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Chapter Eighteen

Justin

My mother calls me as I’m standing in front of my mirror, trying to decide whether my navy or gray suit would be better for my mystery date at The Shard.

I’m just hoping the mystery bidder is less predatory than Vivian. That I haven’t jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

“Have you booked your flights for the reunion yet?” Mom asks after our initial greetings.

“Not yet, Mom.” I adjust my collar, studying my reflection.

“Well, let me know when you book your flights. I can’t wait to see you.”

There’s a forced brightness to her voice that I recognize all too well. She gets like this whenever I’m coming home, like she’s trying to pretend we have just a normal mother-son relationship. Like she’s trying to make up for all the years we spent walking on eggshells.

“I can’t wait to see you too,” I say.

I haven’t thought much about my upcoming class reunion. It’s hard to believe that it’s been almost ten years since high school. The reunion has been moved forward to January rather than May because of renovations to the school’s gymnasium over the summer, so it’s coming up fast.

I got an email yesterday from the organizing committee asking me if I was happy to give a speech as the former class president. The idea feels like a punch to the gut.

How can I deliver a speech that talks about my memories from high school with any kind of fondness? Whenever my memories of high school seep through the wall I’ve built around them, my most overwhelming feeling is shame. I’m ashamed of the person I was then. I’m ashamed that I tried to hide who I was by targeting other students.

I need to come up with a speech that entertains but doesn’t involve me having to dredge through my memories. It strikes me now that perhaps my mother could help with my mission.

“Do you think you can track down some photos from high school for me? And maybe my old yearbook? I’ve got to do a speech for the reunion, and I might show some old photos, give everyone a laugh.”

“I’ve got a few boxes of your things in my spare room. I can look in there if you want,” Mom offers.

I know the boxes she’s referring to. When I left for college, I’d taken all my possessions with me because I didn’t trust leaving anything in a house with Bobby Ray in it.

But when I moved to London, Mom agreed to store the boxes. Bobby Ray was out of the picture by then, so I trusted they’d be safe. When I dropped them off at her apartment, she asked to sift through them, smiling about my prized autographed Troy Aikman poster that used to hang above my bed and the box of my achievement certificates from elementary school, each one carefully preserved in plastic sleeves like they were made of gold instead of paper.

We hadn’t talked about the things missing from my childhood memorabilia though.

And I don’t want to talk about it now. I move the conversation on.

“Anyway, how are you doing at the moment?” I ask.

“Oh, you know me. Just plodding along. The new job at the craft store is working out well. Much better hours than the diner.”

“That’s good,” I say. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

“What about you, honey? What’s been going on with you? You’ve seemed different lately.”

Alarm rises in me. “What do you mean different?”

“I mean it in a good way. You’ve just seemed…happier.”

I stare at my reflection again. Am I happier at the moment?

Definitely.

In fact, I think I’m the happiest I can remember being since I was a kid. And it’s not difficult to work out why.

I haven’t told Mom about Drew yet. And suddenly, it seems more like a lie than an omission.

“I’ve got a new friend,” I find myself saying. “His name is Drew. We’ve been hanging out.”

The words feel inadequate to describe what Drew has come to mean to me.

Exploring London with him has been so much fun. But I like the quiet evenings we’ve spent in my apartment even more.

They started out on the pretense of him helping me with the auction website but turned into me cooking dinner for him, getting into passionate debates about dishwashing methodology, and watching comedy clips while sitting on the couch with the cats.

Even though the auction is over, I still invite him over for dinner several nights a week.

And he still accepts.

I’ve always felt like I’m performing, trying to be what other people expect me to be.

But lately, with Drew, I’ve started to feel like I’m being the real me. Whoever that actually is.

“I’m glad you’ve made a friend,” Mom says.

“Yeah, he works at my company. He helped me with the Second Chances fundraiser.” I smooth down my jacket, remembering Drew’s focused expression as he coded the auction website.

“It’s nice you’ve got someone who makes you happy.”

My hands freeze on my lapels. I know her words are benign, but it feels like my carefully constructed world of half-truths is being examined under a microscope, even if she doesn’t realize it.

“I…” I swallow hard. “I should probably finish getting ready. I’ve got this…thing tonight.”

“Okay, honey. Have fun.”

I end the call and lean against the wall, letting out a shaky breath.

The relief of ending the call fades quickly, replaced by the hollow feeling that comes from not being completely honest with my mother. But I can’t think about that right now.

I’m meeting my mystery date at The Shard in less than an hour. I’m getting to dine at one of the most exclusive restaurants in London. I should be excited, right?

Instead, all I can think about is how I’d prefer to spend the evening with Drew, cooking for him so he can eat something nicer than his latest microwave culinary disaster, watching some comedy show together while Cassie and Tabitha demand a share of our attention.

I don’t want to make polite conversation with some rich stranger. I want to relax with Drew.

I adjust my tie one final time, trying to ignore the voice in my head that sounds like Bobby Ray, telling me that real men don’t spend this much time fussing over their appearance. It’s been easier to banish his voice lately.

Another thing I attribute to Drew.

The Shard pierces the London skyline like a diamond-tipped needle as my Uber pulls up outside.

Inside, the hostess leads me through TīNG’s elegant dining room to a window table. The table is set for two, a small card labeled Reserved propped against a crystal wine glass. The windows showcase London’s sprawling tapestry of lights.

“Your guest hasn’t arrived yet,” the hostess says. “Would you like to order a drink while you wait?”

“Just water for now, thanks.”

I check my phone. Seven-thirty-two. The reservation was for seven-thirty. It’s fine. London traffic is notorious. They’re probably just running late.

At seven-forty-five, I’m on my second glass of water and have memorized the pattern of lights on the buildings across the river. The server has stopped by three times to ask if I’m ready to order.

At seven-fifty-five, the couple at the next table starts to shoot me sympathetic glances. I pull out my phone again.

Hi, Maria, just checking that the reservation is definitely for 7:30?

Three dots appear immediately.

Oh, Justin, I’m so sorry. I’ve just received a message from the donor. Something’s come up, and they can’t make it. They’ve asked me to pass on their deepest apologies.

My shoulders relax.

No worries. I’ll just head home.

Actually, everything’s already paid for. It would be a shame to waste it. You should invite someone to join you.

I stare at her message, my heart racing. Before I can overthink it, my fingers scroll through my contact list.

I know exactly who I want to invite.