Page 21 of A Beginner's Guide to Forever
“I will. Thanks, Jos.”
“Oh, one more thing,” she says.
I signal to my server that I’d like my check. “What is it?”
She hesitates, and I’m not sure how, but I can tell that she’s smiling. “Have you heard from Hart?”
I chuckle and can feel my cheeks heating. Remembering the smoldering look he gave me.I have a you fetish.“I plead the fifth.”
Joslyn squeals in excitement. “That’s a yes if I’ve ever heard one.”
“I am not gossiping about this with you,” I chastise, still laughing nervously.
“Fine. Fine. Just tell me one thing.”
“What?” I hear myself say.
“If ... no,whenyou kiss him ... tell me if he’s a good kisser.”
The memory of his mouth pressing to mine is shockingly erotic. The sweep of his tongue. The feeling of his firm chest pressed against mine, my back pinned against the wall.
“You’ll be the first to know,” I lie.
After breakfast, I hail a cab and head to Harrods. On the way, I send a text message to Sean.
Alessia:How’s Murphy?
I do some mental math and realize he won’t see my text until morning; it’s the middle of the night in California. Maybe that’s better. I can only panic about so many things at once. And since an affair with a younger man wasneveron my radar, I’m a bit thrown off.
It’s been unseasonably warm for London in August, and I remove my jacket. Or maybe thoughts of Hart are making me warm. The black cab lets me out right at the corner of Brompton Road and Lancelot Place.
Harrods is London’s largest and most iconic department store. It’s actually so much more than a store. They offer guided tours for visitors and have an afternoon tea that’s to die for. The first floor is busy and noisy, but I bypass all the noise and tourists milling around in search of the children’s boutique.
It takes me a while to select something for Scarlet’s baby-to-be, but I find an adorable gray cashmere one-piece. It’s incredibly soft with snaps for easy diapering. It’s perfect. They even wrap it for me with pale-blue paper adorned with little stars.
After, I take the escalator to my favorite women’s clothing department. I pass by Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Burberry ... and pause when I spot a black lacy top that’s open in the back.
I could use something cute to wear tonight. The back dips very low, and I realize I may have to get creative with my undergarments, but I imagine how it will look on me. I take it off the hanger and head to the checkout desk.
I shouldn’t have googled him.
When I left Harrods, I picked up lunch for myself—a sandwich, which is still sitting untouched on the desk in my hotel room, fromone of my favorite cafés—and lay across the bed. I typedHart Winthropinto Google and spent the next hour cyberstalking him like a maniac.
He doesn’t post often, but his social media is filled with images of a very carefree lifestyle. Through the glossy filter of Instagram, there is a carousel of wealth and privilege on display—dinners with congressmen, family ski trips to Aspen, yachting in Thailand, and a parade of models. All while I was grinding away in countries ravaged by wars, natural disasters, and famine. He looks so young. And obviously handsome, but the pertinent adjective isyoung.
There’s an image on a news outlet site of Hart at the Australian Open last year with his arm around a Brazilian supermodel, his long fingers resting comfortably against her exposed hip bone. They look very happy together.
I close out of everything and set the phone down. It’s really quite simple, and I don’t know why I’m complicating it. He’s too young for me. He’s just the cute, wildly inappropriate guy whom I flirted with in Italy and was never supposed to see again.
Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe if I had indulged in a fling, one night of fun, I would have worked him out of my system already, and this weird electric energy wouldn’t exist between us. It would have been completely out of character for me, since I’ve never done the whole casual-hookup thing, but perhaps I should have. He certainly seemed willing.
After deciding that I’m really not hungry, I settle on a hot shower. It does little to relax me. I’m dressed in the hotel robe with a towel on my head wrapped like a turban when my phone dings with an incoming message.
It’s Hart. He’s finished earlier than expected, and he wants to know when I’m free for the private museum tour. I unwrap my hair and fling the towel into the bathroom. My fingers fly over the keys.
Alessia:I’m sorry, something’s come up. Enjoy the exhibit.
Hart:??
