Page 61 of Given Our History

“Sure,” I called back. “That would be great.”

He drew near and I handed him my phone, noting as I did so that he wasn’t bad-looking. His dark blond hair was damp with rain and he was average height, lean beneath the layers of warm clothes. He took a couple of pictures and handed it back so that I could check whether I liked them. I looked like a snap pea with just my face poking out of the raincoat, but my mom was the only person who was going to see these, so I thanked him and pocketed it.

“It’s smaller,” he said, his forehead wrinkled as he nodded toward the stones, “than I thought it would be.”

“I don’t know. Still pretty impressive that somebody was able to move them like that.”

He turned to stare at me. “You’re American.”

I nodded. “I’m doing a semester abroad. You?”

“Canadian. Originally from Toronto, but I moved to London for work.” I cast him a curious look, and he tacked on, “I’m a business analyst.”

“I’m going to be honest. I have no clue what a business analyst does.”

He chuckled. “You’re asking the wrong person. I’m not really sure myself.” We lapsed into silence, hands shoved in the pockets of our coats, both looking at Stonehenge more than we were looking at each other. But he didn’t walk away. “What do you study?” he asked after a moment.

“History.”

“My worst subject.” I glanced at him and he gave me a self-deprecating smile. “All the names and dates, everybody’s dead.” With a pang of longing, I thought of Teddy. I hadn’t heard from him in months. I was so lost in thought that I didn’t say anything, and so after a moment, the stranger thrust out a hand. “Emmett, by the way.”

My fingers were wet and numb with cold, but his hand was warm. “Clara.”

“Clara,” he said slowly, like he was savoring it, “I don’t suppose I could convince you to grab a coffee with me.” He inclined his head in the direction of a bus ambling up the road, exhaust billowing behind it. “After the tour, of course.”

I gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I might be persuaded.”

Emmett and I casually dated for the remainder of my semester in England. We had few things in common, and we had an expiration date right from the beginning in the form of my plane ticket back to Baltimore, but we found camaraderie as two people living outside their home country. And he was interesting in a novel sort of way, explaining things like forecast and variance analysis, stuff I’d never really studied. He tolerated my interest in history, meeting me in abbeys and museums but mostly looking bored, his face lit by his phone. “Work,” he’d say when I shot him an irritated look. We had sex the week before I left, because even though it wasn’t perfect, I liked Emmett enough. I never told him it was the first time, and if he noticed, he didn’t comment on it. A week later, we broke up amicably. And while I would return to England several times over the years, for research or school, I never had any interest in looking for him. Our relationship had run its course.

I returned to UMD in the fall with a renewed sense of purpose. I resolved to write my capstone on Tudor-era England but had trouble pinning down an exact subject; my advisor, a dour woman with a white-blond pixie cut who taught intersectional courses in the Religious Studies Department, suggested that I focus on the formation of the Church of England, and—because I could use the guidance—I agreed. At the same time, I started looking into applications for graduate programs overseas. I’d learned during my year abroad that there were programs in the U.K. that would allow me to finish my master’s within a year, back in the States in time for my birthday. It was the next logical step in my plan.

Since I’d returned home, things between me and Teddy had sort of leveled out. We were on speaking terms, at least, something that toed the line between friends and simply friendly acquaintances, texting intermittently about school and work and the weather. He was already knee-deep in a Ph.D. program, so he didn’t have a lot of free time, but we met up for coffee once or twice. I told him that I’d received an offer for a full ride to University of Manchester. He seemed happy for me, but in a polite, surface-level sort of way. We didn’t talk about us, or the future.

We were, as it turned out, the rule.

CHAPTER23

PRESENT

I wake to the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing.

It takes a moment to register where I am. The living room is sideways because I’m lying on the couch. There’s something warm and solid behind me—something that’s breathing—and I turn my head to squint one eye at Teddy. He’s in a surprisingly deep sleep. His muscular arm is slung over my waist, a dead, heavy weight, and while he’s not snoring, his breathing is slow and heavy. I shift, trying to find a way to slip out from beneath his arm without disturbing him.

Bare footsteps slap against the tile floor and Reagan materializes in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. She leans a shoulder into the doorframe as she pops the tab on a Diet Coke and takes a long, slow glug. “Morning.”

“You’re supposed to be at Nat’s,” I hiss, pressing myself flat against the floral fabric and wriggling out from under Teddy’s arm. We arrived to an empty house last night, so we turned on scary movies, polished off a bottle of wine, and ended up having sex again on the couch, more tender and less hurried. There’s still a lot we need to talk about. The where do we go from here conversation is going to need to happen. But the rest of the night was surprisingly relaxed. Comfortable, even. So much so that—with my head against his chest while we watched From Dusk Till Dawn—the steady beat of his heart lulled me to sleep.

“And boy, am I glad that I’m not.”

I manage to twist free, slinking to the floor. “Keep your voice—”

But it’s already too late. Teddy blinks awake, rubbing a hand over his face. “Good morning,” he mumbles. His eyes are bleary, his hair rumpled, and a strange, warm feeling blooms in my chest. I watch as he goes through the same series of thoughts I went through only seconds before: recalling where he is, what I’m doing there, why there’s someone else in the room. Except at this last step, he squints hard across the living room. I hand him his glasses from the coffee table. He nudges them onto his face and blinks at Reagan before his sleepy gaze falls back to me. “What time is it?”

“Seven thirty,” Reagan cheerfully provides. “Late night, Professor Harrison?”

Teddy scratches his head. “Um.” He looks at me. “I don’t remember what time we fell asleep.”

I shrug, memories of last night flooding back, causing my stomach to swoop. “Late-ish.”