And with that he was gone. The Germans stared at us with naked curiosity, and Jacques bustled around with a much more approving air, even leaving us the extra snacks. Cilla plucked the pin from my hand and studied it; Lacey looked as shell-shocked as if Nick had kissed her.
I met Cilla’s eyes. She set the pin in front of me on the table, where it landed with an almost I told you so click. I picked it up and spun it between my fingers, feeling my pulse accelerate as the little stars and stripes started to blur with the iconic British crosses.
“Oh, hell,” I said. “I think I’m in trouble.”
* * *
Nick’s Little White Lie made it extremely hard to tell any more of my own to myself. I became so much more conscious of his every move, of the times our bodies brushed, of how snug his shirts were on his biceps. I could not stop thinking about how he smelled, how his hands looked, about how the hair on the back of his neck curled when he needed a haircut. In the period after Lacey’s visit, I seesawed between wanting to throw myself at him and wanting to escape to the safe, familiar confines of Cornell and my sister, where I always knew where I stood, and where it felt as though nothing I valued could possibly be lost to me.
I began ducking Clive. Lacey was right: I’d never known myself to be so gutless—there are several incidents from my youth in the vein of that barbwire fence—but I’d also never been confronted with a complicated romantic situation, and I didn’t trust myself to say the right thing to him. And, as time passed, I was afraid he was going to get mad at me, and that I would deserve it. So, because I was exactly the kind of emotional coward a lot of people are at age twenty, I chickened out and rested on the laurels of our no-strings policy, hoping Clive would see on his own that the wind was blowing him into the Friend Zone.
I’d also curtailed my Devourfests with Nick, although in fairness, we’d also run out of episodes. It was a handy excuse to step away while I sorted out my feelings, but I couldn’t—and desperately didn’t want to—avoid him forever. I took to suggesting safer, more academic outings where there would be crowds of people and no inviting-looking beds, like studying at the library, or group movie outings, or one particularly amusing foray to a local theater revival of Cats. We’d bought last-minute tickets in the back row after a long Sunday at the Bodleian, and watched agape as the legendary musical unfolded like a disjointed feline fever dream. Everyone tumbled into the dark night after the show, laughing at the absurdity of it, feeling very young and superior.
“That was the oddest thing I’ve ever seen,” Nick said.
“I can’t believe you tripped that actor,” Cilla said to Gaz. “He’s probably going to sue.”
“A man has a right to stretch his legs without worrying some bloody great giant in spandex and cat makeup is going to come running past him,” Gaz protested.
Cilla threw her hands wide. “You were at Cats! What did you think would happen?”
“I should sue him for terrifying me,” Gaz said.
“I wish I could have had a crack at those costumes,” Joss ruminated as we began to head back toward the high street. “All those catsuits were so obvious.”
“THEY ARE PLAYING CATS. IN CATS,” boomed Cilla. “I am going to need a drink to deal with you lot. Come on, there’s a pub ’round the corner.”
“I can’t. I promised India I’d stop by Christ Church for a nightcap,” Nick said apologetically. “And it’s already…Crikey, it’s almost nine o’clock.”
I cursed under my breath. “I’m supposed to be on the phone with Lacey. She’ll kill me if I’m any later than I will be already.”
Clive made a move toward me, but Joss stuck out a hand and grabbed him.
“Oi, not so fast! You owe me a pint because you never wore that shirt I made you.”
“It said SKIRT on it!” Clive protested.
“Well, I’m still practicing,” Joss said. “It looked like shirt if you squinted just right.”
She dragged him off, and Cilla corralled Gaz, with a backward wave at me that suggested my situation had been discussed.
Left alone together for the first time since Fawkesoween, Nick and I smiled gamely at each other, pulled our coats tight, and began the walk to Pembroke. Cornmarket Street was lit with the glow of warm lamplight from upstairs windows, the occasional peal of laughter echoing from passing couples huddled together against the chill. A wave of intense happiness washed over me, and I told myself to carry this moment as a talisman of a time in my life when I was both truly content and lucky enough to realize it. In a very short time, Oxford had stamped itself on me, and everything back in the States—for the first time, I didn’t use the word home in my mind—felt so far away.
“…although in Julian’s defense, he didn’t know Gran kept Sergeant Marmite’s ashes in any of the urns on the floor,” Nick was saying.
I jolted. I had been too busy enjoying being with Nick to listen to Nick.
“Works every time,” he said triumphantly. “I knew you’d vanished on me. Where did you go?”
“I was just thinking how much I love being here,” I said.
An unreadable look washed over Nick’s face. “Bex,” he said.
And then the clouds parted like they’d been slit with a letter opener, pelting us with massive drops of a cold November rain that wasted no time leaking through the soles of my flimsy old sneakers. We broke into a run straight down St. Aldate’s toward the intersection that divided Christ Church and Pembroke. India’s home and mine.