For one thing, the weather is crazy miserable—at least in November. I knew it would be dreary, but I’m used to dreary. Seattle totally rivals London for rainfall, so I was pretty sure I’d get plenty of use out of my Union Jack umbrella. And I definitely have.
It’s the mist I didn’t expect. It’s thick and cold and settles over everything. It heads right for your bones, taking up residence until you don’t think it’s possible to be any colder, until warmth feels like a distant memory. In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve already discovered that the only thing that can get my blood circulating properly again is a hot bath. I’ve taken three in the past twenty-four hours, and I’m planning to have another when I get back to the hotel.
The crappy weather doesn’t bother me. I don’t mind the rain or the mist, or even the fact that, on the walk over here, I got splashed by a double-decker bus and the bottom half of my jeans are completely soaked. I’m way too happy to care.
Because London is the most amazing place. I feel like I’m trapped in the pages of a history book. Every building, every cobblestone street, holds part of the past. Gran’s past.
I walk onto Westminster Bridge. It’s still early, but there’s already a rush of cars behind me. By the time I make it to the exact center of the bridge, the mist has started to lift. I can see the glowing round face of Big Ben across the Thames. I shiver, but it’s not because of the weather. It’s because I’m here.
Finally.
It was dark when I slipped out this morning, leaving Erin snoring, twisted up in her sheets. I should be in the hotel, too, catching some sleep with the rest of my jet-lagged bandmates, but I feel like I need to make every moment here count. Sleep is not part of my schedule.
Besides, I’ll have plenty of time to catch up later, when I’m back at home. I need to pack a lot into the next seven days—more than I can possibly do in such a short span of time—and I have to be focused. Although I’m already planning to come back next summer, after graduation, I want to make sure my first time in England includes all the places Gran told me about. Starting with this bridge.
The rain has let up enough that I can put my umbrella back inside my bag. I’m pretty sure I’m in the right spot—the place where my grandfather proposed, more than fifty years ago. The place, Gran used to say, where it all began.
I reach up and touch the ruby hairpin she gave me. Feels like she’s here with me.
The night before I left, my family had dinner together for the first time in five years. My mom doesn’t believe Dad’s resolution to quit gambling will stick—she’s been through it too many times with him already—but I’m happy he’s trying. It’s something. And I have to believe he means it. The alternative is just too sad to think about.
The sun is starting to paint the sky pink. I imagine my grandparents standing right here, looking out at the River Thames. Happy.
I dig my phone out of my pocket. This is a moment I definitely want to capture, so I can show Gran when I get back. I know she won’t remember this bridge, or London, or even me. But that’s why it’s even more important that I remember it for her.
I’m lost in thought when I feel a pair of arms wrap around me, drawing me back. I smile and burrow into Wesley’s arms. “You got my text.”
“I would have been here sooner but Mr. Aioki almost caught me sneaking out.” He buries his face in my neck. His nose is cold, an ice cube against my skin, but he tightens his arms to keep me from bolting away from him.
He lifts the phone out of my hands. He turns me around, so our backs are to the railing, Big Ben rising behind us in the background.
Seattle is five thousand miles away—a million miles from where we started—and for once, I don’t need to know what comes next. For once, I’m happy exactly where I am.
Wesley holds the camera an arm’s length away and we squeeze together, as close as possible. And then he snaps the photo.