Girl Abroad: Part 4 – Chapter 22

Part 4 – November

THERE’S A SMALL COHORT OF US WHO TEND TO OCCUPY THE SPECIAL archives section at the library. My first few days among their ranks, I received more than a few curious glances and suspicious glowers. Now on the back end of the semester, they’ve accepted me as one of their own. We nod at one another as we comb the stacks. Recognize the official dibs status of one another’s desks and preferred reading nooks. It’s a silly thing, yet coming in after class knowing I won’t have to fight for a seat is a small reassurance that despite the chaos popping off at home, the library is still a safe and sacred retreat.

Even Mr. Baxley with his derisive scowl and militant adherence to archaic bureaucracy has become a welcome part of my routine.

In need of another book, I approach his fortress. He’s got the clipboard of forms ready before I can pull out a pen.

He doesn’t smile at my form, but I think he wants to.

There’s only so much bland Tulley trivia I can parse in one sitting, however, before my vision goes blurry. After more than an hour, I take a break to brush up on my royal etiquette. I’d overlooked the need until Lee mentioned at breakfast that a side effect of this ball meant I had a lot of curtsying in my future and I’d better get some lunges in to strengthen those knees. Also, I’m not sure of my agility in heels. It’s been a while since I went out in anything fancier than a pair of two-inch leather boots.

When I’ve had all the fun I can stand for one day, I return my books, wave at Mr. Baxley, and brave the blustery weather while slipping on my coat outside the library.

Winter is already beating against the door, and the city is quieter as the weather’s turned. Everyone is huddled and hurried. No moms and nannies with strollers stopping for a chat. The summer sightseers are long gone. No more food trucks and sidewalk vendors. I know it gets old for the locals, but I enjoy the gloomy gray clouds and shadowy pall over the city on days like this. The daunting ominousness. It’s the London I’ve always imagined in my head.

As I’m debating what to do about lunch, a text message pops up. From Nate.

I stare at the phone. The correct answer to that question is a resounding no. But I’m a glutton for heartache.

Again, the correct response is no. The worst possible thing for me to do right now is get on the back of his bike and plaster my body against his.

This time, I don’t screw it up.

Oh shit. He xx’d me. I think that’s the first time he’s ever done that.

Heart pounding, I scroll through our meager chat thread to make sure. Yup. He’s never text kissed me before.

I remind myself that this means absolutely nothing and promptly push the thought out of my head.

I’ve been craving the Egyptian place down the street that Lee first took me to, so I head that way while texting Nate the location. By the time I’m seated and scarfing down flatbread, he walks in shaking the helmet head out of his hair. Dark jeans encase his long legs, and he’s wearing a black Henley beneath his leather jacket. He’s so fucking sexy it’s nearly impossible not to stare. At least I’m not the only one—I notice two women at a table by the window overtly checking him out as he walks past.

“Thanks for waiting.” He grins at my full tray of food.

I don’t even pretend to be contrite. “You’re welcome.”

Nate places his order at the counter, then comes to sit with his drink while he waits. “I think Lee used to work here.”

“Mm-hmm,” I hum through a mouth full of bread. “We ate here my first day of class.”

“How’s that going?”

“What? School? It’s fine.”

He leans back in his chair, the epitome of cool. “What about your lass Josephine?”

“Is this why you invited me to lunch? You’re dying to know about my research?”

He shrugs.

The waitress arrives to set his food down, momentarily interrupting us.

“Okay then. For the sake of conversation,” I say once she’s gone, “and not because I believe you have any genuine interest, I met with Ben Tulley, if you must know. He took me to an embarrassingly expensive lunch and invited me to a ball for Princess Alexandra’s engagement.”

Nate’s expression flattens. “You being serious?”

“We shared the last bottle of white from his family’s soon-tobe-sold winery.”

I mean to imbue the statement with as much sarcastic haughtiness as I can portray, but I’m not sure it translates. If anything, Nate looks more troubled.

“You ought to be wary of that one.” Nate stabs at his lunch like he’s mad at it.

“Who? Ben?”

“That family is a black hole. You won’t even know you’ve drifted too close until you can’t escape.”

“I appreciate the poetic advice. But as long as I’m still young and single, if some fancy guy wants to drag me around to his fancy parties, I’m going to take him up on it.”

“As long as you’re not foolish enough to fall for him.”

The accusation stings a little. More so because I’m not sure he didn’t mean it to.

“I could do worse.” Like drunken Aussie rugby players who can’t kiss a girl and mean it. “I didn’t come all this way just for the libraries. So what’s wrong with a little adventure? How many times in my life will I get to fall for a lord?”

In all honesty, Ben isn’t really my type, not to mention eight years older than me. But it’s more the principle of the thing. And the fact that Nate’s dismissive attitude has poked my more combative instincts.

“If you want an adventure,” he says roughly, “you could come with me this summer whilst I’m traveling.”

I snort out a sarcastic laugh. “Right. Sure.” It isn’t a serious invitation and doesn’t deserve a serious response. “Because you haven’t had enough of hauling me all over southern England.”

“I wouldn’t offer if I minded.” At that, Nate’s dark eyes become abruptly intense.

His sudden bouts of earnestness give me whiplash. It’s also honest, though. Maybe even endearing. He doesn’t say much, but I know what he does say I can take at face value. It’s refreshing.

I eye him pointedly. “You still haven’t told me why you invited me to lunch.”

Another shrug. Guys should get shock treatments as children to break them of such infuriating habits.

“Nate,” I push.

He slowly chews his food, then swallows. “I don’t know why I asked. Every now and then, I think about you. Wonder how you’re getting on. New city and all.”

Just when I thought I’d managed to get my heart rate under control around this man, he goes and says things like that.

“So you just wanted to check up on me?” I prompt, ignoring my thundering heartbeat.

“Yeah. Well, no. Bloody hell, I don’t know.” He sounds flustered. “You’re an interesting paradox.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever called me a paradox before.”

“You are.” He shoves a hand through his messy hair. “Sometimes you come off as wiser than your years. Or maybe worldly is the better word. And then other times, you’re young, inexperienced…” He drifts off.

I bristle. Inexperienced? I mean, he’s not entirely wrong.

But he’s not entirely right either.

He notices my expression and his lips curve slightly. “Like that. That look. Other women, older ones, would try to hide it. The insecurity. Not you, though. Your eyes reveal everything you’re thinking and feeling.”

“And yours reveal nothing,” I counter.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

I fix him with a defiant look. “Let’s say it’s true—I’m young, inexperienced, insecure at times, everything you just said. What of it?”

Something I can’t interpret flickers in his expression. “Some men might be drawn to that. Triggers the urge to take care of you, protect you.”

“Some men, huh?”

He doesn’t respond.

Irritation flares inside me. “I swear, it’s like pulling teeth with you guys. First Jack, now you.”

“Jack?” he says sharply, and I immediately regret my slipup.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Something going on with you two?”

“No. I don’t know. I mean, he came home drunk and kissed me and then shoved me into the friend zone, so I don’t know what the fuck, you know?”

“He came on to you?” Nate’s tone takes on a dangerous edge.

“Not like that. It wasn’t aggressive. He sort of sprang it on me and walked off.” I laugh to myself. “Went to bed, actually.”

I forget for a moment who I’m talking to. With the time difference between Eliza and me, I guess I’ve felt the shortage of outlets to get this stuff off my chest. I certainly can’t talk to my roommates about it. Or Celeste, who’d just tell Lee. In my right mind, I wouldn’t unload this information on Nate. But he’s deceptively easy to talk to. He lulls me into complacency.

“Anyway, we had a chat and are going with it never happened,” I finish awkwardly.

Nate has a way of penetrating me with a silent stare until I begin to question my entire existence.

“You seem bothered,” I say to cut the unnerving quiet.

He shrugs. “Seems a shit thing for Jack to do. Especially to a friend.”

I put my utensils down. “How about us? Are we friends?”

“Yes,” he answers. Cautious now as he senses the shift in my demeanor.

“Because I hadn’t decided whether I should bring it up, but since we’re talking about friends kissing friends…I’m not trying to play the home-wrecker.”

You could float a feather in the stillness of his expression. Unreadable, except that I’ve come to discern his flatness as a mask for turbulence and unease.

“I don’t think I’ve asked you to,” he says tightly.

“But you did try to kiss me. And don’t say you were drunk, because the other guy beat you to it.”

Only a twitch at the corner of his jaw gives away his discomfort.

When Nate responds, it’s with slow, measured words. “There was an organic moment. It wasn’t premeditated, and we didn’t act on it.”

“Because we were interrupted.”

“It was a choice, wasn’t it?”

I get it now. This is how he deflects.

“Tell me something,” I say. “Or tell me to piss off if it’s none of my business. But I’ve watched you two. Listened to the way she talks about you. And I can’t for the life of me figure how you and Yvonne make sense.”

Leaning back in his chair again, he pushes his plate aside to buy himself time to consider. “Why do any of us get together? We’re all looking in other people for something missing in us.”

I fall quiet, mulling over his response. It reminds me of that song about how love is trying to stitch ourselves back together with our ancient other halves, and every dysfunctional relationship is just us trying to force together two pieces that don’t fit. Which is kind of true and also cereal box philosophy.

“What’s she got that’s filling that hole?” I ask slowly.

“Yvonne is uncomplicated. Independent. Low maintenance. It’s that stability, I suppose, I’m attracted to.” He pauses for a moment. “Although she’s younger than I usually go for.”

“She’s twenty-two, no? And you’re, what, twenty-four?”

He nods. “I tend to date older women.”

“How much older?”

“Quite a bit older,” he admits. “Mid to late thirties, typically. They’re self-sufficient. Fully formed. Aren’t tilting at this whim and that.”

“Sounds more like a matter of effort than some romantic idea of your other half.”

“Perhaps.” Nate reaches up to run a hand through his hair. “The women I’m with don’t have any expectations of me, Yvonne included. I appreciate that.”

This might be the most unfiltered admission about himself I’ve managed to wrangle out of Nate since I met him. A rare glimpse under the skin of someone who’s usually so enigmatic. He’s not deceptive, exactly. More like vaguely elusive. It’s both attractive and frustrating.

“You don’t like her,” he muses, eyeing me over the rim of his glass.

“That’s not true at all. Honestly, I hardly know her. She’s nice to me when I’m around. She seems outspoken. Witty. But I can’t exactly call her a friend yet. Anyway, regardless of my feelings for her, I still respect the line in the sand,” I say in a frank tone. “You’re dating her. That makes you hers. I respect that, and I don’t want to be dragged into a situation I don’t belong in. So with that said, there can’t be any more ‘organic moments’ between us. What happened at the cemetery was wrong, and I’d like to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Nate’s face reverts to its default position: unreadable.

I wait for him to concur, to throw in his two cents, but all he does is offer a brisk nod.

“We’re in agreement then.” I stick out my hand across the table. “This is a strictly platonic situationship. Purely academic. You’re practically my intern.”

Finally, he cracks a smile. “Friends,” he echoes, shaking my hand.

A thought occurs to me as we’re standing to leave, making me falter.

“Do me a favor, would you, friend? Don’t mention the Jack thing to anyone. It isn’t worth upsetting the whole house over. Things will get complicated.”

“My lips are sealed.”

At the exit, it’s Nate’s turn to hesitate.

“So, ah, this friendship thing. Are friends allowed to text each other?”

My traitorous heart flips like it’s competing for gold in Olympics gymnastics.

“Depends what,” I answer.

“Hello, how are ya? How’s uni? Tell me about your research. You know. Purely academic,” he mimics, biting his lip like he’s fighting a grin.

“Yeah…I guess that’s okay.” I bite my lip too, but for other reasons. “As long as we operate under my dad’s golden rule: don’t text anything you wouldn’t want to see screenshotted and on the front page of the papers.”

“That’s a good rule.”

Our gazes lock, and it takes some effort on my part to break the eye contact. I hastily reach for the door handle.

Nate beats me to it, holding the door open for me. “All right then, Abbey. I’ll text you.”