Meant to Be (22 page)

“MTV sucks,” Jason mumbles.

Even though I agree, I ignore him. “Now here’s the plan. You and I are going to scooch down the sidewalk until we’re away from the window. Then we’re going to walk back to the hotel, where you can go to sleep laying on your stomach like you’re supposed to, okay?”

Jason nods rapidly. “You have great plans, Julia.”

“It’s about time you noticed,” I mutter. I grab him by the hand and drag him with me while I crab-shuffle along the wall of the building. He shakes me off, then rolls over and crawls sloppily behind me. When we’ve moved away from the restaurant, I haul him back onto his feet, throw my arm around his waist, and propel us both down the last three blocks to our hotel. As we make our way through the revolving door, Jason pancakes himself to me, his chin resting on my head, his arms wrapped tight around me. He smells like grape gum, stale beer, and
some kind of spicy cologne that makes me lean in for another whiff. I try to breathe through my mouth so I can stay focused on the task at hand. When we get all the way around, Jason lunges toward the lobby without letting go of me and we both tumble onto the plush red carpet. I say a little prayer that none of our classmates are around, and a quick glance tells me that for once my prayers have been answered.

“Julia, help me,” Jason whines from the floor, his arm stretched up to mine as I scramble to my feet. I grab his hand, haul him up, then guide him straight to the elevator. I punch the button to summon the elevator so hard one of my fingernails bends backward, and I jam my finger into my mouth to dull the pain.

“Are we home yet?” Jason mumbles.

“Just about,” I reply. “Are you seriously this drunk?”

“Eh,” he says, waving me off. “Iss not so bad. ’Specially now that you’re here. You’re the best buddy ever. The best!”

“Well, I try,” I say. “Almost home.” I hope we can get upstairs before anyone sees us.

The elevator arrives after what feels like an eternity. When the brass doors slide open, I say a silent prayer of gratitude that it’s empty. I shove Jason onto the elevator and leap on right behind him. Instead of plopping down on the plush red bench inside, Jason opts to drape himself back over me for the brief ride upstairs. I sigh, putting my arms around his waist so he doesn’t fall down.

“Thanksh, Jules,” he mumbles into my hair.

As the elevator doors slide shut, I shoot one final glance into the lobby … and see Sarah Finder. She’s by the reception desk, but she’s turned straight toward us. Her arms are crossed, her hip cocked to one side, and she’s giving me the evilest of evil eyes.

“Excellent,” I mutter as the doors finally close and we’re gliding upstairs. As if my problems weren’t huge enough, now I’ve got Sarah to
contend with. Again. I should wake up to some friendly texts from her tomorrow, I’m sure, and probably some crazy stares from the rest of my classmates. Wonderful. Life was much easier when my name was on some kind of gossip blacklist. Who knows what people are saying about me now? I need to ask Phoebe for a report from the home front. Thank God Mrs. T forbade Twitter updates on this trip.

The tiny elevator is full of the smell of his cologne, whatever it is. Thankfully it conceals the smell of my sweat.

As soon as the elevator reaches our floor, Jason bolts out and down the hall. Great,
now
he can walk on his own.

I run after him, catching him right in front of his door. He’s pulling his stolen spare room key out of his pocket and trying to jam it into the little mechanical slot. He keeps missing, though, and trying to push it straight through the wooden door itself, the key card falling to the carpet at his feet.

“Here, let me,” I sigh, but I bend down at exactly the same time he does and we bash heads.

“Ouch!” Jason starts to laugh. “Your head is haaard.”

My patience has almost completely run out, so I pluck the card off the ground, jam it into the lock, and push the door open. Jason stumbles in first. I hesitate for a second, then decide I should probably follow. I’m trying to remember what we learned in health class about “overconsumption.” I
think
I’m supposed to make sure he doesn’t sleep on his back.

Inside, Jason falls onto his bed, freshly made, thanks to a visit from housekeeping. I head straight into his bathroom and grab a glass, which I fill with cool water. On my way out, I snag the small trash can from under the counter and place it next to his bed. Just in case.

“So comfy,” he mumbles.

“I know,” I reply, arranging the glass of water on his nightstand. “I can’t wait to get in mine.”

“Is yours comfy like mine? I bet it’s not.”

“I’m sure all the beds came from the same distributor and are thus identical in their …”

“C’mon. Try it out.” He looks up at me through narrow eyes and pats the vacant spot next to him.

“I don’t think so,” I say, my cheeks flaming. I point to the water. “That’s for you. Drink up.”

Jason rolls over onto his stomach. “Don’t need it. Feel great.” His voice is slightly muffled by the piles of pillows all around him. “You’re the best. Have I said that yet? Because you are. The best.”

“Yup, thanks,” I reply, brushing my hands off on my shorts. “Okay, well, good night. Don’t sleep on your back, okay?”

I don’t get a reply. Within seconds, he’s snoring.

I leave his key on the bedside table where he’s sure to find it in the morning, then reach into my pocket to fish out my own.

Only there’s no key in my pocket.

In fact, there’s hardly a
pocket
in my pocket: my fingers slide through a big tear in the lining and straight out the leg of my shorts. Oh God. My hands and feet are starting to feel a little tingly as the reality of the situation is beginning to set in.

I don’t have my key.

I close my eyes and can instantly picture the tiny white card lost somewhere in the streets of London along my twisting, turning running route.

“Oh, frig,” I mutter to myself, and Jason snorts from his bed.

“Just say the bad word, Julia,” he mumbles. Apparently he’s
not
quite asleep.

I take a deep breath and think through my options. I could try to convince the front desk to give me another key, but there’s a fine for a lost key, and Mrs. Tennison will know that I was out of my room at (I glance at my watch) twelve o’clock at night. Great. I look back at Jason, sprawled almost spread eagle across the comforter. A little puddle of
drool is starting to form on the pillow. There’s no way I’m getting in there with him.

I grab one of the pillows from the pile on the floor and the decorative throw that’s draped over a chair in the corner. Since Jason’s bathtub, unlike mine, is located in his bathroom, the foot of the bed is taken up by an oversized rug. I create a little makeshift bed and curl up for the night.

But after only fifteen minutes, I know there’s absolutely no way I’m falling asleep. The rug has these little decorative knots in it that keep digging into my back. Plus I can’t get out of my mind the fact that I’m sleeping on the
floor
, which is where people walk with their dirty feet. I practically have feet all over me. So I just lie there, blinking at the dark ceiling overhead, knots digging into my back and feet crawling all over me.

I can’t do this. But my only other option is … and I can’t … I won’t …

I pop my head up at the foot of the bed to see that Jason has curled up on his side, taking up exactly half of the queen-size bed. There’s enough space that I could climb in next to him without actually
touching
him.

I take a deep breath and ease onto the bed. He barely stirs as I lie down. I’m so tense that I worry I won’t be able to fall asleep, but within seconds exhaustion grips me and pulls me under into dream.

Ah well. “the course of tru luv never did run smooth.”
;) —C

A
sliver of light is shining directly into my eyelids. It burns, and I try to pull the covers up over my head, but I can’t, because I’m sleeping on top of them. No covers? How am I not cold? I always get cold without covers.…

My eyes creep open and I see a pile of dirty laundry on the floor in the corner. Why didn’t I fold my clothes last night? I squint harder at the pile. My jeans don’t have holes placed in them by Abercrombie & Fitch.…

Then I remember where I am. I’m in Jason Lippincott’s room. And I know why I’m not cold. I’m lying on my side, my cheek nestled in a heavy feather pillow. My knees are bent and tucked up toward my chest. I feel warm and cozy, like I’m sleeping in a giant hug.

Then it hits me: I
am
in a giant hug. The weight over my waist is an arm. And that’s not a pillow tucked up in my knees. It’s another set of knees. Ohmygod. I think I’m spooning. With Jason. I’m spooning with
Jason, and his face is buried in my hair and I can feel his breath on my ear and OHMYGOD I’M SPOONING WITH JASON.

If there were a red light and a siren in my brain, you’d be able to hear the screeching and see the flashing all the way back in Boston. I have exactly eleven minutes before our class is supposed to meet in the lobby for some cultural hours touring. I still don’t have a key to my room, and there’s no way I, rumpled and half-asleep, can sneak down to the lobby to get a key, change, and make it back downstairs in time.

As much as I want to bolt straight out of bed, I don’t want to risk waking Jason and confronting the fact that I slept (oh my God) in his arms last night. So I carefully reach over and slowly shimmy my way across the mattress, careful not to disturb him. I’m nearly home free, about to swing my feet onto the floor and make a run for it, and I hear a snort and a cough coming from the other side of the bed. Jason’s arm flings across the mattress, hooking me around the waist and pulling me clear back across to him. All that work, and I’m spooning with him again.

I start my escape again, slower this time, but I barely get an inch away before I hear him mumbling. It’s muffled, but I definitely hear the words “another kiss” coming from his pillow.

OH. MY. GOD. I’m spooning with Jason Lippincott and he’s dreaming about kissing? I give up on the slow and steady and instead launch myself off the bed. I land on the floor, my butt cushioned by a stray pillow that was apparently flung aside at some point in the night.

I spring up and catch a glimpse in the mirror and curse myself for ever leaving my room last night. I’m still wearing my neon running shorts and the “Reading Is Sexy” T-shirt that I wore all day yesterday. I’m not sure if I’m popular enough for people to notice my attire, but I do
not
care to find out today. Besides, Sarah saw Jason and me stumbling upstairs together last night. If she sees me in the same clothes today, there
will be no end to the rumors, much less the barrage of text messages. Thankfully, my phone was in the
other
pocket.

The floor is littered with various articles of clothing. I start plucking things up off the carpet, holding them between my thumb and forefinger while I sniff for freshness. I recoil in horror when I realize that some of these shirts are definitely
not
fresh. I drop to my hands and knees, crawling around in search of something—anything—that is clean, or even semi-clean. I finally strike gold when my hand lands in a pile that’s been kicked halfway under the bed. I sprint for the bathroom and throw on the green 2008 Celtics Championship tee, which falls well below my knees. If I had a belt, I could pass it off as some kind of minidress (and probably look trendier than I have all week), but beltless I’ll just have to hope that homeless chic is still a thing. I run my fingers through my tangled hair, pulling the elastic off my wrist and winding it into a messy bun. I splash some cold water on my face and make a valiant attempt at brushing my teeth with a squeeze of Jason’s toothpaste and my index finger. When I step back and survey my appearance in the mirror, I still look like roadkill. The shirt is a wrinkled mess and about six sizes too big. My cheeks are splotchy, with the impression of the pillow, and chunks of my hair poke out of the bun at severe angles. My shorts feel grimy from an entire day (and night) of wear, but there’s nothing I can do. I have to go.

I emerge from the bathroom to see Jason still dead asleep on the bed. If I don’t wake him up, he’ll miss the trip. If I do … well, then I have to face him and possibly explain how I ended up in his bed all night long.

“Sorry, Jason,” I whisper, grabbing his fleece off the back of a chair and creeping out the door.

Mrs. Tennison doesn’t hand back our keys until we are all gathered in the lobby, ready to head out to Notting Hill. For someone who was up late last night having her own illicit adventures, she looks surprisingly chipper.

“Where’s your buddy?” she asks me as she finally presses my key into my hand. It’s clear that I am out of the doghouse with Mrs. T.

“He’s not feeling so well,” I blurt out. This is the understatement of the century. “He thinks he might have a stomach flu or something.”

As Mrs. Tennison narrows her eyes at me, I do my best “I’m Innocent!” expression. Hey, it worked in third grade after I accidentally dented Mrs. Hardwell’s Toyota hood during a game of stickball. I somehow managed to convince her that a squirrel must have pegged it with a massive acorn.