Gigi, Listening, page 20
“Gigi?” Zane says my name the way no one has ever said my name before. Soft g, drawing out the i’s. Like a choir singing—altos, sopranos, tenors, baritones, bass.
“Sorry?” I say, shaking myself out of my trance. How can I zone out at a time like this? But how can I not, when he’s no longer reading a book I’ve heard dozens of times, but actually talking to me?
He smiles. “I was just asking if you had a favorite bird?”
“A favorite bird?” I say, blinking. I’ve never really given any real thought to birds, except the pigeons that make a mess on the eaves of the bookshop. Don’t say lovebirds, Gigi. “Chickens are pretty tasty,” I say instead, thinking of the chicken sandwich conversation Taj and I had earlier today. I’m about to ask Zane if he’s ever tried the chicken whatever that Taj was going on about, but he makes a face and says: “Oof, chicken. Wouldn’t know. Vegetarian for life.”
“Huh,” I say, surprised. Not that I’d ever given much thought to his dietary preferences. I didn’t fantasize about meals. More like, post-meal cocktails. And other things.
On the horizon the sun rests on the surface of the water. I inhale, trying to freeze-frame this moment so I can remember it forever.
“I’ve been coming to this island since I was a small child,” he says, and the choir starts up again. “It never gets tiresome.”
“I’m sure,” I say. Like his voice. I will never tire of it.
Angus clears his throat and I start. I’d completely forgotten he was standing with us. “Zane, I should catch you up on a few matters before we dock.”
Zane turns. “See you on the coach?”
I hang on every word. Nod. Then he’s gone.
The ferry arrives in West Cowes a short while later, and I somehow wake myself up from my dreamlike state so I can jockey for position beside Zane on the bus. I lose out to Angus because they need to discuss logistics. What logistics? Zane is here, the end. Everything is perfect. I slide into the seat behind them and Charlotte sits beside me. She squeezes my hand and leans close. “I’m so excited for you,” she whispers. I squeeze her hand but don’t say anything because I don’t trust myself not to squeal. Plus, I want to hear every single word that comes out of Zane’s mouth. I’m close enough to do so, but he’s having a pretty boring conversation about the shoulders of roads—still, when Zane speaks, I feel like I’m listening to a world-class orchestra play Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5.
The short drive to Newport, the market town where we’ll be spending the night, is a straight shot south on a two-lane paved road through fields of beetroot and potatoes. Not that I can tell—it’s all just bushy greenery, but that’s what Zane tells us. Then he and Angus go back to working out how Angus will get home to Oxford.
“We’re going there anyway, why don’t we just give Angus a ride?” Charlotte says. She leans forward into the aisle, poking her head around the side of Angus’s seat.
“I’m fine with that,” Angus says. “I’ve always wanted to be a backseat guide.”
The conversation turns to room assignments. What if Zane and I share a room? Not tonight, obviously, but maybe tomorrow? A girl can dream.
I keep my suggestion to myself, and Angus and Zane decide that Angus and Taj will share a room. “We’re used to each other, aren’t we?” Angus calls to Taj. I look to Taj for his reaction, thinking about Angus’s snoring. He looks at me, then rolls his eyes. I laugh, then feel a stab of something. Sadness that Taj and I won’t have these little inside jokes anymore? Guilt that I have them at all?
“What’s so funny?” Charlotte whispers.
“You and Angus have a lot in common,” I tease, and she gives me a quizzical look. “You think?” she says, having no idea, obviously, that I’m talking about their snoring habits.
A few minutes later the bus pulls into a small square in the center of Newport, with a tall monument enclosed by a black wrought-iron fence. Off to the right is Newport Minster, a church dating back to the twelfth century, and to the left is the Rye, a traditional two-story inn-and-pub building with a thatched roof. The surrounding buildings feature painted metal gables over the front doors, bay windows jutting into the cobblestone streets, and window boxes bursting with brightly colored blooms. The town has a nostalgic feel that’s only slightly tarnished by the modern signs for Primark and Barclays.
“Welcome to your home away from home,” Zane says as we get off the bus. I know he’s talking about the hotel, but the word “home” takes on a bigger meaning. Like I’m here for a reason, that this all wasn’t for nothing. That I’m not crazy for wanting to meet Zane. All of it—being here, Zane here, it all feels right. Like this was supposed to happen. As we wait for Zane to hand us our room keys, I pull out my phone and send a group text to my friends.
He’s here.
A second later a gif of Allie and Noah from the movie version of The Notebook pops up on my screen. There’s no sound but I know this scene: it’s when Noah is standing in the rain facing Allie. The words read: It wasn’t over. It still isn’t over.
Chapter Nineteen
Day 5, Thursday, 9 a.m.
Isle of Wight
The sheets are so soft and that dream was so good. I flip onto my side and attempt to get back to it, then realize: it was not a dream. Zane is here.
I close my eyes and replay last night.
Dinner was at a pub just off St. Thomas’s Square, at a big table so the whole group could eat together. Everyone else, too, seemed very happy about Zane’s arrival, about Zane himself. Maybe it’s just that he’s fresh blood, or maybe it’s that everyone wants to see what they missed out on, having Angus instead of Zane as a guide for the first half of the tour. What would it have been like to get him all to myself? Unrealistic? Maybe. At least I was able to dropkick Francis to score the seat next to Zane, but he seemed to think I’d just lost my balance.
And oh, how he talked.
And oh, how I listened.
I replay the many stories he told—everything from the history of Newport and the Isle of Wight to other tours with his parents, stuff about his brother, celebs who have taken the tour (like Meghan Markle), though as the night went on and the wine bottles accumulated on the table, actual details got a bit fuzzy. Except the Meghan Markle bits—that was fascinating. But the rest—well, he could’ve been talking about kale. I think he did talk about kale, actually, at one point. Not that it mattered. I was busy imagining it was just the two of us, on a date, alone.
Sitting so close to him made every word, every syllable dance over my skin, sending shivers of excitement up and down my arms and legs. It’s like I’d discovered another title by Zane. Or better—an ongoing podcast with more than a thousand episodes to date. But better, because he’s right here. And I know he was talking to everyone at the table, but I’m sure his eyes met mine at least twice as often as everyone else’s. He kept glancing over at me, smiling, nodding, winking. And that was no easy feat, since I was right beside him. Surely it would’ve been easier to make eye contact with Roshi or Violet or Jenny, who were across from him.
After dinner we strolled back along the cobblestone to the hotel. The air was cool, but I was warm with happiness. Back at the hotel, I eyed the worn couch by the Victrola in the cozy lounge, picturing the two of us on it, reading and listening to old 45s. But before I worked up the courage to ask him if he wanted to grab a drink, Zane had to head off, to take care of a few administrative details. Of course he did. He’s responsible. He’s in charge. This isn’t only his job—it’s his entire life. Just like I’d be at the shop. Of course I understood.
“See you in the morning,” he’d said to me. I’d held on to those words as I floated up the carpeted stairs to my room.
Sure, it might have been nice to have some sort of intimate exchange with him—even just a bit of time alone without the others around. But it was the first night, and he had to spend time chatting with everyone. I would’ve thought less of him if he hadn’t.
And so I’d FaceTimed the girls to catch them up to speed. It was a bit disappointing not to have anything dramatic to share with them, but as Emily pointed out, “All you want to do is lay the groundwork. Think of it like The Bachelor. The first night is just about getting to know him. No getting plastered, no embarrassing stories, no weird hang-up reveals, and you’re fine.”
Now, I close my eyes, conjuring up a picture of the real Zane. If his voice is in surround sound, the real Zane’s like watching a movie in 4K. Everything about him is more intense than his photos.
He’s so expressive when he talks, his eyebrows budging, the cleft in his chin deepening, his arms moving up and down and around, his entire body part of the story. This is the kind of soulmate connection I dreamed about—where you can’t take your eyes off the person. Where everything they say goes straight to your heart, where everything they do feels like turning the page on a book you never want to end. This is what I hoped for when I fantasized about this trip with Zane—and yet, it’s even better than I could’ve imagined because it’s real.
I can’t even really remember most of the details of anything he told us on the bus or during dinner. Which felt comforting. I’m so used to tuning out the actual story when listening to Their Finest Hour, listening to his voice but not the story, that it felt as though he picked up right where I left off when I threw my headphones away.
Now, I spring out of bed to get ready.
I pull item after item out of my suitcase like a magician pulling scarves out of a hat, but nothing seems right. If I debated my daily outfit before Zane arrived, now that he’s here I’m agonizing over it in a way that borders on unhealthy. But, just like most mornings on this trip, I haven’t actually left myself that much time to get ready. I’m going to have to set my alarm earlier if I plan to relive the previous evening every morning in bed. I eventually decide on a black sundress that hits above the knee, black sandals, a black cross-body bag. Classic, and will hide any unfortunate sweating.
When I arrive in the lobby of the hotel, which is dark and cozy with low, wood-paneled ceilings and kerosene lamp–style wall sconces, Zane’s already there, chatting with Charlotte. He nods and smiles when he sees me. His face is smooth and glossy, like he might have applied moisturizer. His lips are full. He’s wearing a red tour shirt and khakis, and his hair is perfectly styled—it doesn’t move. Taj brushes past, coming from the opposite direction, through the bar, and catches my eye. His lip turns up. “Where’s the funeral?” he jokes. I give him a dirty look. He laughs, then brushes past, but I look away, feeling as though I’ve been caught. But there’s nothing to feel weird about, I remind myself. I haven’t done anything wrong. Unless meeting your soulmate is wrong.
I walk over to Zane and he smiles at me again, then turns away from Charlotte.
“Sleep well?” If only he knew what I dreamed about.
“Uh-huh,” I say, swallowing.
“Excellent. We’ve got a great day ahead of us so no dozing off on the bus. I saw you with your eyes closed, head against the window yesterday,” he says.
I want to die. Thankfully, I’m dressed for it.
“I—it wasn’t, you’re not boring,” I stammer. I love to listen to you with my eyes closed. Old habits die hard.
“I know I’m not boring.” He grins. He extends an arm toward the bar. “Help yourself to pastries, coffee, and then I’ll see you outside in about fifteen minutes to get started on the day.”
I savor every word.
Fifteen minutes later, right on schedule, Zane gathers us outside the war memorial in St. Thomas’s Square. The area is alive with people. A café has set up outdoor seating, and white tents have been pitched at the side of the church, tables selling homemade sweets and handmade tchotchkes. Angus stands beside Zane and claps his hands. “I have good news and good news. The good news is that as you can see, this is your first full day with Zane, your original guide, back on the tour. The other bit of good news is that you’ve just got yourself another passenger on the tour.”
Charlotte looks pleased with this information, and I get a fluttery feeling in my stomach for her. Charlotte mouths something to me: “Phew.” I wonder if she was worried he’d just disappear for the day now that he was free of obligations.
There’s chatter but overall happiness at this news—mostly that we’re not saying goodbye to Angus, whom we’ve all grown to love, bad jokes and all.
Angus meets Charlotte’s eye, then walks over to her and says something. She laughs.
“Who’s ready to explore this island on e-bikes?” Zane motions for us to follow him a few feet away to a stand of e-bikes outside a rental shop.
“More biking?” Sindhi complains.
“Didn’t you read the itinerary?” Nelle says, looking at Sindhi’s dress and sandals. I notice that Nelle and Violet aren’t wearing their cycling outfits this time, maybe because e-bikes aren’t as intense. Thankfully, since I’m wearing a dress and sandals, too.
“Oh, it’s such a nice day,” Roshi says, putting an arm around his wife. “It’ll be nice to get some exercise.” Taj rolls the bikes out, one at a time. When he passes one to me, he rings the bell.
“No yellow M this time?” he says, and it takes me a second. He passes Nelle a bike.
“Maize,” I correct, as he hands Nelle her bike.
“May’s you come with me today?” He raises an eyebrow. “Hmm. Not sure that joke landed.”
“What?”
He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m going to head down to Compton. Go surfing for an hour or so. My buddy runs a surf shop. He’d set you up with everything you need, give you a lesson. We’d be back in plenty of time. If you’re—up for it?” He hands Violet her bike. That’s the last bike.
Surfing? He’s asking me to go surfing? Surfing sounds fun. But that’s not why I’m here now. I wanted this—for Zane to be here, and he is, and I have the whole day ahead of me, with him, now. Maybe it’s good Taj is going surfing instead. No distractions while I’m getting to know Zane. “Oh, I really want to see the whole island,” I say feebly.
“You know the bike tour starts at that church, right?” Taj nods behind me.
I turn around but instead of looking at the large stone church, it’s Zane, talking to Jenny, that catches my eye. I watch them for a beat longer than necessary, then turn back to Taj. He’s followed my gaze. His eyes meet mine. His jaw hardens.
“Right. I get it.”
My ears burn, but I turn away, rolling my bike to catch up to Zane and the rest of the group. Who cares if Taj knows I like Zane? I do like Zane.
“Hey,” Zane says when I’m next to him. He’s straddling his bike. There’s a large soft-sided cooler strapped to the back. “Everything OK?”
“Perfect.”
He grins, then waves to the group. “Let’s go.”
Zane leads us down the cobblestone, back past the Rye and Newport Minster. I feel my stomach tightening, but happily for me, the church is closed for a special function, so instead Zane gives us a detailed history of the church as we continue riding our bikes. A very detailed history. Which Jenny interrupts multiple times with questions about a supposed séance that happened in the 1800s, laughs loudly and flips her hair back and forth unnecessarily.
As the town disappears behind us, Zane continues to chatter, explaining the itinerary, the highlight of which includes a visit to Osborne House on the northern coast of the island. It’s the one-time summer palace of Queen Victoria that’s now open to the public.
The sun is shining; we’re on a shady dirt path through a fruit orchard. There’s only a gentle breeze and I’m bike-riding with Zane, listening to his intonation, the highs and lows, the way his accent clips vowels and stretches consonants. What life is this?
“Remember when we went to Nantucket?” Roshi says to Sindhi behind me.
“That was before the children.” Sindhi sounds wistful. “Things were different.”
“Of course they were different,” Roshi says. “It would be weird if they weren’t.”
“Mmm,” she says.
“We had fun together then. We can have fun again, my love.”
“We were together then, Roshi,” she says, and I wonder what she means by that. Are they separated? Are they trying to repair their marriage on this trip? I don’t hear the rest of their conversation because Zane interrupts to tell us about our next destination: Appuldurcombe House, an eighteenth-century estate. I shrug to myself. Other people’s problems are not my problems.
Eventually the dirt road leads to a large mansion atop a sloping hill and surrounded by lush, manicured lawns. I brace myself for the climb, but the e-bike kicks into high gear and I just coast along, not a bit out of breath, not a bead of sweat anywhere on my body. It’s like e-bikes were invented for first dates.
Zane tells us that this was once the grandest estate in the entire island, and I imagine myself as the heroine of some historical romance, living in this house, getting ready to go to a ball, hoping Zane’s name will be on my dance card. But as we move past the near-pristine front, to the sides, the walls are broken down, offering a clear view of the barren interior. “Not much left after World War Two,” he explains.
“The perfect example of looks being deceiving,” Sindhi says, looking at Roshi. I notice her tone is sad. Roshi doesn’t say anything, just lets go of his handlebars, straddles his bike and crosses his arms over his chest.
“Or all of us trying to put our best faces on,” I suggest, trying to cut the tension.
“Or our best lips,” Charlotte adds.
Francis rattles off a few facts about the war, including the fact that seventy people on the island died during the air raids. He’s popped his recorder into the front pocket of his short-sleeve button-down checked shirt.
“How awful,” Charlotte says, turning to Angus beside her. He nods, then dips his head to say something else only to her. She nods and smiles at him.
“Imagine losing the person you love the most,” Violet says wistfully. “Or worse, never having told them?” She looks at Nelle, who smiles, but it looks forced.
