But I really, genuinely mean it when I tell her, “I think I’ve fallen in love. Again.”
London is cleaner than Manhattan, and much more sprawling. The beer isn’t pretentious, and the food is comforting—which will probably get tiresome but right now is exactly the vibe I need. Every block is steeped in centuries, giving the atmosphere a kind of transcendence. In fact, the only flaw I can hold to the city isn’t the city’s fault at all: if I had to assign London a feeling, it couldn’t be anything other than lovesick.
Sinclair is walking me to the front elevators when I spot a directory.
Archives: Floor 12.
“The Take Me There archives are kept here?” I ask. I had assumed they were all at the flagship office.
“Yes,” she confirms. “We’ve got every issue ever printed, all digitized.”
Like a broken record, my heart starts to skip. “Can I go?”
“Sure.” Sinclair shrugs. “You’ve got your badge now. Be my guest.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, calling the elevator.
This is some seriously masochistic behavior. Because whether I find Charlotte Yoon down there or not, it’s going to wreck me either way. But the pain has started to fade to numbness, and I’m not ready to feel numb when I think of Alex yet.
The archivist is a gray-haired cottage fairy, helpful as ever as she takes down the name I request and my best guess for when Charlotte may have started writing for the magazine. My hopes aren’t high. The woman disappears and leaves me at the front desk. The longer she’s gone, the farther my hopes fall. I sit down and bounce my knee, biting my lip until it bleeds.
“Well then,” the archivist says. “I’ve got some photocopies for you.”
I stand shakily, hands outstretched.
Nine. There are nine of them. All written by Alex’s mom.
“Can I stay and read for a minute?” I ask.
The archivist smiles. “Of course, dear.”
I sit back down, leafing through the articles. THE BEST HOTEL IN EACH DISTRICT OF SEOUL, AND HOW TO CHOOSE ONE. TIPPING ETIQUETTE IN THE 10 MOST POPULOUS COUNTRIES. PLANNING YOUR VACATION BASED ON FOREIGN EXCHANGE RATES.
EVERY THOUGHT YOU’LL HAVE WHEN YOU MOVE ABROAD ALONE.
I cannot believe this is real. And I also can’t believe my tear ducts haven’t declared a state of emergency based on drought. But when I start to read, the tears just flow. Because it’s not only Alex’s mom I feel with me right now. Mine is here, too.
It’s going to start with being overwhelmed and underwhelmed at the exact same time. Maybe you get lost on public transportation. Maybe you spot a spider in the corner the first night you move in. Or possibly, you overhear a couple having a fight about something totally ordinary. It’s going to humanize the place, demystify it from the version you built up in your head. And somehow, you’re going to think, This city is kind of a letdown, but also more enchanting than it was before. I can’t explain what I mean, but when you feel it, you’ll feel it.
At some point, you’re going to cry. Just trust me on this one. Maybe it’s because you’re trying to raise a toddler, or brokenhearted （or both, in my case）。 Maybe it’s because you’re leaving something important behind where you came from. Maybe it’s because you cannot find the right diapers to save your life. Whatever the reason, just cry, and don’t hold back if you’re in public. Nobody knows you yet, and I promise it’s cathartic.
Things are looking up now, right? You’ve mostly figured out how to get around, and you’ve nailed down all your “spots”： coffee, takeout, groceries, where to get pesticide. That one tourist attraction—the one you were worried might be oversold in all the travel guides—is actually stunning after all, and you’ve learned the main turns of phrase the locals use.
Hear me out. You’ll regress a little when you get lonely. And without a doubt, you are going to get lonely. It will feel like everyone around you has a fleshed-out life, and you’re only pretending to be a full human for a handful of hours per day.
To my knowledge, there is exactly one remedy for this sense of outsideness: time. None of us were born feeling at home—on the contrary, we were born being ripped out of the only home we’d ever known—but we’ve all got one. Maybe, in this place, you haven’t felt that way yet. It’ll probably take a while because home isn’t something you find. It’s something you build. But eventually, it happened for me, and I’m hopeful it’ll happen for you: the completely ordinary, totally mundane, absolutely sparkling day that comes when you first think to yourself, This place feels like home.
* * *
I’m in the lobby on my way out of the building, the photocopies of Charlotte’s articles clutched tight to my chest, when I hear the most unexpected thing in the world.
My name.
“Casey?” The voice is feminine, vaguely familiar, and definitely aimed right at me. I do a one-eighty, quickly wiping a thumb under each eye.
It takes me a minute to place her. The image comes slow: girlfriend of one of Alex’s college friends. Grew up in Alabama, graduated from Dartmouth. She looks the same—puffed hair, flawless black skin, tall and delicate boned—but she’s subbed out her Christmas getup for a dark mauve jumpsuit.
“Hey,” I say, somewhat shocked.
She smiles. “Hey.” I realize right then that I don’t know her name. “Jada.” She points at herself.
“Right,” I lie. “I knew that.”
She smirks. “It’s fine. There were a lot of us that night.”
“What are you doing in London?”
She steps closer, her heels clapping against marble tile. “I work in home technology sales. We’ve got a satellite branch here.”
I gesture around. “Same, kind of. I got transferred here for a new job.”
Jada arches her eyebrows. “Full-time? That’s brave.”
“Yeah.” I shuffle Charlotte’s articles. “I guess.”
Jada crosses her arms, dissecting me. “Makes sense you’re with Alex. I don’t know him well, but Josh describes him as the type whose feet don’t always touch the ground.”
I’m not sure what to say to that except for “We broke up.”
Her face draws up in confusion. Or maybe pity. “Oh. He’s not in London for you?”
“He’s.” It takes me several, painful seconds to grasp what she said. “What?”
“He’s here.” Jada points at the ground, like Alex is going to emerge from beneath the floor. Two women carrying briefcases walk between us, and a gust of sterile lobby air hits my nose. “In London. I don’t know how, but he managed to get a seat on our company’s corporate jet, and we just landed, like, two and a half hours ago.”
My ears hear her words, and my eyes see her lips move, but I’m still not comprehending.
I’ve spent the last thirty minutes letting Alex’s mother console me from beyond the grave. The cottage fairy archivist literally asked me if she needed to call an ambulance because I was crying so hard. And now Jada is telling me I might have to face him?
I can think of only one worse possibility. What if he’s here for some other purpose and has no intention to see me at all?