Her reference to Yorkshire—where the Bront? sisters grew up, where they lived their lives—made me smile. “Ah, no. But I can’t wait to go.”
“I think between now and when we meet again, you should. Spend a few days there, in fact. Immerse yourself in their world, which was vastly different than if young ladies had grown up here or in London. If you want to start outlining your paper, as you’re deciding how to narrow your focus even further, I think Haworth is the best place for you to do so.”
I nodded. “Okay. I can do that.”
We set up our next meeting, and the ideas for my paper, the thought of a few days away in Haworth had me so excited, I couldn’t even wait to book my train tickets until I got back to my place. I found a glossy black bench along a moss-covered brick wall and sat.
God bless the internet and all the spending money I’d saved prior to this trip because, within fifteen minutes, I had a train ticket and a double-bed room at a hotel in Haworth that used to be an old apothecary shop. And it was across the street from the Bront? Parsonage Museum.
“Now this,” I murmured, “is not bullshit at all.”
It had nothing to do with the scenery I’d see or the size of Haworth, which was a pinprick on the map compared to London. It was the feeling of rightness I had, that I was where I was supposed to be, on the path that made the most sense. Normally, I was the flailing one, hopping around so no one noticed I had no freaking clue what I was doing half the time. If I just kept moving, I could avoid that thought I’d had in Atwood’s office.
How do I not know what the purpose of my life is?
That thought. That was what I didn’t want to dive into.
And this was the perfect movement. Exactly what I needed.
With a spring in my step, I headed back to my flat because I had three hours to pack and head to the train station.
Just as I was digging the key out for the lock on my door, my phone buzzed in my back pocket.
“Hang on, hang on, dealing with old ass locks here,” I muttered, jamming my shoulder into the door.
The phone buzzed again, and I figured it was my sister Isabel because if my family had a pushy texter, it was her. I dumped my bag onto the chair by my small desk and fished my phone out.
Ohhh, hot damn. The excitement at seeing a UK number flash over my screen should’ve been criminal.
Warning! Reaching critical levels of hope!
Unknown number: Would you believe me if I told you that I’d been too busy playing football to text you sooner?
Unknown number: It’s Jude, by the way. From the pub a couple of weeks back.
Unknown number: Now I’ve gone and texted three times, which is excessive, but I am sorry it took me this long. I’d love to see you again.
As I read the texts one more time, I tried to smother the smile that bubbled up. But like any self-respecting woman would, I tucked my phone away and packed my bags for my trip.
Jude would get a response, but not just yet.
He may have been spectacular, but his ass waited weeks to message me. Twenty-four hours wouldn’t kill him.
After a quick check of the weather showed the same kinda cold, sorta rainy weather, I packed the appropriate amount of layers and waterproof boots, and I hauled my ass to Paddington Station.
It was only mildly difficult to put Jude’s texts out of my head as I leaned my forehead against the glass window separating me from the rapidly moving British countryside. As it passed in front of my increasingly heavy eyelids, as the pleasant hum of the train started lulling me to sleep, I couldn’t believe how exhausted I was.
Allowing myself to nap was an easy choice as the days I’d held the tired at bay were slowly catching up with me. The four-hour train ride to Haworth passed quickly, though I woke at the train station with a drool spot on my wadded up sweatshirt and a crick in my neck.
From the moment I walked through the center of the small village, I knew this was the perfect place to spend a few days to hone my project. After checking in to The Apothecary Guest House, I freshened up in the bathroom, then took my notepad and slowly wandered the steep cobblestone streets, and I remembered what Claire told me the day I talked to her at Buckingham Palace.
I ran my fingers along the mossy stone walls, damp from the air and musty with history. Closing my eyes, I tried not to think about what anyone was doing at home, what I might be missing, or what might come after this. Instead, I immersed myself. By the time I stumbled back to my hotel room after a dinner, washed my face, and brushed my teeth, my brain was whirring with ideas, and I fell face-first onto the bed. As I drifted off, I had a vague thought I should reply to Jude.
Sleep pulled mightily at me, and his handsome face was the last thing I thought of, which was probably why I had hazy dreams about the way he kissed me, the way he touched me. It explained why I rolled over the next morning and didn’t give it a second thought before reaching for my phone.
Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I took a moment and read what he’d said again.
Would you believe me if I said I’d been too busy playing football to text you sooner?
“What a dork,” I muttered. And what exactly did I want to say to him?
It wasn’t like I wanted to adopt a British boyfriend. My time across the pond was finite. I sat up quickly, propping my back against the headboard, fighting a spinning sensation that rocked my head when I did.
Okay. That was weird.
Once that passed, I chugged some water because I did not have time for head spinning shit on my Bront? immersion week. Water back on the small nightstand and head clear, I fought the impulse to text one of my sisters about how to handle Jude.
Molly, the oldest, was always a solid choice for advice.
Exhibit A- her solid as a rock relationship with Washington Wolves football player, Noah Griffin. They’d been together for closing in on a year now, and if Paige didn’t get a wedding to plan soon, hell would reign. Molly was the romantic. She’d swoon all over the place if I told her about Jude.
Isabel, the middle sister, might’ve been the single one, but she had a zero-bullshit policy when it came to men. Her sensibilities about romance were along the lines of “If I pretend it doesn’t exist, maybe it won’t find me.” But she’d still ring my ears if I didn’t text him back and see what happened if I met up with him again.
Claire—while she was the other half of my soul—would tell me to be careful. Yes, she was head over heels in love, but she was also the cautious one. It was so easy to hear her voice.
Just make sure you meet somewhere public. Text us his picture. And don’t forget protection!
A fleeting ache behind my chest blossomed at the thought of my sisters. But part of this whole Oxford thing was being able to get through minor situations like this without them holding my hand. My thumb tapped along the edge of my purple cell phone case.
Me: Apology is accepted, but I certainly hope that’s not your best attempt at an excuse. You should go for “my goldfish died” or “I had to vacuum every day.”
Me: I wouldn’t mind seeing you again either.
I tucked my phone away, refusing to watch for a reply. And it set the tone for the next few days. Jude never responded immediately, but it was always within a few hours. Interspersed with exploring Bront? County, reading books, scrawling an outline in my notebook, and small updates for my family, I found an entirely different pattern to my day than I’d found in Oxford.
Jude: Haworth, eh? I grew up not too terribly far from there, but I don’t get home often. It’s a beautiful place.
Me: London isn’t a terrible backup, though.
Jude: I don’t actually live in London. You just caught me on a night in the city.
Me: Where do you live? (Asks the girl who has very hazy geographical knowledge of anything other than the biggest cities in Britain)
Jude: Ha. I live in Shepperton. Takes me less than an hour to drive into central London most of the time.
My thumbs itched to google Shepperton, but I refrained. The guy hadn’t even asked me out again. Between texting with Jude, I found myself wandering the same parts of Haworth over the next couple of days, saving some of my favorite places for the last days—to end on a high note, so to speak. I spent a lot of time outside, reading through
Jane Eyre,
Wuthering Heights, and
Agnes Grey, trying to determine which sister would get my focus. I found quiet spots to sit and stare at the countryside, scribbling furiously in my journal as I put myself in their shoes. I napped … like three times a day, but whatever.
And it was upon waking from one of those naps that I felt my first unpleasant wave of nausea. Hand pressed to my stomach, I took a few deep breaths until it subsided. Food. I needed food.
I broke off a piece of a granola bar I kept stashed in my purse and heard my phone ding.
Jude: When do you return from your epic adventures?
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.