Jule shivered. She thought of Brooke Lannon, with her loud, show-off laugh. Brooke, who drank too much. Brooke, with that perverse streak of humor, the sleek yellow hair and seal-like body. The entitled set of her jaw. Silly, petty, harsh Brooke. “How do they know what happened?”
“She tipped herself over the railing. Maybe climbing up to see something. They found her car in the lot with an empty vodka bottle in it.”
“Was it suicide?”
“No, no. Just an accident. It was in the news today, like a cautionary tale. You know, always take a buddy when you go out in nature. Don’t drink vodka and then hike across a ravine. Her family got worried when she didn’t come home for Christmas Eve, but the police assumed she’d just gone deliberately missing.”
Jule felt cold and strange. She hadn’t thought of Brooke since she’d gotten to London. She could have looked her up online, but she hadn’t. She had cut Brooke out completely. “You’re sure it was an accident?”
“A terrible accident,” said Paolo. “I’m so sorry.”
They walked for a ways in awkward silence.
Paolo pulled his hat down over his ears.
After a minute, Jule reached over and took his hand again. She wanted to touch him. Admitting that and doing it felt more like an act of bravery than any fight she had ever been in. “Let’s not think about it,” she said. “Let’s be on the other side of the ocean and feel lucky.”
She let him walk her home, and he kissed her again in front of her building. They huddled together on the steps to keep warm as merry snowflakes drifted through the air.
Early the next day, Paolo showed up at the flat carrying a tote bag. Jule was wearing pajama pants and a camisole when he rang the buzzer. She made him wait in the hall until she put clothes on.
“I’m borrowing my friend’s house in Dorset,” he said, following her to the kitchen. “And I rented a car. Everything else anyone could possibly need for a weekend away is in this bag.”
Jule peered into the sack he held out: four Crunchie bars, Hula Hoops, Swedish Fish, two bottles of seltzer, and a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips. “You don’t have any clothes in there. Or even a toothbrush.”
“Those are for amateurs.”
She laughed. “Ew.”
“Okay, fine, I have my backpack in the car. But these are the important items,” Paolo said. “We can see Stonehenge on the way. Have you seen it?”
“No.” Jule was indeed particularly curious to see Stonehenge, which she’d read about in a Thomas Hardy novel she’d bought in a San Francisco bookshop, but she wanted to seeall the things—that was how she felt. All of London she hadn’t yet seen, all of England, all of the great wide world—and to feel free, powerful, and yes, entitled, to witness and understand what was out there.
“It’ll have ancient mystery, so that’ll be good,” said Paolo. “Then when we get to the house, we can hike around and look at sheep in meadows. Or take pictures of sheep. Maybe pat them. Whatever people do in the countryside.”
“Are you inviting me?”
“Yes! There will be separate bedrooms. Available.”
He perched himself on the edge of her kitchen chair, as if unsure of his welcome. As if maybe he’d been too forward.
“You’re nervous right now,” she said, stalling for time.
She wanted to say yes. She knew she shouldn’t.
“Yeah, I’m very nervous.”
“Why?”
Paolo thought for a moment. “The stakes are higher now. It matters to me what your answer is.” He stood up slowly and kissed the side of her neck. She leaned into him, and he was shaking a little. She kissed his soft earlobe and then his lips, standing on tiptoe there in the kitchen.
“Is that a yes?” he whispered.
Jule knew she shouldn’t go.
It was the worst idea. She had left this possibility behind long ago. Love was what you gave up when you became—whatever she was now. Larger than life. Dangerous. She had taken risks and reinvented herself.
Now this boy was in her kitchen, trembling when he kissed her, holding a bag of junk food and fizzy water. Talking nonsense about sheep.
