“Well, drive better.”
My temper flares. I have had it with him. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been driving all day. To the wedding, and back, and now this. If you think you can do better, why don’t we switch?”
His fingers flex, still on my knee. “I can’t drive,” he says.
“What does that mean? You don’t know how?”
“Neelu—” my dad says, his tone chastising, but Jacob continues.
“No, it’s just I…I can’t.”
The car in front of me starts to move, and I take my foot off the brake, slowly following.
I blow out a breath. “Okay. I can keep going, but I need a break.” I’d been running so late this morning that I didn’t have a chance to eat anything, and the jet lag’s starting to make itself known. “I’ll be fine once I’ve had some coffee and something to eat.”
Jacob’s hand relaxes, no longer gripping my knee, just resting on top of it.
And for a moment, I almost want to pretend. We’re on vacation, and we’re driving, and he’s the way he was when we first met. He’s touching me because he wants to, and he’s smiling the way he did then, laughing at something I said.
But the illusion breaks when he removes his hand, his expression alarmed, almost as if he hadn’t realized it was there.
The loss of warmth is immediate, the bare skin of my knee suddenly cold.
Jacob takes his phone, taps around on it, then sets the GPS back in place. “There’s a Tesco Extra a few kilometers away,” he says gruffly. “We can stop there.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
I keep my eyes on the road as we crawl through traffic, driving carefully. But I don’t miss the way Jacob drums his long fingers against his leg, a deliberate rhythm. A steady sound.
I tell myself that I don’t find it soothing. That I don’t miss those fingers. Or the way he used to be. Or the way his skin felt on mine.
8
I haven’t set foot in a Tesco since the season we filmed in Cornwall four years ago, but the fluorescent lights and warehouse-supermarket aesthetic are familiar. It’s reminiscent of a Walmart, but feels classier, even if it’s only because all the prices are listed in pence.
I scan through the pre-packaged sandwiches, smiling when I find chicken tikka on white bread. It’s been ages since I’ve had one of these. I swipe two and pick up some cheddar-and-onion crisps—another delicacy I can’t find in the U.S.—and grab a coffee.
I dump the items on the conveyor belt and only then spot my father and Jacob. My dad’s standing near the exit, a plastic bag in his hand and his phone raised to his ear. Jacob’s right next to him, a hand on his shoulder.
I finish paying, then walk toward them.
“Her name’s Maggie Chapman. Maybe she checked in separately?” my dad asks.
The lines on his forehead are harsh under this light, and they only grow deeper when the other person responds.
He’s quiet for a moment, then scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay. Thank you,” he says, and hangs up.
My stomach rumbles, and the two of them look at me.
“Still no luck?” I ask, and Jacob’s mouth tightens.
“No,” he says, his tone curt.
“Here,” I say, handing a sandwich to my dad. “I picked up an extra one in case either of you were hungry.”
My dad blinks, then takes it from me. “Thank you,” he says. As we walk back to the car, he rummages through his bag, the plastic crinkling. When I reach the door to the driver’s side, my father follows me instead of sitting in the back. He pulls something out of the bag and hands it to me.
“Here,” he says. “This is for you.”
