“How did you meet?” I question.
“It’s quite embarrassing really,” she begins. “A few weeks ago, he came in with a tea in a to-go cup, and he needed a paper notarized for his business. I went to grab the paper he needed marked and knocked his tea over. I don’t know how I managed to do so, but that tea covered every inch of my workspace and Rodrick’s clothes. It was mortifying.”
“Oh my gosh,” I say, trying my best not to laugh because she isn’t laughing.
“Basically, he had to come back the very next day so I could notarize a clean copy of his document. He spent about thirty minutes teasing me about my mishap. There was a spark, Rose. I can’t explain it, but he has come back several times since, requesting that I pretend to notarize blank pieces of paper.” Now, Suzette is laughing. “It’s very sweet.”
“I’m happy for you,” I tell her. She deserves to meet someone new.
“Are you going to be okay if I start seeing Rodrick? I don’t want to be bringing a man around the house if it’s going to make you upset or feel lonely.”
“No. Oh, God, no, never stop your life for me, please. I would hate to think you do that.”
“Okay, I just wanted to make sure.”
“I can’t wait to meet him,” I tell her, wrapping my arms around her neck. “You deserve this.”
“You know,” she sighs. “Maybe Rodrick has a friend.”
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “Everything will happen when it’s supposed to, right?”
Who am I kidding? My ex-husband doesn’t even want to track me down enough to make things right anymore. Twelve letters, and nothing in response. I didn’t realize he could trace my mail.
5
Two Months Later
I have gotten in the habit of visiting the small coffee shop down the street from our house each morning around six a.m. They have small bistro tables out front, which helps with my inspiration as I watch the passing cars and people who are out for their morning walk.
This morning, though, words aren’t coming to me. I have writer’s block, so I’ve spent more time staring out into the street than I have at my laptop screen.
Rather than trying to refocus on my words, I spot a man who appears out of place, walking down the sidewalk toward this coffee shop. I know I’ve been away from the United States for over a year, but I can easily spot an American from a mile away.
It took me almost four months to adapt to the style change. I didn’t realize there was a difference until Suzette offered to take me on a shopping trip. Once she pointed out that I needed a few changes to look more British, I began to recognize the differences.
For example, this man is wearing a North Face fleece, which is predominantly an American company. His workboots also don’t match the London style, nor do his boot cut jeans.
The man walks into the coffee shop and leaves only five minutes later. I expected him to continue on after picking up his to-go cup, but instead, he takes a seat at the table next to me to study his phone.
After another minute or so, his phone rings, and he answers the call. “Hey man, yeah I arrived safely,” he says, laughing. “Thanks for checking on me, bro. I’ll give you a call when I know more. Peace out.”
He is definitely American.
I twist my head to look at the man. He’s very good-looking with his freshly cut hair, and short dirty-blonde spikes in the front and fade in the back. His is cleanly shaved and has a plaid button-up shirt poking through the neckline of his fleece. “What part of the states are you from?” I ask.
He seems startled by my question. “You’re American too,” he says.
“Sure am,” I answer.
“I’m from Eastern Connecticut,” he says.
“No, you’re not,” I tease. “I’m from Eastern Connecticut.”
Across the ocean in a foreign place, and two people from one of the smallest states in America are sitting side-by-side at a tiny coffee shop in a low-populated village of London. I’m curious about the odds or likelihood of such an occurrence.
“Wow, small world,” he says, laughing softly. “Are there are a lot of Americans in this area?”
I shake my head. “No, hardly any at all, really.”