Page 74 of Is This for Real?
He covers his eyes with his arm. “I haven’t slept enough.”
“Too much and you won’t adjust.” I pull his arm off his eyes. So close now. He’s not wearing a shirt. I am definitely awake. “Up and at ’em.”
“I thought you weren’t a morning person.”
“I’m not. It’s afternoon, and we’re in London. C’mon.” I get up, grab my clothes, and get dressed in the bathroom.
When I come out, he has changed into a worn, blue, button-down and jeans.All mine.For this week, anyway.
We have a quick sandwich lunch at a place nearby. I look at what plays are available tonight and read the summaries out loud.
“Are you talking in a British accent?” he asks.
“I am, darling, I am. I may talk in a British accent for the whole trip.” I lean toward him. “Unless we actually talk to British people, in which case I will not embarrass myself.”
“Let’s seeThe Importance of Being Earnest,” he says. “That’s one of my favorite plays.”
“Are you serious? That’s so old-fashioned. And we know the ending.”
“I’m an old soul. And you can’t go wrong with Oscar Wilde.”
“But there’sUpside Down, the one about women and relationships.”
“You know, that could go either way.” He leans back, the chair scraping against the wooden floor.
True. It could be excruciating. Or too revealing. Or both.
“Fine. Oscar Wilde it is.” We walk back to Piccadilly Circus and buy tickets for the play.
And then Rory suggested a RIB boat ride on the Thames. I choose the seat by the water. The guide is knowledgeable and gives us a great tour of London from the Thames, from the Tate Museum onward, with lots of witty commentary. And now it’s the high-speed part. The boat takes off quickly, and I grab Rory’s hand, laughing. The spray hits my face.
“In case I wasn’t awake,” I say.
Several high-speed turns and it’s over. We disembark. We decide to walk around London and just enjoy the city before we have dinner and watch the play. For an early dinner, he picks a rooftop bar overlooking the Thames. The river is all lit up, and it’s spectacular.
We take the Tube from Waterloo back to Piccadilly and walk to the theatre, joining the crowd of theatregoers finding their shows. We hand in our tickets and take our plush, red seats.
His phone beeps, and he silences it. He shakes his head. He puts his phone back in his pocket. “It’s Callie.”
“Didn’t you tell her we were going to London?” I ask. I love saying “we.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think she doesn’t believe we’re actually dating?” I ask. She’d have that similar insight into Rory that my sister had for me.
“No, she believes it. She just thinks she can get me back.”
I raise my eyebrows and nod my head in acknowledgement. That’s Callie and confidence—especially if she sees me as an introverted bookworm or, worse, a writer mining and exposing all of Rory’s inner thoughts.
“What attracted you to her in the first place?”
He hesitates and glances at me. I have a feeling he’s choosing his words carefully. “It started out so well. Callie is driven; she’s outgoing, sociable, charming . . .”The opposite of me. This is brutal. Maybe he’s not choosing his words so carefully. Why did I ask this question?“Ambitious. When we first started going out, it was like this mad energy and we motivated each other.” He looks down at the theatre program. “But then it became all about her.”
So, he does see that.
“And if I said anything, she’d become distant, emotionally absent. I don’t know. I thought we’d work through it. But we didn’t. And then she gave me that ultimatum. And that was not the solution. But I was still surprised when she dumped me. I guess I remembered the good, and I wanted that back. And nowshewants that back.”
Definitely don’t encourage him to go back. But I can’t badmouth her.I nod.
