The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight(15)

“Oh, yeah,” she says, tapping a finger against her chin. “That guy. He was great. I wonder where he went?”

“That’s what I’m studying, actually,” he says with a grin. “This summer.”

“What?”

“Split personality disorder in eighteen-year-old males.”

“Of course,” she says. “The one thing more frightening than mayo.”

To her surprise, a fly appears near her ear, and Hadley tries unsuccessfully to swipe it away. A moment later it’s buzzing nearby again, making infuriating loops around their heads like a relentless figure skater.

“I wonder if he bought a ticket,” Oliver says.

“Probably just a stowaway.”

“Poor bloke has no idea he’s going to end up in another country altogether.”

“Yeah, where everyone talks funny.”

Oliver waves a hand to shoo the fly away.

“Do you think he thinks he’s flying really fast?” Hadley asks. “Like when you walk on one of those conveyor belt things? He’s probably pretty psyched to be making such good time.”

“Haven’t you ever taken physics?” Oliver asks, rolling his eyes. “It’s relativity. He’s flying with respect to the plane, not with respect to the ground.”

“Okay, smarty pants.”

“It’s exactly the same as every other day of his little buggy life.”

“Except that he’s en route to London.”

“Yes,” Oliver says with a little frown. “Except for that.”

One of the flight attendants appears in the dim aisle, a few dozen headsets strung from her arm like shoelaces. She leans over the lady on the end with an exaggerated whisper. “Would either of you like one?” she asks, and they both shake their heads.

“I’m grand, thanks,” Oliver says, and as she moves to the next row, he reaches into his pocket and emerges with his own earphones, unplugging them from his iPod. Hadley reaches below the seat for her backpack, rooting through it to find hers, too.

“Wouldn’t want to miss the ducks,” she jokes, but he’s not listening. He’s looking with interest at the pile of books and magazines she’s set on her lap while digging through the bag.

“You obviously do read some good literature,” he says, picking up the worn copy of Our Mutual Friend. He leafs through the pages carefully, almost reverently. “I love Dickens.”

“Me, too,” Hadley says. “But I haven’t read this one.”

“You should,” Oliver tells her. “It’s one of the best.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Somebody’s certainly read it. Look at all these folded pages.”

“It’s my dad’s,” Hadley says with a little frown. “He gave it to me.”

Oliver glances up at her, then closes the book on his lap. “And?”

“And I’m bringing it to London to give it back to him.”

“Without having read it?”

“Without having read it.”

“I’m guessing this is more complicated than it sounds.”

Hadley nods. “You guessed right.”

He’d given Hadley the book on their ski trip, the last time she’d seen him. On the way home, they’d been standing just outside the line for airport security when he’d reached into his bag and produced the thick black volume, the pages worn and yellowing, the dog-eared corners like missing jigsaw pieces.

“I thought you might like this one,” he said, his smile tinged with desperation. Ever since Hadley had overheard his phone call to Charlotte, ever since she’d finally managed to put the pieces together, she’d barely spoken to him. All she could think about was getting home again, where she could curl up on the couch and put her head in her mother’s lap and let loose all the tears she’d been holding back; all she wanted to do was cry and cry and cry until there was nothing left to cry about.

But there was Dad, with his unfamiliar beard and his new tweed jacket and his heart rooted somewhere across the ocean, his hand drooping beneath the weight of the book as he held it out to her. “Don’t worry,” he said with a feeble grin, “it’s not poetry.”

Hadley finally reached for it, looking down at the cover. There was no jacket, just the words etched across the black background: Our Mutual Friend.

“It’s hard now,” he said, his voice breaking just slightly. “I don’t get to recommend books to you all that often. But certain ones are too important to get lost in all this.” He waved a hand vaguely between them, as if to define just exactly what this was.

“Thanks,” Hadley said, folding the book into her arms, hugging it to keep from hugging him. That they were left with only this—this awkward, prearranged meet-up, this terrible silence—seemed almost more than she could bear, and the unfairness of it all welled up inside of her. It was his fault, all of it, and yet her hatred for him was the worst kind of love, a tortured longing, a misguided wish that made her heart hammer in her chest. She couldn’t ignore the disjointed sensation that they were now two different pieces of two different puzzles, and nothing in the world could make them fit together again.

“Come visit soon, okay?” he said, darting forward to give her a hug, and she nodded into his chest before pulling away. But she knew it would never happen. She had no intention of visiting him there. Even if she were open to the idea, as Mom and Dad both hoped she would be, the mathematics of it seemed utterly impossible to her. What was she supposed to do, spend Christmas there and Easter here? See her dad every other holiday and one week during the summer, just enough to glimpse his new life in fragments, tiny slivers of a world she had no part in? And all the while missing out on those moments of her mom’s life—her mom, who’d done nothing to deserve to spend Christmas alone?