.”
And I loved him even more all over again.
Dash’s phone buzzed and he took it from his pocket to look at a text. I had turned my phone off, wanting to savor my time with Dash—and avoid the torrent of angry emails and texts from my parents about my decision not to go to Barnard. I’d deal with that when I got home for Christmas. For now … no. Happy bubble.
And so quickly it burst. Dash said, “Boomer and Sofia are in London! On a layover before catching their next flight, to Barcelona. They want to know if we want to meet up. They didn’t know you were in London until they saw you were trending!”
“Oh,” I said. Deflated. I adore excitable Boomer, but he sucks up all the energy when he’s around. I mostly like Dash’s ex, Sofia, but sometimes her impossible beauty and effortless cool are insufferable. (Yes, I am that petty.) I had so little time with Dash before I had to return home for Christmas. It was hard enough to share him with Gem.
“They asked if we want to meet them at the Barbican.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s an arts place, like Lincoln Center. They have music, theater, and film shows. Cafés. An amazing library. Brutalist architecture.”
“Brutalist architecture? I didn’t even know that was a thing. What is it?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.”
“Is it okay if I don’t want to go?” I wanted a date night with Dash. Not a double-date night with his ex at a brutal-sounding place called Barbican.
Dash’s face fell. “Yeah. Of course.” But he was clearly disappointed.
“Guess what?” I hoped my alternative plan would excite him even more.
“What?”
“I reserved a hotel room for the rest of my stay. I can’t take another night on Mark and Julia’s couch.”
“Really? Where?”
“Claridge’s.” I’d been hearing about the hotel since I was little from my great-aunt Ida, whom my brother and I always called Mrs. Basil E., after our favorite childhood book. It was our aunt’s favorite hotel not just in London but in the world, and she’d regaled me with so many stories of its Christmas splendor that I basically had no choice but to book it. I am usually so frugal and when I got home to New York it was going to be an epic fight with my parents so why not enjoy a Christmas splurge while I could with my unexpected client Christmas bonus?
Dash laughed. “No, really. Where?”
“Claridge’s!”
“You paid for it? Or was this Mrs. Basil E.’s idea … and credit card?”
I was offended. “I used my Christmas tips from dog-walking clients!”
“That’s one of the most expensive hotels in London! How much money in tips did you get, exactly?” He didn’t look as impressed as I thought he would. He looked horrified.
“About as much as three nights in the cheapest room I could get at Claridge’s.”
Once again, Dash did not take the opportunity I’d practically thrown into his face to proclaim his enthusiasm for my being in London. He said, “That’s such a waste of money. You worked so hard for those tips and just blew it on a hotel?”