Gigi, Listening, page 31
And then I hear it: A voice that, in song, is every bit as complex as the one that brought me to this country.
“Alas, my love, you do me wrong . . .”
At first I don’t think I’ve heard it right. That I’ve imagined it. “. . . to cast me off discourteously . . .” The melody rushes over me like a wave, sweeping me up, rolling me into its embrace, taking away my control. I’m powerless. And I’m OK with it. Eventually I open my eyes, find my footing. And turn around.
There he is. On the opposite side of the dome, leaning against the cream concrete wall. Blue shirt, dark jeans, his hair tucked behind his ears. He shaved. Our eyes lock, and a smile spreads across his face. I want to freeze this moment in time, because though I don’t know what it means, I know that I will think back to this scene for a very long time.
I did Taj wrong. And he’s here anyway.
“And I have loved you oh so long,” he sings softly, but it’s clear as day to my ears. “Delighting in your company.”
I hurry toward him.
“You delight in my company?” I say when only a few feet separate us.
Taj’s eyes crinkle into a smile and he pulls me into an embrace. He puts a finger to my lips, making them tingle and sending a ripple through my body. His eyes are locked on mine. My lips part, ever so slightly, and my tongue touches his fingertip. He sighs. His finger trails down my lips to my chin, and then down my neck, tracing my collarbone. Every inch he touches catches fire. When his finger finally reaches my shoulder, he slides his hand down the side of my body, both hands grasping my hips. A strand of hair has fallen into his face, brushing his cheek. I reach out, tuck it behind his ear, then cup his jaw. My other hand moves to his face and he dips his head so it’s inches from mine.
“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” I say.
“Is ten days oh so long?” he teases.
And then our lips meet. Softly at first, then with increasing intensity. I tilt my head and press my lips into his, hungry to feel the warmth of his mouth on mine. I slide my hands to the back of his head, running my fingers through his thick, soft hair and pulling his face closer. His face is so smooth against mine. His hands squeeze my hips and he pulls me closer to him, so there’s no space between us. Not between our bodies, not between our lips. We’re just accessories to the kiss. Eventually, we break for air, and I pull away from him enough to look him in the eye.
“I did do you wrong,” I manage after a breath. “Taj, I’m so sorry.”
“I’m more interested in the fact that you went all the way to my favorite sandwich shop in the world and you didn’t even buy a BFCS?” His voice is low, his breath hot in my ear.
“How did you know?” I run my hands up his arms, my fingers wrapping around his firm biceps. His skin is smooth and warm. I pull him closer.
“I must have missed you by ten minutes. Gerry told me you’d been by. Well, he didn’t say you specifically, but I thought, some girl came by, asking about me and asking about how to get to St. Paul’s, and I thought, why not see if she’s hot?”
I punch his arm. “Promise me you’ve never told anyone else about this place.”
“I’ve never told anyone else about one of the most famous landmarks in the world,” he says solemnly.
“You’re taking the piss,” I say.
His brow furrows. “Why are you here?”
“Why do you think?”
He slides his hands down to my waist, running his fingers along the waistband of my jeans in the small of my back. “I’m surprised you remembered me telling you about this place, to be honest,” Taj says. “I didn’t forget, but I didn’t know you were really listening.”
“I was listening.”
He runs his hands up my back, and then down again. I never want him to stop touching me. “Remind me again why we never exchanged phone numbers?” he rasps, bringing his head close to mine, resting his forehead on mine. “It would’ve made this all a whole lot easier.”
“Tell me about it,” I say. “But would it have been as romantic?” My eyes lock on his.
The creak of the door startles us both, and we pull apart. I catch the security guard out of the corner of my eye. “Sir, Miss,” he says. “The gallery is closed. You must leave.” I look at Taj again.
“We have to go,” I say. “We’re in so much trouble.”
“Then we better do this quickly, one more time,” he says, and pulls me close to him, so that our bodies are pressed together. I move my hands up to his face, and then pull him in toward me. I press my lips to his, and everything else, all the sounds around us, they all disappear.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Day 10, Tuesday, 8 a.m.
London
“What do you want to do today?” Taj says, kissing my ear. The sun streams through the sheer curtains into his second-floor apartment in Chelsea. The walls in the two-bedroom apartment are painted a light cream, and bookshelves line the wall above his bed. He made them himself. His bedding is gray and soft, though only a sheet drapes over our naked bodies. Our clothes are spread across the floor. He props his head up on his hand. I touch his bare, warm chest and think about last night, late last night, early this morning, and smile.
“We only have six hours ’til my flight leaves,” I say.
“Do you really have to go?” he asks.
My heart swells. In romance novels, they’d figure out a way to be together. But I have a flight. And the bookshop. And several texts from Lars reminding me that he has plans on Thursday and I need to be home tomorrow.
So, for now, Taj and I have six hours.
“I know how I want to spend them,” Taj says. He nuzzles his face into my hair and it feels so good, so easy, so exciting.
“Me too,” I say, but I still feel wistful.
“We’re not saying goodbye,” Taj says, touching my nose. “I know that’s what you’re thinking. But we’ll figure it out. I’ve never been to Michigan. And I’ve got to see the source of the yellow M for myself.”
“Maize,” I correct him.
“We’ll see about that.” He rolls on top of me and touches his lips to mine, ever so lightly. “I have one other condition, though,” he says between kisses.
“Oh really?”
“Mm-hmm,” he says. “And it’s very important, so I want you to listen.” He pulls away from me and looks me in the eye. My stomach flip-flops. Not because I’m worried, but because I can’t believe that we’re here, the two of us, together, in his bed. And yet, it feels completely natural, like we’ve been together forever.
“I’m listening,” I say, putting my hands behind my head.
“From now on, whenever we drive anywhere, you’re not allowed to sit two rows behind me. I want you right beside me, where I can see you and hear you and reach out and touch you.” He runs a finger along my hairline. My head tingles right to the roots.
“Deal,” I say, wrapping my arms around his back and running my fingers up his spine. “But I have a condition, too.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” he says.
“I get to drive. At least some of the time.”
He laughs, then nods, then presses his lips to mine, and I wrap my arms around his back, and we stay that way—for what seems like forever, and also, just a tiny blip in time.
Will we ever be in a bus together again? Or even a car? Or train? Or plane? It’s not the way real life works. I’m not giving up, but I’m also not letting myself have expectations. Taj says he’ll come visit in six weeks, at the end of summer. He wants some time to figure out what he needs to do to continue medical school. And I’ll come back at Thanksgiving. After that, we’ll just see. And for now, we have six hours. Which is a lot of time.
I lace a leg between his and he nuzzles my neck. I run my fingers down his chest. Then lower, and lower.
“Oh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “Another round? How many would that be?”
“I’ve lost count.”
“Good,” he says, his voice low. “Because at the rate we’re going, there’s no way we’ll be able to keep track.”
“Let’s stay this way forever,” I say.
“Deal,” he says, placing his lips on mine, soft at first, then with more intensity. I exhale as he pulls away and looks into my eyes. And then I lift my head up to his, and kiss him again and again and again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
One Week Later
Ann Arbor
It’s almost eight o’clock and I’ve just returned from a run through the Arb. It’s warmer here than it was in England, and I’ve started getting up earlier to run, before it gets too hot. Summer in Ann Arbor is always quiet, so I’m looking forward to fall, when the town gets busy again. Now is that lull between the July tourists and the return of students, their parents in tow.
I take a long shower using the lavender soap I picked up in West Bay, then slip into a white skirt and tank top that look great against my skin, so tanned from all the time spent outside in England. I laugh, thinking of how upset Nelle was that I was wearing a white skirt to bike in in Hythe. In my bathroom, I dab on just a bit of mascara and blush, then I swipe on the lipstick Charlotte gave me, smiling at myself in the mirror. My phone dings, letting me know there’s a new video posted to Murder ’n’ Makeup Jenny. The tour is still with me, little reminders everywhere. I wonder how long this will last, before things go back to the way they were. But the truth is, I don’t think they’ll ever truly return to the way they were before.
Down the stairs onto Fourth I go, around the corner, past the front of the bookshop to the coffee shop in the Nickels Arcade. The tiny shop is bustling, the air thick with the smell of the fresh croissants they bake every morning. I order two coffees, then make my way down the shaded alley, pausing in front of the travel agency. Photos of a creamy sand beach in Seychelles, rugged mountains in Portugal, and a thatched hut jutting out into cerulean waters in Cambodia flood the window. I can practically feel the warm sun on my skin. How incredible would a warm weather vacation feel, just as a chill fills the Midwest air. Dory’s birthday’s in the fall—maybe I’ll suggest it to the girls, as a group gift idea. I tuck into the flower shop and pick up a bunch of fresh flowers to replace the gorgeous bouquet the book club girls had waiting for me in the shop when I returned home from my trip. As if they needed to do anything more for me after everything they’d already done. I close my eyes for a moment and inhale the sweet aroma of the bleeding hearts that arch out between the ranunculas, and it takes me back to that first day in Cambridge. It’s hard to believe it’s already been a week since I’ve been back—sometimes the whole trip feels like a novel, and I get that urge to grab the book from my bag, flip it open to the dogeared page, and see what the next scene will bring.
It’s almost ten when I return to the shop. The door’s unlocked, but Lars doesn’t answer when I call out to him. Footfalls sound near the back. I drop the flowers off on the cash desk, then head down the runnered aisle. Lars is at the end of the historical romance aisle, balanced on a metal folding chair, his arms above his head, his shirt tucked into his pants. He’s hanging the kite I brought him back from Brighton.
He turns. “Looks good, right?” The kite hangs between the Millennium Falcon and the TIE Fighter. “I was gonna put it up in my new apartment, but I thought it might look better here—and then I’d see it. Since I’m going to be spending so much time here.”
He climbs down from the chair and folds it, then walks to the back of the shop, and tucks it behind one of the bookshelves.
“Does this mean you found an apartment?”
“Don’t look so surprised. And no, not yet, but I have a lead on a place that I’m going to see at noon. On my lunch break.”
“Back in Ypsi?” I take a sip of coffee and look around the shop, still admiring some of the changes Lars made.
“Are you kidding? I don’t want to commute from Ypsi every day. No, State Street Lofts. So close, yet so far away.”
“Not that far away,” I tease. “Want a second opinion?”
“And close the shop?” He raises his eyebrows. “Plot twist.”
I laugh. “You’re probably right. There’s always a little surge at lunch. I should be here. Oh, this one’s for you,” I say, holding out the coffee cup.
He shakes his head. “I’ve already had three cups. I should probably pause or I’m going to need to take this kite for a test run just to burn off my energy.” He walks to the front of the store. “I put on another pot, too. I got a carafe that keeps the coffee hot for eighteen hours. Made in Denmark. I don’t know why we’d need the coffee hot for that long, but if we ever do, we’re set.”
“Great,” I say, following him.
Lars suddenly turns around and pulls on the edges of his blue shirt. “What do you think?” I laugh when I read it. There’s a picture of a book with the phrase: You turn me on. And underneath: Love Interest. “Merch came in ahead of schedule. You’ve got to see everything, actually. I’m just starting to unpack it but wanted to run my idea by you for where it could all go.” He walks back down the aisle between Westerns and Regency romances. I follow.
“How much is this all going to set me back?” I say.
“Nothing. You handle the books, I handle the merch, remember?”
I take another sip of coffee. At the record player, I place the extra coffee down, then flip through the records with my free hand. The stack has doubled in size.
“Oh yeah,” Lars calls from the front of the shop. “I brought my records in. Don’t have a player at home anyway, so I figured we might as well have more options here.”
I pull out an album at random, and pop it on the player, then walk over to the cash desk. A stack of mail sits in a metal tray. I sift through the bills and flyers. A glossy picture of Big Ben on a 4x6 card catches my eye. The flipside features loopy cursive.
Dear Gigi,
Oh how I miss you! Angus is on the mend and chipper as ever. We’re back at his home in Oxford. It’s a lovely little spot with three bedrooms and a back garden in full bloom that we sit in for hours. I never want to leave. Though Angus has discovered I don’t cook, so we’ll see how much longer I’m welcome. When I’m back in Charlotte, you’ll have to come visit. Love, Charlotte
Under the shelf, I pull out Charlotte’s knitting and turn over the completed square—or as complete as it’s likely to get. I was going to pop it in the mail to her later today, but now I reconsider. Maybe I should hand-deliver it. Just to make sure it gets to her.
At the front of the shop, by the fairy lights which look even better in person than in the picture Lars sent me, Lars pulls the T-shirts, mugs, beanies, baseball caps, pens and notebooks out of the box, showing me each one as he does. “What do you think?”
“Love.”
“And this?”
“All of it.” It’s the truth, but he could also be showing me iguanas and I might feel the same way. I like having Lars around. It’s fun.
He beams, that big Rutherford smile he used to give me when we were kids and I’d praise him for building an impressive Lego tower or drawing a funny cartoon.
“But you don’t need my approval. You know this stuff looks great.”
“Yeah, I do. So I was thinking about getting a shelf for the window,” he says, and a flash of Taj pops into my mind, lying in bed, the bookshelves he built himself on the wall overheard. If Taj were here, maybe he’d build me a shelf. But Taj isn’t here. I tried calling him last night, but it went straight through to voicemail, and for the first time in a week he didn’t call me back. I know it should mean nothing, but of course the thought has crossed my mind that this might be how it will go. At first we would talk every day, but then life would start to get in the way. We’d miss one night, and then I’d call back but he’d be out with friends. When he called I’d be busy with a customer, and by the time I could call him back it would be too late and he’d be asleep. Before we knew it, one day would turn to two, two would turn to an entire week, only a few texts exchanged. He’d meet someone else and . . .
“Yo, are you listening?” Lars is waving a new bookmark in front of my face.
“I’m listening, I’m listening.” I’m trying not to write a story that hasn’t happened, or that isn’t true. There are no guarantees with Taj, but for now I’m challenging myself to just enjoy the present. As soon as Lars is finished, I’ll call Taj. Maybe I’ll reach him, maybe I won’t.
“What were you saying?” I say to Lars. He walks over to the window on Fourth. “I designed a little price sheet; I thought we could put it in the window, let people see it as they walk by. They don’t have to ask, they don’t have to wonder.”
“I like that.”
“Great, then if you don’t mind watching the front, I’ll just duck out to pick up the price list at the copy shop.” He gives me a sheepish grin. “You know, the one I whipped up without consulting you. Should be ready and I deserve a break right about now anyway.”
I groan and he laughs as he walks toward the front door.
The bells clang as Lars leaves. I finish my coffee and then arrange the flowers I bought in an orange blown-glass vase. The bells clang again.
“What did you forget?” I call out.
“A few things,” the voice says, but it’s not Lars’s. I know it well, that soft yet assertive tone. Blood drains from my head, as though my body is only allowing the sound of his voice, and nothing else can occupy that space. I drop the stem I’m holding, and move around the side of the cash desk. He’s not there. I crane my neck. Still no luck.
“I’m looking for a book,” the voice says, and I feel dizzy with the confirmation that it’s him.
“We’ve got books,” I say, peeking over the top of the row of paperbacks in front of me. Not there.
“I noticed,” he says, still out of sight.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, walking down the aisle, but I’ve lost all feeling in my feet now, too. I’m floating.
