“Come on,” I say now, pulling gently away. “We get kicked out of this place for unliterary activities, you’re never going to forgive me.”
“You’re probably right,” Ian says seriously—then kisses me back into the shadows, grabbing one last book off the shelf above my head.
For dinner we’ve got a reservation at a place I scoped out on one of the travel blogs I haunted all summer, a ten-table bistro with crispy chicken cooked under a brick and the best mashed potatoes in London. It’s close enough to walk from the apartment, and we leave a little early, taking our time as we stroll past souvenir shops and coffee bars all closing up for the night, street vendors locking up their carts. It’s clear and cool outside, that first hint of fall coming. The sky is a soft, velvety blue. The streets are lined with pubs and restaurants, their patios packed with a rowdy Friday-night crowd; I press my cheek against Ian’s sturdy shoulder as we pass a street-corner busker picking out “Eleanor Rigby” on the guitar. The more time goes by, the more convinced I am that seeing Gabe was some kind of weird neurochemical aberration, my brain bending double and snapping back.
We’re nearly to the restaurant when I stop short at the sound of music coming from a massive brick building on the corner of a quiet street, a converted warehouse bearing the faded logo of a canned goods company on one side. I’ve noticed this about London, the way new places and things are layered on top of old ones, like the whole city is a talented seamstress fashioning one-of-a-kind couture out of ancient thrift store finds. An alley to one side is strung with a canopy of old-fashioned white lights and leads to a beer garden on a back patio; I can see a jazz trio set up back there, a girl in thick glasses and red high heels plucking away at the double bass. “Oh,” I say, before I can stop myself. “Look.”
“That’s fucking awesome,” Ian says, a slow smile spreading across his face and his accent just detectable like it always is when he’s excited about something. Then, taking my hand: “Let’s check it out.”
I hesitate for a moment—thinking, stubbornly, of the app on my phone—but Ian bumps my shoulder. “Come on,” he urges. “It’s a kuddelmuddel.”
My eyes widen. “I’m sorry,” I say, a laugh pulling at the corners of my mouth, “a what?”
“A kuddelmuddel,” Ian repeats, grinning back at me. “It’s German. It actually means, like, messy chaos? But my mom always uses it to describe what happens when you’re traveling and you find something sort of good and unexpected that isn’t part of the plan.”
“A kuddelmuddel,” I repeat, falling a little bit more in love with him. “Okay.”
The restaurant is massive inside, all dark wood and basket-weave tile and one whole wall of windows flung wide open to the courtyard, the faint whiff of cigarette smoke on the breeze. A dozen framed mirrors hung behind the bar catch the candlelight flickering on the tiny bistro tables; at the back is a row of booths with dividing walls that stretch to the ceiling, deep-red curtains hung across each one. It smells like fried fish and dark beer and underneath that a certain not-unpleasant sourness, generations of spills mopped up on the wide, scratched floorboards. Also, it’s packed.
“It’ll be at least forty-five minutes,” the hostess says, once we make our way through the crowd; she’s got impossibly long lashes and cat-eye liner, a smart black dress paired with combat boots. “You could get a pint while you wait?”
“You wanna bail?” Ian asks, checking his watch and glancing back toward the exit. “We can still make your reservation, if you want.”
“Actually, no,” I hear myself say, surprised by the urge to stray from my carefully curated itinerary. But there’s something about the energy of this place that I like, a sense of possibility. I watch a burly, bearded waiter hurry by with a tray of bright-pink cocktails in delicate champagne coupes. “Let’s stay.”
Ian orders us a couple of beers and we find a spot to post up near the bar as the crowd thickens all around us, cologne and bright lipstick and plaid button-down shirts. We keep getting muscled into each other, my chest pressed up against Ian’s. Behind me a girl who’s already half drunk is telling a very enthusiastic story to her friends, all hand gestures and colorful British expletives; I duck out of her way, scooting from side to side to avoid a pint glass to the back of the head. After a while I’ve got a rhythm down—my hips rocking ever so slightly into Ian’s, then back again, holding my glass up so I don’t spill on my dress. Beer drips down onto my wrist. I lift my arm to lick it away and when I look back up Ian is staring at me, the intent on his face so overt it makes me shiver. He raises his eyebrows, something that just misses being a smile tweaking the corners of his mouth. “What are we, dancing?” he asks, head tipped down close to mine.
It takes me a minute to realize what he’s getting at, that low swoop in my belly. Then I grin. “Why?” I ask, flirtatious. “You wanna dance?”
Ian shakes his head, mischievous. “I mean, not particularly.”
“Well then,” I tease. “What do you want?”
He’s about to answer when the girl behind me swings her glass with particular vivacity; I overcorrect as I’m ducking out of her way, stepping directly onto the foot of the dark-haired guy standing to my right. “Whoops,” I start, blushing like a clumsy tourist; I turn around guiltily, free hand held up in apology. “I’m sorry.”
“Nah, it’s cool,” says a deep American voice I know in the cells of my bone marrow, a voice I know in the ventricles of my heart. “You’re good.”
He glances at me quickly, then immediately does a double take; for a moment both of us just freeze. I can’t stop staring, struck silent by the shock and the horror and the fact that apparently I wasn’t hallucinating yesterday in the tube station: it’s Gabe, who I’ve known almost as long as I can remember. Gabe, whose family I destroyed for the second time last year. He’s here in this pub in London in dark jeans and a soft-looking henley, a bottle of Amstel clutched in one hand.
And he’s with a girl.
She was with him yesterday in the Underground station too, I realize now, though I didn’t notice her at the time—as if my brain was protecting me somehow, only seeing what it wanted to see. It feels like this whole trip is reshuffling in front of my eyes like a deck of enchanted cards from an animated movie, becoming something other than the thing it was five minutes ago. It feels like my whole life is.
“Um,” I manage finally, just the one idiotic syllable. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Gabe echoes, sounding just about as useless. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I—I’m on vacation,” I retort, more snottily than I necessarily mean to. “What are you doing here?”
“Yeah,” Gabe says, gesturing to the beautiful blonde beside him. “Us too.”
Us. Right. I suddenly remember Ian waiting patiently at my side, watching the proceedings with a curious, quizzical expression. I hesitate for a moment, realizing abruptly that I have no idea how to explain what’s going on here. “This is Gabe,” I blurt roughly. “Gabe, this is my boyfriend, Ian.”