Page 7 of An American in London

He raises an eyebrow. “Unlikely, Wednesday.” I swear the corner of his mouth twitches.

Did he just make a joke? At my expense? I’m honored. A flicker of excitement races up my spine. For the first time since arriving in London, I’m not conscious of anything but this moment, right now.

“Youknowmy name is Tuesday, don’t you?”

He sighs and sits back in his seat. “How could I not, seeing as you—a complete stranger—have introduced yourself?”

Yes, he’s being cold and rude and his voice is clipped and irritated, but I’m delighted I managed to get him to speak an entire sentence.

“What can I say? Americans are just friendly, I suppose.”

He takes a sip from his glass of red wine.

“Whatcha drinking?” I ask.

“Wine,” he replies.

I should give up and leave him alone to his sad, miserable life, but there’s something in me that’s drawn to him. Maybe it’s his eyes. Maybe it’s because he looks like Daniel De Luca. Maybe fresh-start London Tuesday needs to have a conversation tonight and wants to talk to him, even if he doesn’t want to talk back. I’m a conscious moth, completely aware the flame is going to burn the shit out of me, yet unable to keep from hurtling headlong toward it, hoping it might change its mind at the last minute.

“I’m definitely here for a cocktail.” I study the list, letting my attention be drawn from ... Hell, I don’t know his name yet. “You haven’t told me your name. I can’t keep calling you the Daniel De Luca doppelgänger.”

He rolls his eyes and clearly doesn’t give a shit I can see him perfectly fine, despite the low lighting. “You could just stop following me around.”

I laugh-snort and turn back to the menu. “You’re followingme. This is the hotelI’mstaying at. I’m supposed to be here. What’s your excuse?”

I don’t expect him to answer, but he does. “I’m meeting a friend.”

Give me an inch and I’ll take half an inch—usually. But I’m in London. And London Tuesday is ... well, I’m not sure, but I’m making her up as I go along. I can be anyone I like, and right now, I feel like taking a country mile.

“A girlfriend?”

He narrows his eyes. “None of your business, but no.”

“A boyfriend?”

He snaps his head around. “I’m meeting a male friend. About business.”

“Interesting,” I say. It’s not that interesting, but I want it to be. “Have you known this male friend long?”

“Since university.”

“We call it college,” I say.

“So?”

I don’t know if he’s nervous, uptight, or just an asshole, but his rudeness is grating. I skim the cocktail list and order a cocktail called Life’s a Peach.

“Really?” he asks. “Life’s a Peach.” He shakes his head like it’s the final straw. “So typical.”

Jed would normally order my cocktails for me if we were out together. Or if I was with girlfriends, I’d just have whatever most people were ordering. But right now, I’m not even embarrassed he doesn’t like my order. I can’t help laughing at his dramatic response. “So typical of what? Me? Americans? Women? Put me out of my misery; tell me what about my drink order is so abhorrent to you.”

“People like you.” He lifts his hands and makes air quotes. “Happy people. Optimists.” He says it with such disdain it’s like he’s physically pushed me.

It’s my turn to frown.

My fiancé just broke up with me. When I get back home, I have to find a place to live in Manhattan that isn’t a shoebox or roach infested and costs less than five grand a month. I’ve been sent abroad with the threat of layoffs snapping at my heels. I’ve lost my fiancé and my home, and I’m looking at possibly losing my job. “Happy” isn’t how I’d describe myself. But I have to believe things are going to get better and that the future’s bright.

He’s right. Iaman optimist.

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