The Lies That Bind(29)

“Fine, then. Sorry,” Scottie says, nailing his wounded martyr routine, before adding, “I’m sure it’s all in my head anyway.”

I stare at him, unsure if he’s being sarcastic or conceding that sometimes—often—he manufactures drama. “It’s definitely in your head,” I say.

He shrugs, still in poker face—at least his version of poker face. “I’m sorry, okay? You know I have a hard time trusting hot guys.”

    “Or anyone I like,” I mutter.

“Look. Just forget I said anything.”

“Fine,” I say with a shrug. “I will.”



* * *



—

Although I stop being pissed at Scottie, I spend the rest of the day feeling intermittently uneasy, even as we stroll around Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park and Harrods. I desperately want him to like Grant—and I’m especially bummed after things were off to such a promising start.

When we get back to our hotel, I very casually ask the lady at the front desk if we have any messages, holding my breath, hoping that Grant has called. She informs us that we do not.

“Okay!” I say breezily, pretending to be unfazed.

“I’m sure he’s just busy with his brother,” Scottie says as we turn and walk toward the elevator.

“Yeah,” I say, feeling almost worse hearing the pity in his voice as he makes excuses for Grant. Then again, it’s the truth. Grant is with his brother. Who happens to be very sick.

We go back to the room, order room service, and watch television as we get ready for bed. At one point, Scottie sees me eyeing the phone, and says, “Why don’t you just call him?”

I shake my head and say, “Nah.”

“Why not? You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t feel bad,” I fib.

He takes a deep breath, always able to tell when I’m not telling the complete truth, then says, “Okay…But I really take back what I said…about Grant being sketchy.”

I tell him it’s okay. “I know you’re just looking out for me,” I say.

“But I’m still sorry,” he says. “And I think…I think maybe you’re right. I do try to find fault with your boyfriends…especially this time….I don’t know. Maybe I’m just jealous, you know, that you may have found your guy.”

    “You’ll find someone—”

“I don’t mean that,” he says, cutting me off. “I mean—I don’t want to lose you. And I have the feeling that this time I really might. For good.”

“Scottie,” I say. “That will never happen. We’ll always be close. Forever.”

“Fine. But you can only have one best friend,” he says, sounding—suddenly even looking—like his teenage self. The ridiculously skinny kid who suggested we wear best friend necklaces, although he wanted to put his on a more “manly” long chain with his uncle’s Vietnam dog tags.

“Right,” I say. “And that will always be you.”





I stall in our room the following morning, hoping Grant will call before we set out for the day. He doesn’t. As disappointed as I am, I remind myself what he’s going through. He’ll call when he can. Instead, I focus on my precious time in London with Scottie.

We go to breakfast at a local tea house called the Muffin Man, then take the tube to Green Park station, strolling along Piccadilly, the Queen’s Walk, and the Mall, past St. James’s Palace and Clarence House, then back over to the Victoria Memorial and Buckingham Palace.

Afterward, we board a double-decker sightseeing bus, hopping on and off to visit one glorious landmark after the next. Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, and the Houses of Parliament. The Tower of London and Trafalgar Square.

At dusk, we head back to our hotel, exhausted and grimy and famished, having stopped for only an occasional snack to save time. I am dying to check our messages, knowing for sure that Grant will have called, even feeling a little guilty for having been gone all day with no way for him to reach me since my cell doesn’t work here.

The second we get to our room, I run over to the phone, checking for the blinking message light. It’s not on. Hoping it’s just a glitch, I call down to the front desk only to be told, once again, that we have no messages. My heart sinks.

“Maybe he tried to call and didn’t leave a message?” Scottie says.

    I shrug and wave it off. “He’s with his brother. We have no idea what they’re really going through right now,” I say to Scottie but also to myself.

He nods, then announces that he’s going to take a shower. I turn, sit on the side of the bed, and start to flip through our Fodor’s, using a pencil to check off all the things we’ve seen, trying to distract myself. As I hear Scottie turning on the water, the phone rings. I lunge for it, answering, overcome with relief, knowing it has to be Grant.

“Hi,” he says, his voice strained and distant. “It’s me.”

“Hi,” I say. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I am now,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t called….”