Girl Abroad

Part 8 – March

FEBRUARY SLIPPED THROUGH MY FINGERS. MARCH SNUCK UP ON me while my back was turned. Then before I know it, spring break is a week away, stalking me through the tall grass. I wanted to have my Tulley paper done before the break, and it mostly is. I just wish I had a resolution for Josephine. A proper ending other than “Who the hell knows what happened next?”

But I’m at a dead end.

Amelia and I are peer editing for each other, and she’d lamented about Josephine’s unknown fate in the margins of my paper when she sent it back last night. Her research tome on the killer prostitute gang was brilliant, of course. Mine still feels unfinished.

Fortunately, on Monday morning, I receive two encouraging emails.

The first is from the clerk at the Northern Star Line, now called Global Cruise Initiatives. His name is Steve, and he was supposed to be hunting any relevant documents connected to the Victoria. It’s been months with no word from him, so I assumed that was another dead end. But he surprises me, writing to say he’s attached some digital copies of the original passenger manifest as well as documents pertaining to insurance payouts for survivors of the disaster. The latter isn’t too helpful, given that it’s confirmed William Tulley died on the ship, but the former would go great in my appendix.

The second development comes from Ruby Farnham. Her email pops up as I’m meeting Celeste outside a tiny diner near her campus. We’re squeezing in a quick lunch today between classes.

“Hello, darling,” she greets me.

As we walk inside, I attempt to read the email and remove my coat at the same time.Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re an atrocious multitasker?” Celeste inquires politely after I wind up tangled in my sleeve with my phone lost somewhere in the bowels of my coat.

I manage to fish it out and grin at her. “Sorry. I was eager to read this email.”

“I can tell. Who is it from?”

“Ruby Farnham. Josephine’s grandniece.”

After we slide into the cramped booth, I give the email a quick skim, but it’s not as earth-shattering as I’d hoped. No smoking gun that says which Tulley brother Josephine picked or what her fate was. Rather, Ruby’s cousin in Leeds has dug around in her own attic and is now in possession of her own box of family history.

“Her cousin digitized all the family documents and is willing to email me everything to sift through,” I tell Celeste.

“That’s kind of her.”

“It is.” I tuck the phone in my bag. I’ll respond later.

Our server brings over two glasses and a jug of water, filling them up while we give the menus a quick perusal. The harried man takes our orders, then hurries off.

“So. How’s it going at the flat?” Celeste lifts a brow at me. “Lee told me you could cut the tension with a knife.”

“If you knew how it was going, then why’d you ask?” I grumble.

“Oh dear. Then it’s true? You and Jack are still on the outs?”

“Sort of. We’re not avoiding each other anymore. We talk at breakfast, dinner. But it’s not the same.”

“Look…Abbey,” she starts in a voice eerily reminiscent of her twin’s, the one Lee uses when I have PMS. “He’s not a bad bloke. Jackie, that is.”

“I know he’s not.” My throat squeezes shut.

“Lee said he and Jack chatted over a pint the other day. Jackie told him about his family’s financial troubles, how much his mum has struggled— ”

“I get it,” I interrupt, aggravation prickling at me. “Celeste, I’m not mad he took the money—well, I’m a little mad about it. But what really eats me up inside is the pretending.”

“The pretending?”

“He pretended to be my friend.” I hate how small my voice sounds. How pathetic. “I thought he was acting protective because he truly cared about me. Especially at the beginning. I thought it was cute the way he didn’t want me hooking up with his friend or whatever. I thought it meant he was developing feelings for me.”

Her face softens. “Oh, luv. Yes. I can see how that would feel demoralizing.”

“Yes. That’s the perfect word for it.”

“But you’re wrong,” she finishes, shrugging.

I narrow my eyes at her. “How so?”

“Of course he wasn’t pretending. Everybody could see Jack was besotted with you.”

My heart trips over itself. “You’re only saying that so I forgive him and stop making things awkward in the group.”

“If that’s what you’d like to believe, all right.” She smiles. “But that’s rubbish. I never say anything I don’t mean.”

Fair point. She and Lee are alike in that way.

“All I’m saying is perhaps we ought to allow Jack a wee bit of grace.”

I think back on this last month. How painful it’s been, running into him upstairs, feeling his elbow bump mine at the breakfast counter. Every time I see him, I’m torn between getting angry all over again or throwing myself at his feet, telling him how much I miss him.

Because I do miss him. Nate too. And each time one of them reaches out to echo that sentiment, it brings a deep ache to my heart.

“On a related note, any word from Nate?” Celeste asks, reading my mind.

“I haven’t seen him since he told me he doesn’t want a relationship.”

And then, because apparently the universe hates me, the bell over the door dings and none other than Yvonne walks into the diner.

Since I’m facing the door, I’m easy to spot. Our gazes meet across the small room, and it’s like we both experience a brain stutter between recognition and remembering we hate each other.

“What?” Celeste turns to look. “Oh shit. I didn’t even think… I’m sorry, Abbey. I should have picked an establishment not so close to campus.”

Yvonne pauses at the door before making her way toward us on a pair of brown leather riding boots. She looks as elegant as always, with her hair perfectly styled. Clad in skinny jeans and a slinky sweater beneath an unbuttoned knee-length peacoat.

“Should I…?” I trail off, biting my lip.

“Hide in the bathroom?” Celeste whispers. “Maybe?”

Too late. In a few strides, Yvonne weaves through tables to stand at ours, her eyes never breaking contact with mine.

“I’m not here to fight,” Yvonne prefaces, which does nothing to alleviate the adrenaline already accelerating my heart rate. “I should apologize.”

Celeste can only stare at me like she’s found herself trapped in the peripheral vision of a wild animal.

“So should I,” I tell Yvonne, my anxiety dissolving into regret. “I never intended to hurt you. For whatever it’s worth, I didn’t ask Nate to break up with you. He and I are not even really seeing each other.”

“I know.” Her attention flicks to Celeste, and I take it to mean Celeste managed to talk some sense into her friend. “I didn’t handle it well, and you were an easy target.” Yvonne juts her chin. “Showing up at your flat was petty and stupid, and I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t expect us to be friends or anything,” Yvonne says, shrugging in that cool, indifferent way she has. “Just want you to know there are no hard feelings.”

“Water under the bridge,” I answer with a nod. “No worries.”

Once she’s said her piece, Yvonne goes to the counter to order a coffee, leaving the diner less than a minute later. Celeste and I watch her go. I think even if Nate and I had never said two words to each other, Yvonne and I were still never destined to be friends. We simply don’t click. But it takes courage to admit when you’re wrong and try making amends after such an epic tirade. I give her credit for character.

“I honestly thought she was coming to take a swing at you,” Celeste confesses, sounding relieved her prediction didn’t come true.

“Trust me, I was ready to throw my drink on her in self-defense.”

Luckily, the rest of lunch is uneventful. After Celeste and I part ways, I walk back to campus for my next class. Later, I take the Tube home, eager to get in the shower and wash away the grime of the day.

No sooner do I walk through the door than Jack appears and says, “Abbs. You up for a chat? You and me.”

I do a bad job at hiding my wariness, but there’s an intensity about him that raises my guard. He’s in jeans and one of his surf T-shirts, hair messy as if he’s been repeatedly running his fingers through it.

“Oh. Okay,” I say.

He nods toward the staircase. “My room?”

“Sure.”

As I follow him upstairs, I mentally prepare myself for this conversation, which I assume will involve yet another apology. Then I think about Celeste’s advice to give Jack some grace, and I have to acknowledge that the recent awkwardness hasn’t been entirely his fault, a fact I bring up once he closes the bedroom door.

“I wanted to apologize,” I tell him. “For my part in how tense things have been lately.”

He shrugs. “It’s not your fault. I was the dickhead.”

He sits on his bed and gestures for me to join him. After a beat of hesitation, I sink down beside him, keeping a foot of distance between us. He’s still one of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen outside a movie screen, and my attraction to him refuses to dim no matter how resentful of his actions I may be.

I clasp my hands tight to my lap to curb the temptation to reach for his hand and lace our fingers together.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts, his voice a bit husky.

“Okay. What about?”

Jack glances over at me. “How do you feel about coming to Sydney with me for spring break?”