Mary Kate has texted me to invite me out daily, ever since I vanished from the pub and totally forgot to text her from Jack’s place. I did feel bad that morning, when I woke up to string of panicked texts asking if I was okay, and saying my roommate told her she hadn’t seen me either. But I explained everything over lunch, and have avoided them both since. Nothing personal, I keep texting MK. I’m just busy as hell.
Which is true. Until today.
Today, I will be busy as hell ignoring the poetry I’ve just spent seventy-two hours straight obsessing over.
Today is all about escaping for the day, soaking up inspiration, and . . . Well, okay, I might be hoping for a little bit more from tonight, if we end up spending the night together again. I just keep flashing back to waking up in Jack’s bed (after he apparently carried me up there unbidden) with him spooning me, my body fitting perfectly into the curve of his, so just-right that for a few moments I kept lying there, pretending to be asleep, just to savor the feeling of his warm skin on mine, and his hand as it tangled in my hair.
Then, of course, there was the night before on the couch, which awoke a whole different set of equally pleasant emotions in me.
I unzip my bag to double-check that I brought everything he told me I’d need. Notepad, pens, wine bottle opener (not sure why we’ll need that?), and a map of a village called Stroud, which he made me print out because he said we’d be leaving our cell phones in his glove box. On my feet are the comfortable shoes he said to wear—in this case my “trainers” (which I’ve learned is UK-speak for sneakers). I dressed in my most comfortable jeans and a loose sweater with a tank top underneath, since the weather seems to be pretty indecisive lately: one day it seems like fall, the next day it’s summer all over again.
My foot taps anxiously against the park bench. Jack asked me to meet him here, at a park on the outskirts of Oxford city, presumably because he didn’t want my fellow students—or one of his fellow professors—seeing us leaving town together. It plants a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach to be doing this again—sneaking around, avoiding detection, lying to MK and Nick and everyone else we know. For once can’t I just date someone who’s proud to be with me, who isn’t afraid to shout it to the whole world?
Then I catch myself and freeze. Dating. This isn’t dating. He made that clear the night before we slept over at his place. He just wants sex. Sex, and some day trips out of town.
I shake my head. Don’t read into this, Harper. He told me what he wanted, quite clearly. I’m not going to let his incongruous actions trick me into getting my hopes up. Besides, I live in another country anyway. This is just for now, and just for fun.
Nothing more.
A car horn beeps—car horns over here sound so funny, tiny little hoots as opposed to the deafening honks of US cars. I hop to my feet and pick my way across the grassy field in which I’d been waiting to the small gravel road where Jack has pulled over in his car.
Which, upon seeing in broad daylight and knowing that we’re both supposed to ride in, now seems pretty funny in comparison to US cars, too. I mean, the thing is the size of some golf carts I’ve ridden back at home, when I was little and Dad used to let me practice driving the cart while he and his friends were out on the range.
Jack waves from the driver’s seat while I toss my bag in the back. When I do climb in, the first thing I notice is that he shaved, probably this morning, judging by how smooth his cheeks look. I’m torn halfway between disappointment that I won’t get to feel that rough graze, and amusement. Did he dress up for me?
Surprisingly, once I fold myself into the passenger seat, the car is actually pretty roomy. I stretch out my legs, lean my head back, and roll the window down to let the cool fall breeze rush through my hair as Jack maneuvers off the gravel road and onto what passes for a highway here in England.
The road is about the width of the tiny back roads in my town, yet huge sixteen-wheeler trucks (“lorries,” Jack tells me over the wind) rush past us, so close I have to close my eyes a few times. He reaches over to wrap his much larger hand around mine, holding tight until we pass, and then I laugh at how ridiculous I’m being—until the next lorry approaches and we repeat the process all over again.
Luckily the Cotswolds aren’t a very long drive from Oxford. In under an hour we’re crossing a little stone bridge into a cheery town. The houses all look like they’ve been plucked from another century and dropped into the center of this village, which for the most part is made of footpaths. We park nearby, grab our stuff, and as we step onto the brick walking path between dozens of tiny, cute storefronts painted red and blue and white, Jack catches my hand in his.