Kismet (Happy Endings Book 4), page 12
I narrow my eyes. “Even if I begged?”
“I swear. I would never tell you. If you want proof, just ask my friend Emerson. She was dying to know what happened to Han Solo in the new Star Wars.” Jo mimes zipping her lips.
I gesture to the station entrance, and we head down the steps. “You kept it quiet that he fell in love with Jabba the Hutt’s long-lost sister and retired to make babies on Tatooine?”
Her blue eyes go wide. “You know Star Wars?”
“Why are you shocked? And yes, obviously, I know what happened to Han, and it wasn’t a marriage to Jabba’s relative.”
“I didn’t expect you to keep up with the latest.”
“Jo, I’m only forty. I’m not from the Stone Age.”
She hums, low in her throat. “Someone just dropped his age, all casual.”
Seems I did. Maybe I’m giving sharing a trial run. Dropping facts like name, rank, and serial number and then working up to the full carousel of emotional baggage. “Should I have held it back?” I ask. “Made you play Twenty Questions?”
She smiles my way as we pass through the barriers, then shakes her head. “No. I like this whole upfront-and-open thing we have going on.”
I tense, knowing I need to say something soon about my history. Like, in the next few minutes. But I like this lightness better.
“Also, I’m thirty-two,” she says, then bumps her shoulder against mine.
As we wait at the platform, my eyes stray to her again, taking in her purple flats, her jeans, and her short-sleeve blouse with its vibrant floral print. “You look quite pretty.”
Her eyes roam up and down my frame. I’m in jeans, too, and a simple black polo shirt.
“So do you.”
“Pretty?” I ask with a sly grin as the train arrives.
“Boys can be pretty,” she says.
I laugh as we step through the open doors and find two seats. “Of course they can. But I’m not a boy.”
“I know.” She wiggles her brows. “Do I ever.”
And yep, this makes it hard, too, to bring down the mood. The dirty flirting makes me want to stay in this zone.
“So, The Rookery,” she prompts after the train pulls away. “Why is it your London?”
“It’s a little off-the-beaten-path over in Streatham Common. It has an interesting history. It’s the vestige of a private garden from an eighteenth-century spa. It doesn’t get too crowded. And it’s lovely, so I think you’ll like it.”
As I tell her more, my pulse builds speed, my skin prickles, and all at once, I realize I’m nervous. I want her to like the gardens. I want it desperately. I want Jo to fall in love with this city.
But I want to know what she loves too, so I ask her more about New York, then listen as she tells me about Abingdon Square Park, and a bench there by a tree she likes to read under, and then about a quiet cobblestone street in the Village, and about her favorite theaters along the Great White Way.
“Your New York sounds wonderful,” I say.
“Have you been?”
“A few times.”
“Maybe you’ll go again someday,” she says with the tiniest of grins.
“Maybe I will.”
When we exit the station, we bound up the steps in tandem, and that feels a little like déjà vu again.
But not quite right. I’m not thinking of the past. My mind tugs me back to the church I found a few weeks ago, to the pictures I took, to the way I felt in that hidden alley.
That’s what this feels like—full of possibilities.
We reach the gardens and go in. Spring is a perfect time to visit, the greenery, lush and dreamy. Jo lets out a delicious sigh, soaking in the flowers, the paths, the foliage.
“Stop it,” she says. “Just stop it.”
“Stop what?”
She sweeps an arm out, gesturing to everything. “This is an unfair tactic, showing me something so yummy.”
Her reaction thrills me. “Ah, I told you my London would work its magic.”
She spins in a circle, taking in the stone path and the burbling fountain. We wander through, reading the plaques about the mineral springs that used to lie underground the grounds.
We stop at the fountain, and I ask if she wants a picture of herself in this spot.
“Will you be in it?” she asks.
“To show your friends?”
“Yes. Would that bother you?”
“Will they ask who I am?”
“They will. They’re nosy and protective and they love me,” she says. That clearly means the world to her.
“Good. And yes. I’ll be in it.” I want her friends to ask about me. I want her to talk about me.
But I also want her to know me, and right now, she doesn’t truly know all of me.
Why I am able to be here with her.
Why I can’t stand work outings.
Why books are my closest companions.
When she lifts her phone to take the picture, I know it’s time. It just simply is. I reach for her wrist, curl my hand around it, and stop her. “I was married for twelve years,” I say.
She blinks, jerks her gaze back. “Oh.”
“I’m not now.” I stumble, the words awkward.
“I hope not,” she says, nervously.
I swallow roughly, trying again. “She died of a stroke. It was swift and entirely unexpected.”
Her expression transforms, her blue eyes swimming with sadness. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Heath.”
“Thank you,” I say automatically, but also with relief.
“How are you doing?”
A small smile tugs at my lips. “I’m fine. Truthfully. It was four years ago.” I shrug as I let go of her wrist. “Really, it seems a lifetime ago.”
She purses her lips and nods like she’s absorbing that last detail. “I have to imagine it would feel that way.”
“It does. I’m not longing for that life anymore. I’ve grieved. I’ve accepted the loss,” I say as simply as I can. “I want you to know that, and to know how true that is. And I’m telling you because I felt like I was keeping something from you.”
She’s quiet at first, licking her lips. “Were you?”
“No,” I say . . . but then I nod. “Yes.”
“Maybe both?”
“I think I liked that you didn’t see that part of me. The widower part,” I say.
“Why?” It comes out so soft, so tenderly that it’s easy to tell her more.
“You’re the first woman . . .” I can’t even finish.
I don’t have to, though, because she reaches for my arm, wraps her hand around my biceps. “I don’t see you differently.”
“You don’t?” There’s more relief in my tone than I expected. “Everyone sees me as a project. As the man who lost his wife. Who is missing something. Who needs to be set up. I don’t like being known that way.”
“That’s why you don’t play darts or like group things,” she says thoughtfully. “Those are your reasons.”
My brow knits. “Reasons?”
“The other night, Riya said you didn’t go out much. That you had reasons. But she didn’t say anything more and I didn’t press.”
I tilt my head, surprised she didn’t ask. “You didn’t ask her what those reasons were? Surely, she’d have told you.”
“No. It seemed like prying. I felt you’d tell me if you wanted me to know.”
And she waited patiently for me until I was ready. Knowing that, I fall a little harder, a little deeper.
“I do want you to know,” I tell her. “I want you to know me, and I also really like that you . . . well, that you liked me without knowing my past.”
This is much more vulnerable than I want to be.
But I have to lower my guard.
Because I want to be with her.
She inches closer, her eyes shining. “I still like you.”
Her words wrap around me like a warm caress. I close my eyes for a moment, wanting to reach for her, to hold her.
To kiss her in the garden.
To bring her back to my flat.
To touch her. To please her.
I open my eyes. “Do you want to see more of the gardens?”
“I do,” she says.
I take her on a proper tour, and we shoot photos for Griffin and for her friends, including one of the two of us in front of the fountain.
She sends it to them in a group chat.
My London friend, she titles it.
I’ll take that.
14
JO
“No!”
I’m the first to unleash a devastated cry before the credits even roll.
Emerson fires next, her jaw unhinged, middle fingers aimed at her computer screen. “Are you kidding me?”
TJ falls onto his back on his couch, flinging a hand to his chest. “Oh, man. Shoot me in the heart.”
Easton simply stares like he just can’t believe they broke up the main characters on That’s What She Said after a glorious season spent finally getting together.
“What kind of justice is there in the world of romantic fiction?” I pop up from my couch, pacing the tiny living room with my phone, where the four of us are Zooming. What else would we do on a Saturday evening but have a watch party for the finale of the show we’ve followed together from the first season? “They were perfect together,” I say, as if the strength of my conviction will bring Carly and Dane back to romantic bliss.
“They were meant to be,” Emerson says, dragging a hand through her wavy brown hair. “Clearly, I must boycott Webflix forever.”
“Or until they move forward with plans to adapt my novel,” TJ points out.
“Well, obviously. But that’s the only exception we’re making,” I say, shaking my finger at the screen, still livid over that jerk-the-rug-out-from-under-you ending to the comedy. “Have you noticed that there isn’t really any comedy anymore? Everything is dramedy? What’s up with that?”
“It’s a Hollywood trick. Get you to watch by calling it a comedy, and then someone’s spouse, or sibling, or parent dies,” TJ says.
I stop in my tracks but I’m reeling inside.
Those hit close to home—the first one and the last one.
Perhaps I’m living in a dramedy.
“You okay, JoJo?” Emerson asks.
“Is her Zoom frozen?” Easton puts in.
I smile apologetically, refocusing on the discussion. “You’re right, though. You can’t just have the good and the laughs and the sexy times on TV or in books anymore. Or in life.”
“Exactly. It’s the new storytelling. A little more authentic. Going a little deeper. Making you think about the chances people take and the ones they don’t,” TJ adds. “Humor and tears, like reality.”
“I don’t think that’s such a bad thing,” Emerson says. “Well, conceptually—not counting That’s What She Said. But for TV shows, even lighter ones, it’s good. We’re all swimming through bad times to get to the good times.”
“And working out what you’re willing to risk on the way,” Easton says. He certainly knows about risk, having experienced his fair share on the path to his own happily ever after with Bellamy.
What am I willing to risk?
Sure, I left my safe harbor in New York to come here to London. But is that the same level of uncertainty? Maybe. Maybe not.
Or maybe it’s just a risk of a different kind. A gamble on myself. On my career. That’s not a bad reason to take chances, is it?
I flash back on my day with Heath. Are we taking chances? No. Of course not. We decided not to take the risk of dating.
That would be foolish.
I’m one week into my new job here, the thing I moved for, the thing that makes me wildly happy.
I won’t chance it for an unproven romance.
Besides, one swift look at my dating past tells me this—romances end. Often swiftly.
I distill those thoughts into our post-show dissection. “Fine, maybe I do like these deep-dive dramedies, but the romantic in me still wanted Carly and Dane together.”
Emerson lifts a finger. “And that’s why you’ll tune in next season.”
“True words,” I say.
Easton clears his throat, shoots a purposeful stare my way. “And speaking of going deeper, when are we going to do a deep dive into the photo you sent us this afternoon? The one you said we’d discuss when the show ended? Show’s over now, JoJo. Tick tock.”
A smile tugs at my lips as Saturday night unfurls in London four stories below me, and my night with my friends starts to wind up. It’s only five for them, and they’re all hitting the New York scene soon, but I’ll take this time and cherish it, thank you very much.
And that also means . . . time to dish.
“That’s . . . Heath,” I say of the shot of us from the gardens earlier today—a shot of the risk we’re taking—friendship.
Easton gives a tell me more look to the camera.
TJ wiggles his fingers, beckoning me to serve up the goods.
I grab my bottle of wine from the kitchen counter, pour a splash, and do what I’d have done in New York if we were all at Gin Joint or The Lucky Spot—have a drink, share the deets, tell them my heart.
“So, there’s this guy . . .”
Ten minutes later, the debrief is done. I miss the in-person fist bumps and shoulder pats, but I don’t take for granted what a gift this is.
The chance to talk to them.
To matter.
To be a part of all their lives.
Setting down the half-finished glass, I let out my pent-up breath. “So, thoughts?”
As Emerson paces her apartment, the door creaks open and Nolan photobombs her screen, flashing a big smile. “I’m here! You’re just friends with this dude in the pic?” he asks, cutting to the chase.
“Well, we started as . . .”
“Say it, JoJo. A red-hot one-night stand,” TJ explains salaciously.
Like I needed the reminder of my night with Heath. The memory of the fantastic sex sends a fresh rush of heat down my spine. I try to tamp it down, though. “Yes, fine. But we work together, so we dialed it back to friends. And I’d like to have a friend here in London.”
“That’s good, then. You have a lot in common, so it makes sense,” Emerson says, leaning on that practical streak I know so well.
“But there’s a fine line between friends and lovers,” Nolan adds, his face in the frame beside Em’s, practically smushed against it. “And you already sorta crossed it.”
“But you can go back,” TJ chimes in. “Just because you slept together doesn’t mean you can’t be friends. I have friends I’ve slept with.”
Easton arches a dubious brow. “But none of them were your actual boyfriends. You’re not friends with your exes—only dudes you’ve slept with.”
TJ nods emphatically. “That’s my point. One-time lovers can return to friendship. So, it’s good that JoJo is trying to be friends with him. But once you catch feelings, that’s another story. That’s when you can’t return to friendship.”
Easton gestures as if to acknowledge TJ’s point. “Fine, fine. I’ll give you that.”
Emerson clears her throat. “So, as long as she doesn’t catch feelings, this whole friendship with the smoldering Brit ripped straight from the pages of Jane Austen will work out fine?”
“It’s possible,” TJ says, then holds up a warning finger. “Just don’t bang the hottie again.”
“Words to live by,” Easton quips.
Indeed, I’m doing my best to follow them.
Sleeping with Heath again would be a high-stakes gamble now. After all, he might be the start of my London circle of friends.
I wouldn’t risk my New York crew, so why risk this tender new friendship I’m planting here across the pond?
Granted, with my New York group, I never tried to build on the foundation of a one-night stand. Still, Heath and I put the genie back in the bottle this week.
He can become part of my new London world, just like these guys are part of my longtime world.
But I doubt my father will become part of my London world.
He’s more of an obligation. That’s family, sometimes.
On Sunday afternoon, I walk to meet him at Fortnum & Mason in St James. Along the way, I have a heart-to-heart with the young, hurt, angry part of me.
The part that has been dormant for some years.
The part I learned to live with, thanks to therapy after my mom died.
I practice some of the mantras that helped me through that time.
The past is the past.
Be kind, be gracious, be present.
Then be on your way.
With my chin up and my best blouse on, I weave through the weekend crowds on the streets of London, jostling elbows, bumping shoulders, and missing every crosswalk sign, it seems.
As I wait at the light, a truck swings past me, blowing dust and debris from the street. Stepping back, I cover my mouth as I cough, eyes watering.
I turn away from the garbage swirl and into a haze of cigarette smoke. A man in black slacks and a blue button-down puffs absently, gazing into the distance, his eyes annoyed. Maybe he’s a banker, working on a Sunday, pissed he’s at the desk.
I fan my hand in front of my face like that’ll dissipate the smoke, then at last, I cross the street. As I reach the curb, a harried woman laden with shopping bags rushes past me. I stop short, letting her pass, and she shoots me a searing look. For what reason, I don’t know.
But I know this—I don’t like this London.
It’s not the London I experienced yesterday with Heath, or the night before with my co-workers.
Maybe I’ve stepped into another half of the city—my father’s London.
I reach the fancy department store of Fortnum & Mason and head into the tea salon. That’s his style. He’s very afternoon tea.
I find him at a table in the back. He stands, smooths a hand down the front of his crisp dress shirt, then gives a bare smile when I reach him.
“Hello, Josephine,” he says, then wraps his arms around me in an awkward hug. I accept it awkwardly too.
When was the last time we hugged with any warmth? I haven’t even seen him since he visited Columbia a few years ago for a symposium.
