How It Feels to Fly(47)

Apparently I’m not the only one visualizing myself living here, because when we reach George Vanderbilt’s bedroom, Omar announces, “I’ll be sleeping here tonight.” He turns to Andrew, his voice taking on a posh British tone. “I don’t want to be awakened before ten a.m., my good man. I’ll have breakfast in my dressing gown.”

Andrew laughs and bows to Omar. “Very good, sir.”

After that, it’s a free-for-all. Jenna calls Edith Vanderbilt’s room, which is decorated in bright gold and deep purple. Dominic takes a room that’s kind of a rusty brown, because, in his words, “at least it looks like a dude’s room.” Katie squeals when we enter an oval room with printed peach fabric on the walls, cushions, and bed. Yasmin claims one that’s equipped with two twin beds. “It’s not like I have anyone to share a bed with right now, anyway,” she laughs. Dr. Lancaster shoots her a look.

“Zoe, Sam, and Andrew—you still have to pick,” Katie says.

“I need one that speaks to me,” I joke. “This is really important, you know.”

“I know which one I want,” Zoe says. “I’ve been here before.”

“Well, you won’t beat my room,” Jenna says firmly.

“Wait,” Katie cuts in. “If Omar is George Vanderbilt and Jenna, you’re Edith, does that mean you two are married?”

Omar links his arm through Jenna’s. “Shall we continue touring the house, my dear?” Jenna shakes her head, looking amused.

Eventually we enter a room that I want. Red damask walls. Gold curtains. Lots of space and light. There’s a tea service set up on a table by the windows. “This one’s mine,” I say. “Definitely worth the wait.”

“And I’ll take this one,” Andrew says as we step into an adjoining room with blue walls and dark wood furniture. It’s pretty much the definition of “handsome.” I can picture a man—Andrew—in period hunting gear, complete with tall boots and a top hat, standing by the window. His faithful golden retriever lies at his feet.

As everyone else moves on, I peek back into “my” room. I imagine waking up there every morning. Having tea—or black coffee—by the window, looking out over the grounds. Then I return to the blue room. Real-world Andrew is waiting for me. “Hey, neighbor,” he says.

Our bedrooms adjoin. Does that mean they were meant for a married couple? I look down at the Biltmore House brochure to hide how flustered I suddenly feel.

Andrew. And me. Married.

Now the picture in my head is of hunting-gear-wearing Andrew kissing corseted, kid-gloved Sam. Which is nuts.

And nice. Really nice.

What are you thinking?

It doesn’t matter if you like him. There’s no way he’s into you—

But what if he is? Why can’t I stop feeling like he is?

Ahead of us, Zoe is crowing about her choice—the Louis XV, one of the most luxurious bedrooms in the whole house. I hear laughter. I hear a shush from one of the uniformed guards who stand in every other room, making sure no one touches the priceless furniture and fixtures.

I need to say something. Anything. Before Andrew walks away.

I blurt, “I got dumped two weeks ago.” And then I want to go crawl in a hole. Not because of body image or anxiety or whatever, but because that is the most pathetic thing I could have said.

“I’m, um—I’m sorry,” Andrew says. “That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“Was it mutual? Did you see it coming?”

“Nope and nope.”

I didn’t cry when it happened—I was too good at not crying in front of people by then. But I couldn’t help asking Marcus why. We’d been together for nine months. We’d had fun. He was my first kiss. I’m pretty sure I was his, too. And the only thing he could come up with to tell me was “You’ve changed. You’re different than when we started going out.”

Different. Code for fatter, softer, uglier.

I’d been right, that day at the ballet studio. He wasn’t attracted to me anymore.

“I think I’m better off without him,” I say to Andrew, not because I believe it as much as because it seems like what I should say.

“That may be true, but that doesn’t make it suck any less.” He runs his hand through his hair, that gesture he does whenever he’s thinking about the best way to say something. All of a sudden, I want my fingers in his hair, too.

What is wrong with you?

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but”—he hesitates, looking around the blue room at everything except me—“it’s just that we’re not supposed to give y’all too much personal information about ourselves. Dr. Lancaster’s rules.”

Now I have to know. “I won’t tell.”

“It’s not even this big scandalous secret. All my friends at school know. My girlfriend, Caroline, and I—we’re going through a rough patch. I keep wondering if we should . . .” He fades off. “Anyway, I kind of know how you feel.”

“Oh.”

See? He has a girlfriend. Too bad for you.

But . . . they’re about to break up? Is that what he’s telling me?

“Did your guy give you a reason when he dumped you?”