“I wrote a song for you, honey,” says Dad. “Want to hear it?”
“Is it going to make me cry?”
“You’re already crying,” Jerry notes dryly.
“I’m having a moment.”
Jerry snorts. “Is this like your teenage years when you would look out the window whenever it was raining and listen to sad music on purpose?”
My lips quirk. “A little.”
“Oh, then this’ll be perfect,” Jerry extrapolates. “Play the song, Marty!”
It’s in the realm of “Cinderella” by Steven Curtis Chapman or “My Wish” by Rascal Flatts. Slow and melodic, deep and achy, and halfway through, I realize I’ve heard scraps of this song before. A string of chords after my high school graduation, a lyric in the car ride home from Baskin-Robbins. I can hear this song, that day, on the front patio when Jerry explained to me that I like sure things. Or that I used to, anyway.
I think maybe Dad’s been working on this song my whole life.
I hold it together through the lyrics about the little girl he took backstage with him at concerts, eyes sparkling at the pretty lights but quiet all the same. But I break down in tears that push hard against my eyes when he gets to the part about how I learned to trust the sound of my own voice: singing to myself in a room all alone, him and Jerry one wall away, out of sight but there to catch me if I faltered.
And I just really hope he knows. I hope he knows he’s the best dad in the world, and I’m not running away. I’m just trusting the sound of my own voice, like he taught me. I hope he knows I loved sharing music with him as a kid, even though I flaked on the talent show, even though I can’t make it like he does.
But just because you don’t make art doesn’t mean you don’t inspire it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The thing I never took into consideration when I envisioned myself moving abroad was doing it with a broken heart. It colors everything in a different shade.
My hotel room has a canopy bed and green velvet cushions on the window seat. It is quaint and luxurious without being opulent, only a couple of blocks away from Covent Garden. The bedding is itchy, and I almost ask the maid not to change it anymore after the first night when I come back from exploring to freshly stiff sheets, but I’m not exaggerating when I say she’s my best friend right now, and saying hello to her in the mornings is the most human interaction I have all day. I can live with itchy sheets for another two weeks.
My fourth day in London—after a coffee from a fancy espresso place that’s honestly terrible, a FaceTime with Miriam, a tour of an apartment I can’t afford in Shoreditch followed by a tour of an apartment I can probably afford in Clapham—I break down in tears and ask myself what the hell I was thinking.
It’s not that I don’t love London, because I can already feel the city marking me the same way I felt when I first moved to New York. Every neighborhood is busting at the seams with individualist personality, and the history is almost tangible. But this is a place where he lived first. No matter where I go, I feel like an intruder. Like something unwanted.
I read four books in four days. Some meals I eat at restaurant bars—which hasn’t bothered me since my college days—and some I take to go so I can eat in bed with the TV for company. I email Gran to let her know I’m in town (I omit telling her I’ve moved here; that will probably go over better in person).
Did you download Bumble BFF yet??? Join a gym? Employee resource group?? Meet a kind stranger in a bookstore? Miriam texts me.
Give me some time to miss human interaction and then we’ll see, I text back.
On Friday, I have lunch with my new boss, Sinclair Austin (who I am not going to idolize beyond human fallibility the way I idolized Tracy). But despite my best efforts, I like her instantly. She has blue streaks in her black hair and is curvy, short, and engaged to be married to a woman named Austin (ha). She doesn’t even make fun of me when I mispronounce items on the café menu.
After we eat, she takes me on a tour of our office building, shows me the desk I’ll be claiming after orientation next Monday.
“What’s your first impression of the city?” she asks.
I smile at her, internally cataloging that Brits call London “the city” the same way New Yorkers call Manhattan “the city.” I’m gathering details one at a time to flesh this place out until I know it enough to call it home.
But I really, genuinely mean it when I tell her, “I think I’ve fallen in love. Again.”
London is cleaner than Manhattan, and much more sprawling. The beer isn’t pretentious, and the food is comforting—which will probably get tiresome but right now is exactly the vibe I need. Every block is steeped in centuries, giving the atmosphere a kind of transcendence. In fact, the only flaw I can hold to the city isn’t the city’s fault at all: if I had to assign London a feeling, it couldn’t be anything other than lovesick.
Sinclair is walking me to the front elevators when I spot a directory.
Archives: Floor 12.
“The Take Me There archives are kept here?” I ask. I had assumed they were all at the flagship office.
“Yes,” she confirms. “We’ve got every issue ever printed, all digitized.”
Like a broken record, my heart starts to skip. “Can I go?”
“Sure.” Sinclair shrugs. “You’ve got your badge now. Be my guest.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, calling the elevator.
This is some seriously masochistic behavior. Because whether I find Charlotte Yoon down there or not, it’s going to wreck me either way. But the pain has started to fade to numbness, and I’m not ready to feel numb when I think of Alex yet.
The archivist is a gray-haired cottage fairy, helpful as ever as she takes down the name I request and my best guess for when Charlotte may have started writing for the magazine. My hopes aren’t high. The woman disappears and leaves me at the front desk. The longer she’s gone, the farther my hopes fall. I sit down and bounce my knee, biting my lip until it bleeds.
“Well then,” the archivist says. “I’ve got some photocopies for you.”
I stand shakily, hands outstretched.
Nine. There are nine of them. All written by Alex’s mom.
“Can I stay and read for a minute?” I ask.
The archivist smiles. “Of course, dear.”
I sit back down, leafing through the articles. THE BEST HOTEL IN EACH DISTRICT OF SEOUL, AND HOW TO CHOOSE ONE. TIPPING ETIQUETTE IN THE 10 MOST POPULOUS COUNTRIES. PLANNING YOUR VACATION BASED ON FOREIGN EXCHANGE RATES.
EVERY THOUGHT YOU’LL HAVE WHEN YOU MOVE ABROAD ALONE.