The Lies That Bind(26)

But I leave that all behind as Scottie and I take a cab to JFK. With a stash of candy and magazines, we board our red-eye flight, hunkering down in the back row of coach, right next to the restroom in seats that don’t recline. The “cheap seats,” Scottie calls them, but we have absolutely no complaints as we change into our fuzzy travel socks, strap on our neck pillows, sip red wine from plastic cups, flip through magazines, and play endless rounds of Hangman.

At some point over the Atlantic, we finally get serious with our Fodor’s guide, making lists of all the things we want to see and do. Other than our church youth group’s mission trip to Guatemala, neither of us has been overseas, and to say that I am excited is an understatement—way too excited to sleep. By the time the flight attendant comes on the intercom to announce our descent into Heathrow, I’m exhausted, jet-lagged, and more nervous than I thought I’d be, finally allowing myself to really think about Grant. Of course he’s crossed my mind all night—nonstop, as usual—but our reunion is quickly becoming a reality.

I confess my feelings to Scottie as we begin to gather all our belongings strewn at our feet and in the seatback pockets. “I just worry that it’s a little pushy to be here…considering the circumstances. Do you think it was a mistake?”

“Um, too late now,” Scottie says, offering me the last roll of Smarties.

    I shake my head, feeling queasy, then say, “Be serious, please.”

“I am being serious,” he says, untwisting both ends of the package and pouring the whole line of candy into his mouth. “What are you worried about?” he asks, chewing.

I sigh, trying to pinpoint the source of my angst. I think I’m mostly just worried about Grant’s brother. His health. Meeting him. Not meeting him. I guess I’m also a little worried that, in the face of all the stress Grant has been under, his feelings for me might have changed—lessened. I’m worried that Scottie’s personality will be too much given the circumstances. Or more likely, that Scottie will find a way to disapprove of Grant, as he did with Matthew, and really all of my boyfriends before that.

“Well?” Scottie says, staring at me.

“I just want you to like him,” I say, too tired to explain the rest.

“Yeah. Same,” Scottie says, grinning. “Because we both know the buck stops right here.”



* * *



—

About three weary hours later—after we clear customs, gather our bags, convert our dollars to pretty English money, take the Heathrow Express to Paddington, then the tube to South Kensington—we finally arrive at our hotel. We then check in, shower, and take a power nap that turns into a two-hour slumber. As soon as we wake up, I call Grant’s room.

He answers on the first ring, as if he’s been waiting for me, and I feel a rush of relief just hearing his voice in my ear and knowing he’s not that far away.

“Hi,” I say, my heart racing. “It’s me.”

“Are you here?” he says, sounding as excited as I am.

“Yes,” I say. “At our hotel.”

“Oh, wow,” he says. “You really came.”

“Yeah,” I say, laughing a little. “I really did.”

“So when can I see you?”

    “When do you want to see me?” I say as Scottie sits on the edge of the bed, staring right at me. I turn away, pretending that privacy is actually possible.

“Now?” Grant says.

“Okay,” I say, grinning into the phone. “Where?”

“I’ll come to you,” he says. “The Gore, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Meet you in your lobby in about thirty minutes?”

“Perfect,” I say.

I hang up and tell Scottie the plan. He insists he should come to the lobby with me for the reunion—that he “deserves” to be there.

“Okay,” I relent, thinking that deserves is a stretch. “But please don’t be weird, okay?”

“So you don’t want me to be myself?” he says, eyebrows arched, a smirk on his face.

“C’mon, Scottie,” I say. “Just…make a good first impression.”

“When have I not?” he says, pulling a Union Jack ascot out of his bag and tying it on over his T-shirt.

Laughing, I rip it off, throw it on the bed, and tell him I mean it.

“Okay, fine,” he says. “I’ll be good. But can we please have a signal?”

“A signal for when you’re embarrassing me?”

“No,” he says. “A signal for whether I approve.”

“No. We cannot,” I say, doing my best to sound stern. “Signals are for guys we’ve just met in a bar. Not a guy I flew to London to see. Now, Scottie, I mean it. Behave.”



* * *



—

Slightly ahead of schedule, Grant walks into our lobby, wearing Levi’s, an emerald green polo, and aviator sunglasses. I’m biased, but he could easily pass for a movie star.

Clearly Scottie agrees, because he says, in a voice a little louder than necessary, “Oh. My. God. Is that him? He’s gorgeous….”

    Butterflies filling my stomach, I shush him as Grant takes off his glasses, glances around the lobby, and spots me.