Hey Lolly, I know this is out of the blue, but I’m heading through London on Saturday and wondered if we could meet up? I’d like to talk to you about something. If you’re free just pick the time and place. Cheers. —Rory
I stared at the message, chewing over my options. Part of me wanted to refuse outright and then post some fabulous photos of Stephen and me having a marvelous time. But another part of me, the stronger part, was curious. Why did he want to see me after spurning me and then going silent for three years? Even though I wanted to claim I’d moved on, I couldn’t help myself. I wasn’t quite as over Rory Shaw as I wanted to believe. I’d give him a chance and see what he wanted to talk to me about.
Saturday 7 pm at the Turf Tavern in Oxford. I’ll be in the back garden. —Lolly
There. If he cared enough, he’d hop a train to Oxford and figure out how to find the tavern, which was notoriously difficult to locate. It was one of the oldest and most famous pubs in Oxford, accessed near the Bridge of Sighs by the almost invisible Saint Helen’s Passage, a stone alley so narrow and claustrophobic you couldn’t spread your arms as you walked. I enjoyed having the upper hand and giving him a bit of a challenge. After all, he’d rejected me and broken my heart. It seemed only fair.
Saturday evening I arrived at the Turf with Stephen, telling him that we were meeting an old friend. I wanted him there as a reinforcement, or maybe a morale boost, I wasn’t sure which. I’d come straight from the London train. Stephen had met me at the station. I’d taken extra care with my appearance this evening, trying for chic and nonchalant—a cherry-print blouse tucked into high-waisted blue sailor pants, matching navy wool peacoat, my usual ponytail curled at the ends, and a dash of cherry-red lipstick. I wore a favorite pair of navy-blue-framed glasses to match. I thought the overall effect was nautical, carefree, and confident, when what I actually felt was nervous to the point of nausea.
The Turf’s walled back garden, with its simple wooden tables and slatted benches and chairs, had a casual vibe. When we walked in, it was only a quarter full as it was early yet for the student crowd. That late in November it was already dark, and the evening was a damp sort of chilly with a low fog settling over the city. We chose a table close to a large wire charcoal brazier that glowed orange and emitted enough heat to take the nip from the air. Stephen went to get us drinks, and I set my weekend bag down by the table and settled back onto the hardbench against the pub wall, tugging my wool coat closer and shivering a little as I waited.
No sooner had Stephen stepped inside to order when Rory appeared at the entrance to the beer garden, wearing a fitted orange Patagonia puffer jacket with a small backpack slung over his shoulder. He’d managed to find the alley then, and he was only a few minutes late. Typical Rory to be a little tardy, but surprising he wasn’t later given the difficulty of finding the place. Score a point for persistence. He looked around for me, scanning the tables, and I drank him in for a moment in the soft yellow light of the outdoor sconces, my heart jumping at the sight of him.
His hair was cropped short, perhaps a little too short, and he was leaner than I remembered, like a runner. His face was older too, no hint of adolescence left. He was a man now. He was handsome and all grown up but still undeniably Rory. He spied me and for an unguarded moment his eyes lit up, and he grinned, and we were young again, and it was as it always had been. He crossed the courtyard and dropped his backpack on a chair across from me. I stood. We both hesitated for an instant, but then I leaned in almost without thought, and he wrapped me in a tight hug. I inhaled him, reveling for a few seconds in the familiarity of his embrace. He smelled the same.
“Hey, it’s great to see you,” he whispered against my hair. I started to pull back but he didn’t let go and I let myself sink into him for just a moment, a stolen, delicious moment, remembering the last time he’d held me, where we’d been doing much more than chaste hugging.
“Hello.” Stephen’s voice sounded a touch taken aback. I pulled away instantly, feeling my face flush. Stephen placed our drinks on the table—an ale for himself and a cider for me—and greeted Rory with a polite “Stephen Coventry” and a firm handshake. Rory looked him up and down in frank surprise. I could see him trying to work out who Stephen was and why he was here. Stephen slid in next to me on thebench and looped his arm across my shoulders. Rory’s eyes met mine, his expression turning hooded in an instant.
“I’ll just go grab a beer,” he said, but Stephen sprang to his feet.
“Allow me,” he insisted, ever the gentleman. When he disappeared Rory watched him go, then turned to me.
“I didn’t know anyone was joining us,” he said flatly. The levity from our initial moment of greeting was completely gone.
“Stephen and I already had plans this weekend.” I met his eyes coolly. I thought of how we’d left things on the beach that night. More than three years ago and it still stung. I’d declared my love for him and he’d rejected me.See, I wanted to point out.See how well I’ve done without you? Here I am in England, thriving in this amazing place, with a boyfriend who’s got a manor house somewhere in the countryside. I’m completely fine without you.
But my heart, my traitorous heart, still ached at the sight of him. I wouldn’t admit it, but I had the uncomfortable suspicion that I was still in love with Rory Shaw. I wondered if it would ever go away or if part of me would love him until the day I died. I buried a resigned sigh in a sip of cider.
25
TWELVE YEARS AGO
NOVEMBER
That same evening
Stephen returned fromthe bar with a local pale ale for Rory and a few packets of crisps. We settled in for some polite, stilted conversation about school and London and Rory’s trip. Rory was in his senior year at Michigan State and was hoping to be accepted to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore for medical school. I told him all about my study abroad program and my London adventure so far. Rory kept his warm brown gaze on me the entire time I was talking, ignoring both Stephen and the ale. It flustered me, his singular attention, and I tripped over my own words, my cheeks growing hot under the intensity of his focus. He didn’t ask Stephen a single question, which seemed rude. I tried to cover it up by offering a few facts about Stephen, but Rory ignored my comments. When Stephen got up to fetch us all a second round, I waited until he was out of earshot, then swallowed the last of my cider and asked the burning question I’d wondered about since he emailed me. “Rory, why are you here?”
Rory shifted uncomfortably. “It can wait,” he said.
“No, go ahead. You came all the way up here. It must be pretty important if you were dedicated enough to find the Turf.”
“Yeah, thanks for that.” He gave me a wry smile. “I wandered around for half an hour before somebody took pity on me and showed me the entrance.” He spun his empty glass in a circle. “It’s nothing. I didn’t know you were... with someone.” He nodded in the direction Stephen had gone and frowned.
I rested my arms on the table and leaned forward, fixing him with a pointed look. “Stephen and I are just getting to know each other. It’s not serious, just... fun.” I shrugged. “You sure you don’t want to tell me now? What if this is your only chance?” I was enjoying the vague sensation of having the upper hand somehow. I’d declared my feelings for him and been rebuffed. He could be in the hot seat now and say whatever he had come to say. I was curious.
He let out a frustrated exhalation and leaned back, meeting my eyes. “Fine. You want to know why I came tonight?”
My heart skipped a beat. “Yes.” Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Stephen, his hands full of pint glasses, maneuvering through the door of the pub and coming our way.No, no. Not yet. Go back, go back, I tried to telepathically signal Stephen, who did not get the message.
Rory ran his hands through his hair in agitation, then leaned toward me, taking a deep breath and looking me firmly in the eye. His face, almost as familiar as my own, was close enough I could see his individual freckles. I had the sudden crazy urge to kiss each one.
“Because I’m in love with you, Lolly Blanchard,” he said bluntly. “I’ve loved you since the first moment I laid eyes on you, thirteen and so serious with your ponytail and your braces and that ridiculous frilly apron. I’ve loved you ever since, and it’s driving me crazy.”
A brief smile flickered across his mouth, but then he sobered, hiseyes locked on me. I had a vague sense of Stephen approaching us, but my gaze was trained on Rory in pure astonishment.
“I’ve wanted to tell you every day for three years,” he confessed. “I told myself I walked away from you that night at the beach because I was loyal to Jessica, that I was trying to be honorable, and that was definitely part of it. I was trying to be a man of integrity. But the other reason was that I was scared. I was terrified that if we tried to be together we might not work out and I’d lose you, the person I care most about in this world.” He cleared his throat and took a swallow from his pint glass, glancing down at the table for a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts. He looked up at me again.
