THE REST OF the week passes in a blur.
I barely have time to process all the competing ideas at war in my head: the photography workshop, the vortex at Eleanor Rigby’s grave, the excitement about spending my Saturday in Liverpool. I drop in on Nigel to see if he and Walter can chat, but Ethan tells me he’s out, and that he’ll be sure to relay the message that I stopped by. I leave my number for him. George and I work side by side diligently, and he seems satisfied by my visit to Saint Catherine’s. I guess Mama gave him the stamp of approval.
On Friday evening, as I have my regularly scheduled FaceTime call with Dylan, I notice that his aura has become progressively darker.
“What if you love it there?” Dylan leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. He’s talking about Hope University in Liverpool, where I’m supposed to visit tomorrow, though I never bothered to make an appointment. I didn’t even tell him about Saint Catherine’s.
“We’ll deal with it when the time comes. Don’t worry, okay?”
“You know, Duke is a pretty amazing school.” He gives me a half-hearted smile.
Dylan is a shoo-in at Duke, both for his lacrosse accolades and the fact that his father gives them big fat alumni checks every year. A few months ago, I made the mistake of saying I might apply there. I thought it was pretty noncommittal at the time, but he brings it up each time this conversation arises. There’s no way in hell I could afford to go to Duke without the same level of scholarship I’d need to go somewhere overseas, and the fact that this completely eludes him annoys me.
“It sure is.” My face feels like it may crack from smiling. “Nothing is set in stone yet.”
Every night, we talk via FaceTime at 9 p.m. my time, 4 p.m. his. Around the ten-minute mark, my gaze starts drifting towards the clock.
“I get why you want to at least look at the place,” he says. “But think about how much easier the transition would be if you go somewhere in North Carolina. In-state tuition, easier to see your mom on the weekends, easier to see me…”
He lets that hang there, but I don’t take the bait. A frown has replaced my carefully composed expression at some point, and I watch as his smile fades, too. The distance between us is vast. More than geography.
I have to hope that once this trip is behind me, once I’ve done what I came to do, Dylan and I will be okay. If the meds were the problem all along, then maybe we will be fine since I’ve stopped taking them. Maybe a college in North Carolina will be perfect. But right now, I’m more interested in filling in blanks from my past than penciling in an outline of the future.
“We don’t have to think about it yet.” I try to muster some enthusiasm. “We have senior year ahead. The best year of our lives, right?”
Dylan nods, unconvincingly, and in the middle of it, the screen lags. I wait a few seconds, but it doesn’t refresh. After a full minute of staring at his paralyzed expression, an unflattering technology glitch, I hang up and text that I’ll call him tomorrow.
Packing is tricky because I’m not sure how long my investigation will take. Maybe it’ll be a day trip, or maybe I’ll stay overnight. Depends on what I find there.
This ley line intersection feels like the key to something important.
My late-night research has led me to a couple of promising theories: First of all, a vortex means double the power. If there’s any place I might have a chance of finding Pop, it’s in a vortex. And it can’t be coincidence that one happens to exist in the same place I’ve been dreaming about finding him for years.
Henry couldn’t have known how significant this atlas was when he gave it to me.
I need to know how his ley line theory is connected to the dreams about Pop, though. There has to be a simpler explanation than a dizzying crash course in quantum physics. I want to be prepared, with whatever equipment is necessary, but I can’t find a single thing about the magnets online. I could buy some, but I don’t know what they do to locate the ley lines.
I’m going to have to ask Henry.
I search the texts in my phone until I find where he texted me at the airport. I save his number to my phone.
I wait a few extra minutes before I respond.
I imagine him sitting wherever he is, in some dorm or whatever, or at the pubs near Bristol, smirking down at his phone the way I’m smirking down at mine.
The type bubble pops up and disappears. Pops up and disappears. Then finally…
I set my phone down. He can’t very well show me right now, and I’m leaving in the morning. I get up and finish packing. Some extra clothes. My phone charger. Brush. Toothbrush. When I’m finished, I drop the bag next to the bed and crawl under the covers.
As I’m lying awake, mind racing, footsteps get louder on the stairs outside my door. Then down the hall. Henry’s door opens and shuts. I sit up and pull the covers up around my neck. Is that…? He said he’d be back this weekend. It’s Friday night, so technically it’s the weekend.
My phone dings.
I hold my breath, listening as he moves around in his room. Shuffling things. Opening and closing drawers. I wipe my sweaty palms on the blanket and reply.
The notification dings on his phone in the other room. He doesn’t respond. All is quiet. I lean back, in utter stillness, waiting. Then footsteps again. Coming toward my door. I’m torn between rolling off the bed and crawling under it, or making a mad dash to the bathroom to lock myself in. But I have no idea why.
A gentle knock. “Jo?”
I sit up and smooth the blanket over my lap. Clear my throat. “Yeah?”
Henry opens the door and peeks in. His hair is messy and his eyes are tired. He looks like he’s just solved some week-long math problem.
“What time does your train leave?”
It’s weird to resume a text conversation in person. “Nine a.m.”
He stares at my packed bag at the foot of the bed.
“And how long will you be gone?”
I shrug, heart in hysterics. Maybe he had a weird case of missing me this week, too.
“I was gonna play it by ear.”
He nods.
“You, uh…” He scratches his head and drops his hand. “You want some company?”