This Is the Wonder Page 5

  “Good. That means he’s trustworthy.”

  I grimace, thinking of Birchart and his roving eyes and an interesting story Jax told me about a van in a parking lot off base with a red light inside… I keep it to myself. If I got in trouble for saying ‘slutty,’ I’m scared to find out what bringing up prostitutes will get me. “So, yeah, he’s cool. He’s nice.” I smile despite myself, feeling stupid and giddy. “I like him.”

  “Don’t get too attached.”

  I sag, instantly deflated. “Why?”

  “Because you’re coming home in a couple of months,” she reminds me, her tone telling me that should have been obvious.

  “I know.”

  “Have you signed up for classes here yet?”

  “No, it’s in a couple of months.”

  “Is registration open?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You should know,” she says sharply. Now I have her full attention. “Wren, you’ve gotta finish this. You can’t quit now.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You’ve picked a major, it’s time to follow through.”

  “I will,” I reply impatiently.

  “Don’t get snippy with me.”

  I close my eyes and bite back on a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m watching out for you.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “Your dad didn’t want you taking this semester abroad. I talked him into it. I understand you needed to get away, and you did, but now it’s time to come home and get started on your life.”

  “I don’t even know what I want to do with my life,” I mutter, feeling like I’ve said this eight thousand times before.

  “You’ll figure it out,” she tells me for the eight-thousand-and-first time.

  And we’re still here. Still uncertain, still fighting over it, and the deadline is coming up fast. I’ll be done with school this year and it’ll be time to get a job, but doing what? I still have no idea, and I’m starting to worry that I never will.

  “How’s Mel?” Mom asks, changing the subject and returning to that tone that tells me she’s only half listening. Maybe a third listening.

  “She’s good. Hung up on a guy.”

  “Lot of that going around,” she mumbles absently.

  “Yeah, only this guy is a slut.”

  I smile when I hear her sigh. “Jesus, Wren.”

  My sister Robin is way more supportive of my crush. She and I instant message back and forth about it all day after I get back from the castle trip, right after Mom’s efforts to burst my bubble.

  Is he hot? Robin immediately asks.

  Yes.

  Picture, please!

  I don’t have one :/

  What the hell?

  I know. I failed. He dozed off at one point on the bus ride back. I should have taken a stalker photo of him sleeping.

  Does he snore?

  No.

  That’s hot.

  Okay…

  When are you going to see him again?

  No clue. We didn’t make plans.

  Idiot.

  I snort at my screen. Thanks.

  Call him.

  I don’t have his number. He has mine, but…

  But he’s not calling. Dick.

  He’s not a dick.

  Do you have his e-mail?

  Yeah.

  THEN E-MAIL HIM! Do it now. Tell him you’re naked. And horny. Maybe lead with horny. No, naked! Lead with naked!

  I laugh into the silence of my room, shaking my head. Yeah, I’m not doing any of that.

  You should at least e-mail him.

  I thought I was supposed to wait two days or let him wait two days or something. I can’t remember. I need to watch Swingers again.

  Those standards only apply in America.

  We’re both Americans!

  But you’re not on U.S. soil! You need to grow a pair.

  I’m not e-mailing him. I’ll wait for him to get in touch with me.

  Chicken shit.

  Nice.

  You’re scared. Admit it.

  “Nope,” I whisper to myself, but the truth is, I am. I’m nervous. I’m scared to like this guy too much because this could seriously backfire. My mom is right: I need to focus on school. I need to get this done, and I can’t be distracted by some guy thousands of miles away. He’s stationed in Germany for another year and even when he does get stateside, he could go anywhere. What are the odds of him ending up in Pocatello, Idaho, where I live? There’s an Air Force base in the state, yeah, but how likely is it he’d get sent there? Slim to none. Those are the odds.

  What can we really accomplish in the two months I have left besides getting our hearts broken?

  I just went through that two years ago. I’m not looking to do it again.

  Gotta go. Dinner. Not scared! I type to her quickly, ending the conversation.

  Fine. Go eat. Chicken shit!

  I’m about to snap my laptop shut and head out when I look at my e-mail loaded on the screen behind messenger. My conversation with Jax is still recent enough that it’s near the top. I purse my lips, debating, but then I click on his name.

  Hey Jax,

  Just wanted to say thanks for the tour. You and Aren were amazing. You should team up more often. Maybe do a London leg of the tour. I hear Henry VIII was a real piece of shit.

  Tell Sanchez ’sup for me.

  -Baby Bird

  I hit send before I can overthink it.

  Then I think about it all night long.

  But the next morning I have a reply.

  Wren, aka Baby Bird, aka B. Bird, aka Birdsong

  Yes. Those are all names Sanchez has called you. All of them but Wren, which is my favorite. Talking about it now, I’m realizing he talks about you a lot… or do I? I think it’s me.

  Aren and I had a falling out after the last tour. He was only in it for the groupies and the money. He wanted to go commercial and I didn’t want the art to suffer, so we parted ways. There are days when I miss him, though. Days like today.

  *coughs roughly*

  Uh, anyway, you’re welcome. Glad you were there for our farewell tour. I never considered a London leg, but it sounds interesting. A real piece of shit, you say? How can I turn that down? When do you want to go?

  -Jax

  I smile as I read the message for a second time, homing in on the fact that he admits to talking about me, something that goes hand-in-hand with thinking about me. And is he serious about London? He can’t be.

  Tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the Tower.

  -Wren

  Ooh, yeah, I’m actually in Havana tomorrow. North Pole on Thursday. Schedule is kind of tight lately.

  -Jax

  It’s all that world saving. I understand.

  -Wren

  LOL Yeah, one engine at a time. I’m making a real difference here.

  -Jax

  Tired of feeling like it’s 1995 and the only way to communicate over the internet is by e-mail, I ask if he has messenger. Luckily he does, and a couple of minutes later our conversation gets way less formal.

  Is that what you do? I ask him. Work on engines?

  I’m a mechanic, yeah. Planes.

  Are you at work now?

  No. Day off. Do you have school?

  Yeah. I have to leave in a minute.

  So no London today either?

  Not in the cards, I guess.

  So when are we going?

  I sit back, unsure. Again, I can’t tell if he’s serious. I’m ready when you are.

  Next week? Tickets are cheap. About $200.

  LOL That’s not cheap!

  My treat.

  “Whoa,” I whisper to myself. I can’t let you do that.

  And you can’t let me go to London alone.

  Take Birchart.

  I can’t share a hotel room with Birchart. Who would protect my virtue?

  And I can’t share a hotel room with a guy I just met.

  I would
n’t ask you to.

  I don’t answer right away and my time to leave for class comes and goes. If I run I’ll still make it, but I’m stuck to my chair, debating and stressing.

  You can bring Mel, he tells me. I can’t pay for everything, but I can help. We can go fifty-fifty between me and the two of you.

  You want me to bring a chaperone?

  Only if you want to. Don’t you have to get to class?

  I look at the clock. “Shit,” I grumble. I type furiously. Yes, okay. Yes. I’m leaving, but yes.

  Yes to what? Fifty-fifty? You and me and Mel makes three?

  You and me, I type breathlessly, grinning despite the nerves in my stomach bubbling up and threatening to burn the back of my throat. I’m saying yes to London, just you and me.

  I’ll be good, I promise, he writes back immediately.

  I don’t. ;)

  I don’t want any confusion between us this time about what this is. It’s a date. To London. With a soldier.

  ’Cause that’s normal.

  Chapter Seven

  “You’re going to have to sleep with him.”

  I throw a pair of socks at Mel’s face as she sits on the end of my bed watching me pack. “Like hell I am!”

  “Are you kidding me?” she asks incredulously. “Dude bought you a plane ticket to London and is paying for your hotel room. You seriously think he’s not expecting something?”

  “I don’t care what he expects, I’m under no contractual obligation to give it up to him just because he spent money on me. And I’m going to find a way to pay him back. It’s more of a loan.”

  “Or you could just pay him back with sex and be done with it.”

  I stop, glaring at her. “I’m not sleeping with him.”

  “Are you sure? You don’t want to? Not even a little?”

  “Shut up,” I mutter, turning to my closet.

  “I’m just saying that if you’re going to sleep with him eventually anyway, why not wipe your debt clean while you’re at it?”

  “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  I spin around, surprised to find Ben standing in my doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest and a wry smile on his lips.

  “No one,” Mel growls, turning her back on him.

  I can see the tension in her face as she turns to me, her eyes going tight and her mouth pinched in a thin line. The whole Mel and Ben thing has gone from bad to worse recently. Not only has Mel not been doing a great job of keeping emotionally uninvolved, Ben is not making any effort of keeping his new conquests out of her face. We ran into him out at the bars just the other night, where Mel drowned her sorrows in shots of Jäeger while watching him grind up on some Swedish exchange student with perfect blond hair and an ass even I wanted to grab hold of. It was not a good night for anyone. I ended up holding her hair as she puked until three in the morning. Then she cried.

  I’m starting to think I really deserve this vacation.

  “The guy from Oktoberfest¸” I tell him, playing nicer than Mel. “The military guy.”

  He nods, surveying my open suitcase surrounded by small piles of clothes. “Going on a trip?”

  “London.”

  “With him?”

  “Jax, yeah.”

  His eyebrows go up. “His name is Jax?”

  “It’s a nickname,” I say defensively.

  “I fuckin’ hope so. What’s his deal, Mel? Is he a tool?”

  Mel ignores him.

  I cringe. He’s trying and she’s giving him nothing. I can’t fault either one of them entirely for what’s happened to them, because they both knew. Mel knew Ben wouldn’t do a relationship and he promised her nothing. Ben knew Mel would want a relationship and he slept with her anyway. They’re both idiots and now I’m the moron caught in the middle of it.

  “He’s not a tool,” I answer for Mel.

  “Well, make him wear a rubber. Those sailors are filthy.”

  “He’s not a sailor and I’m not sleeping with him.”

  “Not yet,” Mel whispers.

  I throw underwear at her this time, making her shriek and swat them away.

  Ben stands up straight, slapping his hand on the doorframe. “All right, ladies, I’m out. Have fun, Wren. Do you need a ride to the airport?”

  “No, he’s coming to get me.”

  “Wow, you’ve got him whipped, don’t you?”

  Mel turns to face him finally, her eyes on fire. “Do you ever stop to think that some guys are just nice? That not every guy is an asshole like you?”

  Ben smiles easily. “Never crossed my mind, babe. Not once.”

  “Don’t call me babe.”

  “You’re so fucking beautiful when you’re angry.”

  “You’re the worst,” she grumbles, spinning around to face me.

  Her lips curve into a small, reluctant smile.

  I glare at Ben impatiently, silently begging him not to do this again. He grins and shrugs his shoulders, waving a quick goodbye and disappearing down the hall.

  I throw my clothes in the suitcase, more eager than ever to get out of town. I don’t want to be here for the fallout of round two. That’s a level of devastation none of us will survive.

  ***

  I’m in London.

  I keep telling myself that to try to make it real, but nothing really does. Nothing could prepare me for the fact that I’m riding on the top of a red double-decker bus straight out of a movie and cruising down the streets of London.

  Something about London makes me so touristy I can hardly stand myself. I want to ride the London Eye, cruise through the Underground on the Tube, tour the Tower of London, stand at the base of Big Ben, take a picture in front of Parliament. I’m a geek and I don’t even care.

  I’m in London.

  “You look happy,” Jax says.

  I turn to look at him and smile. He’s so cute with his dark coat pulled tight around him and the collar raised high against the chilling wind coming up off the Thames. The cold is making his cheeks a little pink and with the dark jacket his blue eyes stand out like they’re electric.

  “I am happy,” I tell him earnestly. “Are you?”

  “Hell yeah,” he says emphatically, grinning.

  I turn in my seat to face him, pulling my own coat tighter around me as the wind hits me harder. “Thank you for this. Seriously, it’s… it’s amazing.”

  “You’re welcome. Thanks for coming with me. And for trusting me.”

  “Well, you did promise three times not to kill me and leave my body in the river.”

  “The third time is what did it?”

  “I was skeptical up until then, but third time is the charm.”

  “I’ll remember that.” He pulls out a piece of paper, looking again at the directions to our hotel. “Looks like we’re almost there. Two more stops.”

  Our hotel ends up being brand new. It’s only been open for a week, it’s in the center of the city, and it’s super cheap, so it’s no surprise that Jax was only able to get one room. It’s better than a hostel so I don’t complain. There’s nothing about Jax that says ‘sexual predator’ to me, so I’m not worried. It’s not a story I’ll tell my mom, that’s for sure, but I’d be more concerned rooming with Ben than I am about Jax.

  We dump our bags in the room—a stark white space with a small, new TV and probably the cleanest linens and bathroom in all of London—and head out to eat. It’s dinnertime and the city is going dim and lighting up at the same time. We cross a bridge to take a path flanked by the Thames River on one side and a series of parks and restaurants on the other. We pick a pub based on absolutely no criteria other than the fact that it looks massively British, and we sit down to eat.

  “This is so great,” I say in a hushed voice like I’m in a library.

  It has the dark wood feel of one. Mahogany bar, scuffed dark wood tables with words etched into them begging to be read. I breathe in the heavy scent of alcohol and fried food, my mouth instantly
watering. A waitress takes our order, suggesting the Shepherd’s Pie and a beer I miss the name of, the words lost in the noise of the place starting to fill up and the thickness of her accent. When she brings us each a pint glass full of amber liquid and I get that first taste, I’m sold. That woman can make every decision for me for the rest of my life.

  Maybe she has some suggestions on career choices.

  “It’s raining,” Jax comments, looking outside through the large front windows.

  The heavy gray clouds that engulfed us as we flew into London are letting loose, dropping a steady stream of rain on the world outside.

  “Wow, it’s really coming down,” I agree. “We’re going to get drenched walking back to the hotel.”

  “Or maybe we’ll just sit here and drink all night. Wait it out.”

  I grin at him, lifting my glass. “Cheers to that.”

  He smiles, clinking his glass against mine and taking a savoring sip.

  I cross my arms on the table and lean toward him. It feels cozy here in this corner of a quiet yet crowded bar with the lights down low, the gray world on the other side of the glass, and a blue-eyed boy sitting across from me. I’m warm and relaxed. Happy in a way I can’t define but I’m getting addicted to.

  “Does Haskins speak?” I blurt out.

  Jax looks taken aback by my question. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Why?”

  “I realized when we were in Bavaria at the castle that I’ve never heard him speak. Not in Munich, and I didn’t hear a peep from him the other day.”

  “No, he talks,” Jax chuckles. “You heard him. He and I had that whole discussion about the bridge up on the mountain. The one that overlooks the valley.”

  I shake my head. “I wasn’t there. I was with Mel in the gift shop.”

  “Oh. What about when we talked to that Spanish guy about the World Cup.”

  “When was that?”

  He thinks for a second then frowns. “In the men’s room.”

  “Yeah, I missed that one.”

  “You’ve seriously never heard him speak?”

  “Nope. I’m convinced he’s a mute.”

  “Trust me, he’s not. If you get him talking about something he’s into, you can’t shut him up.”