Kismet (Happy Endings Book 4), page 19
Jo: I will. And then TJ can tell me the ending.
Emerson: Or maybe you can. How do you want it to finish up?
Her question is the question. If I get the job will I ask him to move with me? Would he? And can I even ask? His family lives in England. They’re getting older. Plus, he urged me to interview, but then didn’t want to come to New York with me. So maybe he doesn’t want to move. And we’ll have to find a way through long distance. But what do I want? Do I want this job in New York if I get it, or do I want the job and the life I have in London?
For the first time in ages, I wish my mother were here, that I could ask her what to do. What would she say?
I close my eyes, another tear slipping down my face. I don’t even know anymore. I can’t hear her voice any longer.
The plane taxis, picks up speed, then lifts off.
We soar into the sky, and the city skyline turns into a series of specks far off in the distance.
And just like that, London fades from view.
A little over seven hours later, I arrive at JFK and make my way through security, opening the app to order a Lyft. But when I look up, I see four familiar faces on the other side of the cordon.
I run to my friends—my family. They’re why I came to New York.
26
HEATH
Museums are not some of my favorite places to be on a Sunday in London. Or any major city, for that matter.
Too many crowds.
Too much jostling.
Too little time with the art.
But I don’t have a choice today. I need to give notice Tuesday. If I’m still giving notice, that is.
If Jo goes to New York alone, will I simply stay at HighSmith? Will inertia win?
No idea, so I return to where my journey started.
Sometime while Jo is in the air, I head to the St Pancras International Station and buy a Eurostar ticket. Once on the train, I settle into a window seat and crack open a book I picked up the other day from Nigel, half photography, half essay.
Along the journey to Paris, I read the travelogue, checking out the photos of rustic European towns, perusing the stories the writer tells of each locale. That keeps me occupied for the two-plus hours, but thoughts of Jo are never far from my mind.
Is she sleeping on the plane? Working? Reading? Talking to her seatmate?
My mind trips along to new questions. What sort of travel companion would she be? And will I ever find out?
Then future questions. What sort of we will there be if she takes the job in America? Will we see each other once a month? Will she ask me to join her? Will I say yes if she does?
The questions prick at my brain, but I do my best to shove them aside.
I read until we’re not far from Gare du Nord, and then I stare out the window as the train rattles to a stop in Paris.
Growing up, I visited this city with my family many times. It’s the place where I fell in love with art. Catching the metro, I make a beeline for the Musée d’Orsay in the heart of Paris.
As I buy my ticket, I wonder if I will feel what I did at sixteen—that sense of inevitability, that certainty I’d found my calling, my passion.
The lions greet me and feel instantly familiar, like old friends. I meander through galleries I know by heart, visiting the Toulouse-Lautrecs, the Monets, my favorite Van Gogh—his Portrait of Dr. Gachet. The doctor’s coat practically shimmers. He always seems both thoughtful and amused. But I’m never sure which it is, and my impression of him varies by the visit.
Perhaps that’s why I chose to study art. It feels alive for me, rich with history and tales. The paintings and sculptures all tell their own stories if you slow down to listen.
I pay my respects to all my old friends, the ones who inspired me more than twenty years ago to carve out a career in this field. One by one, gallery by gallery, I visit them all.
And each time I pause, I ask myself the same question.
What’s next?
Mostly, I get the same answer, and that’s good.
By the time I’ve visited the last Degas, I haven’t spoken a word to a single person. It’s been blissfully quiet, and I’m in my own world.
There’s only one person I miss.
But she’s across the ocean, perhaps finding her own answers as to what’s next in her life and her career.
As evening falls, I leave the museum, head to a nearby brasserie, and order a glass of white wine and a niçoise salad. I dine alone at a sidewalk along the Seine, reading my book, taking photos.
I’m okay.
I’ll be okay.
And as I dine alone, I have the answer.
I’ve found the way.
If I’ve learned anything over the last few years, it’s how to find my own contentment. I’ve found it in books, in art, in photography.
And in my own two feet that take me wherever I want to go as I explore wherever I am. I suppose I am still curating—only now I’m curating photos of beautiful things. That’s a new form of art and art doesn’t have to be in London.
I didn’t think it was my place to tell her what I’d do for her when she hasn’t decided what she wants for herself.
It’s a hard thing to wait on someone you love. To give them the space to figure out what they want.
But it turns out I needed this space too. It’s given me all the clarity I didn’t have last night.
And so I plan to tell her what I’d do.
I walk along the river, back to the metro then to Gare du Nord. The train returns me to my home city after midnight. It’s two miles to my flat and the air smells of late spring, so I walk.
Just as I turn onto my street, a small, red car pulls up.
A woman with a suitcase places her bag on the curb.
My chest constricts. Does the suitcase mean she’s staying or going? I don’t know, but I’ve found my way. Time to tell her.
27
JO
My knee bounces as the Lyft driver weaves through the streets, blissfully empty at this hour. I want to speed up time, leap across the city, and arrive at his flat.
Knock on the door.
Ring the bell.
Whatever I have to do.
I didn’t call or text because I want to surprise him. I want to tell him in person everything I’ve realized over the last fourteen hours. Everything I had to fly across an ocean to see and hear and feel.
All the wild, surprising things — I love the job I have and I love him, and I want to love London.
Well past midnight, the driver sails onto Heath’s street and pulls to the curb.
“Thank you,” I say, my eyes lasered on the door of Heath’s building, my phone in my hand to tell him I’m here. But out of the corner of my eye, I catch the profile of a man coming this way on foot.
He’s tall, handsome, with a stubbled jaw, strong cheekbones, lush lips. Kind, soulful eyes I can read even in the dark. But his eyes aren’t on me inside this car. He’s scanning the street, taking everything in.
He’s always doing that.
Observing. Seeing. Cataloguing.
Even his own neighborhood, which he knows so well. I imagine he’s been looking for the thing out of place. A new poster at a bus stop, a magazine left behind on a bench, a flower growing on a tree-lined corner.
But I hope he’s been looking for me.
I grab my overnight bag, shove open the door and vault onto the curb. I set down my bag, and the sound seems to jolt him.
His smile is electric and instant. It’s all the colors, all the songs, all the stories. It’s every happy ending I’ve ever imagined.
Or so I hope.
I run to him, even though he’s only twenty feet away. When I reach him, I throw my arms around his neck, and smother him in needy, determined kisses from the bottom of my soul. Kisses that say I love you, I want you, I choose us.
His lips lock with mine, and he kisses me back like I’m all his answers too.
It’s been less than twenty-four hours, but we reconnect as if it’s been long, lonely months of writing poignant letters, staring out rain-spattered windows, gazing at the never-ending ticking of a clock.
The ache I felt without him simply vanishes as we kiss on the streets of London.
We kiss as if words are unnecessary, but that’s not true. You should always tell the one you love that you love them.
After some time, we break away. He holds my face, dusts a kiss to my eyelid, then pulls back, a wry grin on his face. “And how was your trip to New York?”
I laugh, big and joyful, from the center of my very being. “Incredibly illuminating.”
“Funny, my day was too. I went to Paris and spent some time with the art.”
I practically bounce. I’m dying to know about his lightbulb. “Tell me what you did.”
He takes a small step back, his gaze steady as it holds mine. That cheeky grin vanishes. His brown eyes turn vulnerable. “I don’t want to be presumptuous, but if you get the job in New York, I’d do long distance, or I’ll go with you to New York. If you asked me to. Whatever you want. Wherever you are.”
I freeze.
The enormity of his pronouncement sweeps over me, and it takes me several long seconds to register exactly what he’s saying. And finally, when it hits me, the monumentality slams into me like a beautiful wave. How on earth did I become so lucky to find him?
My heart climbs into my throat. I curl my hands around his hips, holding him tight. “Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up,” I mutter, overcome.
Tears sting the back of my eyes. Tears of wonder and joy.
He laughs. “Really? I should shut up?”
“Oh my God. Heath. That’s incredible, and it means the world to me. But I won’t ask you to leave. You love it here. This is your home. And the thing is . . . I think I could love it here too.” I catch my breath, swallow down the tears. I’ve got to say this without falling to pieces because I’d do all the same for him. Wherever he is. “I didn’t have to interview because I already knew what I would say to an offer.”
His eyes darken for a moment, his brow furrowing. He’s trying to process exactly what went down.
“I turned it down. I’m staying here. I love you and I love my job here. This is what I want,” I say, and his face transforms into the most beautiful expression of wonder.
“Jo, what about the job in New York though? Are you sure?” He asks carefully.
I shrug happily. “The thing is, I love my job here. I didn’t think I would, but in this short time I fell in love with Highsmith, and the auction we did, and the chances I’ll have here. I love this opportunity here in London. And I want to fall in love with London, just like I’ve fallen in love with you. Would you keep showing me your London?”
His grin is even bigger and brighter than before, than it’s ever been. He tugs me against him, presses his forehead to mine, and whispers a yes.
When he pulls back, he swipes his thumb along my jaw. “You didn’t even do the interview?”
“I realized when I landed that it was never about the job. The job represented New York and my friends there. As soon as I saw them, everything clicked — they’re why I was even interested in The Met. But I’ll always have my friends. We’ll always stay in touch. And I missed London, and I missed you. But I had to go to New York to know that. To know there’d be no regrets.”
“And I had to know I’d go anywhere with you, if you’d want me to.”
I am overwhelmed by his offer, so I take him up on what I most want this second. “I want to go home with you now. That’s where I want to go.”
“Good. Let’s go. But I need to correct you on something.”
I lift my chin, eager. “What’s that?”
“It’s our London,” he says, and I fall in love with him even more.
Reunions are better without clothes.
A few minutes later, we’re half-naked in his flat, because who has time to get all the way undressed? There’s just something about up-against-the-wall sex, I’m learning.
In the entryway, he cages me in, hitches my leg around his hip, and buries himself inside me.
A sharp, hot blast of pleasure floods my cells. My eyes squeeze shut as exquisite agony radiates from my center, spreading everywhere. His hands grip me hard. His breath comes fast and desperate, and we scrabble to get closer as he moves. We kiss as we come back together in a collision of mouths and skin and bodies.
Soon, I’m gasping, calling out his name as he takes me over the edge then follows, joining me.
Afterward, when we straighten up and make our way to the bed, he wraps one arm around me and sweeps out the other. “And now, Jo Brennan, tell me the story of how you came to be in my bed at two in the morning on a Monday when you’re supposed to be in New York.”
Lying next to him, I begin the story of how I wrote my own ending.
“When I got off the plane in New York, my friends were waiting for me. Emerson, TJ, Nolan, and Easton. They were all there on the other side of security. I’d texted Emerson on the flight, and she’d called them. She knew I’d need to see everyone,” I say, my heart a little heavy again as I remember the weight anchored in my chest from around twelve hours ago. “We sat in the chairs by the baggage carousel, and I told them I missed them but also . . . I missed everything across the ocean here in London.”
He runs his fingers down my thigh, his eyes sparkling with joy. “Go on.”
“I’m glad you encouraged me to go. I needed to see them to know that I wasn’t craving a new job in New York. I was missing my friends. But they’re falling in love too and moving around and making changes. There’s no guarantee they’ll stay in New York, but I know I’ll be friends with them wherever they are. I had to see them to realize I don’t have to see them every day or every week to love them.”
“I’m so glad you experienced that for yourself,” he says.
“Me too.” I shrug, a little sheepishly. “Well, the last month or so has taught me that. But once New York was an option again, I had to go there to believe that this is where I belong.” I stab the mattress like it’s a map of London. “They’ll always be a part of my life, and I’ll be a part of theirs. But I met this guy here, and he’s pretty great. He even offered to go anywhere with me.”
“He sounds bloody amazing,” Heath teases.
“He is. And that’s why I’d go anywhere with him too,” I say, and my guy just smiles beautifully, saying nothing, but saying everything in his expression.
Maybe we both needed this brief time apart to embrace our togetherness. And to know how far we’d go for each other.
“So, I turned around, bought a ticket, and hopped on the next flight back here. To see you. To surprise you.”
Heath pushes up so he’s sitting too. He runs his knuckles down my cheek. “You’re the best surprise ever. I was thrilled. Flabbergasted and thrilled.”
“Good.” I grin in satisfaction. “That’s how I wanted you to feel.”
“And I want you to stay, Jo. I want you here. There’s so much more to see of London, and there’s the rest of the UK, and all of Europe. We can see everything together.”
I swallow past the knot in my throat. The knot of overwhelming emotions that tether me to this man and this city.
“We have a day off today,” I say. “Let’s start then.”
He smiles wryly. “I don’t have a library card, but do you mind if I check you out?”
I fall into his arms, laughing and happy, feeling ridiculously lucky. “I’m so glad I walked into that bar to pick up a hot Englishman for a shag.”
“And look what you got. A grumpy one who wants to make you the happiest.”
I didn’t have to ask anyone to write the ending. This is the story of our life together, and it’s only just beginning.
28
HEATH
We don’t go into HighSmith together, and we decide not to discuss our relationship with Emily. I’m not even sure there’s a need to disclose anything, especially since I won’t be working for the company for much longer.
Jo heads in first, and I work on my resignation letter on my phone at a café near the office.
When it’s done—short and grateful—I go to the office to print it out. Resigning after almost twenty years should be done in person, not in an email.
When I reach the sixth floor, I say hello to the receptionist then make for my office. But Riya stops me before I reach the door.
“Psst. Heath!” Her bracelets jingle as she calls me over.
“Yes?”
“Did you hear?”
My brow creases. “Hear what?”
“Sandy spilled the beans in the break room. She was grabbing a granola bar, and she said—”
Heels click-clack across the hardwood floor. Emily sweeps her red hair off her neck, waggles her manicured fingers. Jo is beside her, a smile brewing.
“I’ll tell you later,” Riya adds.
“Sure,” I say with a grin as she takes off.
“I have exciting news,” Emily declares, clasping her hands.
I can’t wait to hear that Jo won the post. I couldn’t be more thrilled for my woman. “I hope it’s that you selected Jo Brennan for VP. She’s the best person for the job, bar none,” I say. That’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.
Emily tilts her head and rubs her knuckle against her ear. “Heath, did you just compliment a co-worker and recommend her for a job you applied for?”
Even people can’t wipe the grin off my face today. “I did. She’s energetic and passionate and driven. She’s everything you want.”
Emily gestures for Jo and me to go into my office, so we do, and she shuts the door behind us. The two of them sit on the couch, and I take the chair. Then, I wait. This isn’t my moment.
Emily straightens her spine, sits taller. “Jo is ideal for the reasons you’ve said. She brings all the vigor and passion we need.”
