The Best of Fools (Jane Austen Book 2) (38 page)

It wasn't much.

But it was more than enough.

If I said I love you, then technically I should've been able to clearly define love, but throughout the rest of the day I found myself thinking and thinking of a definition without coming up with anything worthwhile. The dictionary says things like "deep affection for someone" and "sexual or intimate attraction," which I find kinda funny, because when you look up affection it says "a gentle feeling of fondness or liking." So that would mean, really, that love according to the dictionary is a deep, gentle feeling of "liking," which really doesn't do it justice. Then there's the definition of falling in love. Moving from neutrality to love for someone. I didn't get that either, because I never had feelings of neutrality toward Alistair. I went from a gentle fondness or liking of him to an aching love for him. Aching. Love.

I tried, but came up with nothing. I don't even know if words are capable of defining something you can't
know
. It's so much more than knowing and even feeling. It's almost like a state of being. Love changes you. I know that for a fact, mind you, because it changed me.

All of a sudden my days were filled with thoughts of him or oh-let-me-grab-my-phone-and-tell-him kind of moments. At the sewing machine I'd watch my hands run the fabric through and imagine his hand on top of mine. When I walked down the street I'd pull up the picture in my mind of him there on the sidewalk, and I'd stop, smile, and send him a text to tell him I missed him. Taking baths reminded me of passionate kisses and bed time reminded me of his arms. Pizza made me think of his quirky sense of humor and writing words like humor and color made me think of humour and colour and silly British things he said like "sod off" and "barmy" and "bollocks." Don't get me started on planes and tooth brushes and Tchaikovsky and Batman. Everything reminded me of him and everything I experienced—like the Monopoly game I finally won—I wanted to share it with him right away.

So I guess what I'm trying to say is that I can't fathom love being a "deep liking" for someone, because fondness doesn't change lives. Fondness doesn't take a girl scared of getting her heart broken, surrounded by extremely high walls, and turn her into a girl with her heart in someone else's hands, completely mesmerized by the way it feels to be mesmerized. Walls destroyed. Trusting. Devoted. Passionately excited to feel his fingers locked with hers. Fondness doesn't do that. But love ... this thing called love ... whatever it is ... it does. It changes you. It gives you life and makes you bleed all at once. How can a "deep liking" compete with that? It can't. Nothing can. Not even 171,476 words. Not even sex. Or passion. Or dreams. Just love. That's it. This undefinable, crazy, stubborn thing called love.

It's beautiful.

Time and me. Not friends. When you ask time to hurry, what happens? Time takes a freaking eternity and a half. Ask time to slow down so you can please, please, please savor a moment ... what happens? Time breaks the clock, fast forwards its hands, and turns it back on when it's satisfied with stealing your life. Now, I'm not normally so dramatic, but these are special circumstances. And special circumstances call for dramatic soap boxes.

Told you relationships bring drama, but I guess Donovan was right. It was worth it.

So ... I finally—after way too long—boarded a plane to the UK. Mom would be proud. The flight also decided to take forever and cause my life to flash before my eyes a zillion times. But that's okay. It was all worth it when I landed earlier than expected—I know, ironic, right?—and found him walking into the airport just as I was walking out. I dropped my bags on my toes, flung my arms around his neck, and possibly broke a few of his ribs.

"Don't joke about your amazing kiss being the reason I'm so happy," I said into his neck. "That joke is way old now."

"How did you know?" He laughed and tightened his arm around my back while holding the back of my head with his other hand. It felt incredibly good. So good I couldn't let go.

"Time is cooperating for once," I whispered.

"Time?"

"It's slow when I want it to be." I kissed his neck and finally stood back, taking in every last detail of the face I missed so much. "But I have a feeling as soon as we start walking it's going to stop cooperating."

"I missed you, little duck."

He smiled and put his hand on my hip, then pulled me back into him so that our lips naturally fell into place. When we stopped kissing, we started again. Someone yelled at us to get a room, but that didn't stop us. We just laughed into each other and after another minute or so we finally stopped again.

"Let's continue this at home," he said while picking up one of my bags and grinning almost as much as me. "So blooming glad to have you here, Ms. Austen."

I slung my bag over my shoulder. "Glad to be here, Mr. Gladwyn. So blooming glad."

We held hands on the drive to Bristol and barely let go. About halfway he asked if I was tired. I was, but didn't want to ruin any plans he made. So he took a detour to show me the Clifton Suspension Bridge. Once again, no word in the dictionary could suffice. The bridge was a wee tad scary with the narrow road and what not. Plus, as much as I tried to get used to the driver being on the right side, it was strange.

Everything about the bridge was captivating though. From the water underneath to the rocks and trees surrounding it. The entire bridge was lit up and I can't say I'd ever seen something so magical in America. Not that I got around much, but in my little Philly world things like that didn't exist. I tried to sit higher to get a good look around and when I turned back to Alistair he gave me this smile that said everything I felt. Once we finally made it to the other side of the bridge, I looked behind us to see the beautiful lights stretch from one side to the other. I loved it. And I loved the boy next to me even more. He looked so cute, like he was proud to show me a piece of his home. A piece he knew I'd enjoy.

"There's more," he said. "Since it's late I thought we could stay at my flat tonight, but tomorrow I booked a stay in a thatched cottage."

"What's a thatched cottage?"

"You've never been to a thatched cottage?"

"Not sure I've ever heard of one."

"They're little houses with straw rooftops. You're going to love it."

"Interesting. I'm sure I will."

I enjoyed watching him get excited. He seemed like a little kid who loved to show and tell. As we drove he pointed to things, gave me little snippets of history or in some cases he'd say, "No idea what that is, but isn't it lovely?" Honestly, I didn't care what he said. I was just happy to have his hand in mine and his face smiling next to me.

We finally made it to his apartment—oops, I mean his flat, of course—and oh my flying flipping heaven! He opened the door with a sneaky little grin on his face, so I should've known. No, it wasn't a trillion rose petals and candles. It was a thousand times more romantic and so much better than that.

The flat had big, huge windows down to the clean wood floor. High ceilings. And the best part. Yellow rug. Grey couches. Black fireplace. Can you guess where I'm going here? Batman. A Batman living room done in a tasteful, modern way. Mainly using the colors and abstract art on the walls.

My jaw felt like Eddie's when he saw Autumn in her prom dress. Alistair walked to the mantle and pointed to the art on top, then I realized it wasn't art.

"Wow. Is that what—"

"Original editions. Bill Finger and Bob Kane." He handed me the framed comic book, one of my favorites ever. "I want you to have this."

"No." I held the frame and gawked at the sight before me. "I can't take this."

"I really want you to have it."

"Alistair." I ran my fingers over the glass. "I'd kill to open this and smell the pages."

He took it back. "Easy there."

We laughed.

"You know," I said, "this may sound ridiculous, but I think I love you even more now."

His fingers curled around my belt loops and he slowly stepped toward me until his chest was against mine. My heart raced as warmth rushed from my head to my toes. He looked down at me and moved his lips toward mine.

"Two dorks destined for dorkdom," he whispered along my neck, then kissed his way to my collar bone.

My hands somehow made their way to his shoulders while his held my hips. Then his lips met mine again so we could finish what we started at the airport. He kissed me right into the wall as my fingers dug into his shoulders.

A loud shrieking sound interrupted and we both jumped. He looked around with wide eyes, then ran toward the kitchen cursing himself.

"What happened?" I followed.

"Oven. I left the bloody oven on when I left." He stood on a chair to turn the smoke alarm off and his shirt lifted, revealing the tattoo just above his pants—or as he would say, trousers. I imagined kissing him there, but he hopped off the chair and brought me back to
right now
. Kitchen. Smoke alarm. Fire.

He pulled a pan out of the oven and I'm not sure what he intended it to be, but right now it was a dish filled with black stuff.

He set it on the counter and shrugged. "That didn't work out." He poked at it with a fork. "I tried to make you a dessert and apparently I forgot about it."

"I'm glad your flat is still here." I inched toward him and took his hands. "You can be my dessert."

"Mmm ... I like the sound of that."

Pretty sure we spent half the night sleeping and the other half making out all over his flat. At some point after 2am we stopped kissing and cuddled in the low light of the nearly melted candle. I looked around the room I had only seen on Skype and wished I could stay longer than a weekend. His room was so different from mine. So masculine feeling. Darker colors, more wood. A picture of me beside his bed, now with two tea cups next to the candle. I loved being in his home, becoming part of his life.

He ran his fingers up and down my back as I twirled my fingers through his hair.

"Do you think one day this will get old?" I whispered.

"Staying up all night?"

"Being so passionate and excited to be together. Kissing. Cuddling. This feeling inside when we're like this."

He laughed quietly.

I turned to my back. "What?"

"I don't think it gets old. I'm sure we'll change and things will change, but it won't get old. If anything it will be new all over again."

He turned to his side, buried his face in my hair, and inhaled. "I love the way you smell."

"You mean you like my shampoo?"

"It's more than that." He kissed my neck and wrapped his arm around my stomach. "It's you."

A few seconds later he was out. I turned to my side and held his arm tight around me, then with his chest against my back I drifted off to sleep myself.

The sun woke us up. Told you it doesn't always rain in England. We made breakfast together and lounged around all day. First we watched
The Dark Knight
because it was our favorite. Heath Ledger's performance is just ... wow. Then we discussed the comic,
The Killing Joke
, and the sad timing of Heath's death, which led us into a conversation about death and back to our bucket lists. We made a pact to write a complete album together within twelve months. Of course I told him it was wishful thinking with the long distance and my complete inability to play or write music. Then he pulled out his phone and said, "I don't think this is a complete inability."