“And what’s your favorite?” he asks and I hear him take a bite again. If it was anyone else, I might be a bit grossed out by that, but with Davey I feel flattered, realizing he’s squeezing into his lunch break calling some random girl he misdialed a week or so ago, when he could be doing anything else he wanted.
“I think I like the plain old blue Lungo ones. I’m a girl with simple tastes.” I shrug but he can’t see me.
“I’m a double-espresso kinda guy,” he says as if it’s a big secret. “Straight up.”
We talk about his life in Austin. How he’s a member of a local soccer team. “It’s my dad’s fault. I could never get into football”—and by this I assume he means American football. “Dad loves his soccer”—and by this I’m assuming the British version, football, but I don’t query it. “And so I joined the soccer team in high school and never really stopped playing,” he says. “I play twice a week here. I’d like to keep it up when I get to England. I run and play soccer because I don’t like the gym,” he confesses.
“Oh, I do,” I say, settling into my walk and watching London go by in a daze until I get to another crossing. “I love the gym.”
“Is that because you’re dating your personal trainer? Or for other reasons?”
“I’m not dating George,” I say after a beat.
“George,” Davey repeats his name. “Why aren’t you dating him?” The question is curious, not catty.
“I just think he’s going to be a better friend,” I say diplomatically. In truth, I’m not sure why I’m not interested in George. He’s certainly attractive, and funny, but deep down I suspect hemaybe a Lothario. Perhaps that’s unfair of me. Anyway we’re going toThailand together simply as friends, so I’m categorically not going to go there.
“When was the last time you dated someone?” Davey asks and I hear him sip something through a straw.
“Properly?”
“Uh-huh.”
I think. “A couple of years ago. Guy called Phil. Nice. Just…you know…”
“Not nice enough?” Davey queries.
“Yeah, maybe that,” I say. And then, “Definitely that, actually. You?”
“A woman named Charlotte. Also nice, but not nice enough.”
“Poor Charlotte,” I say.
“Poor Phil,” he chuckles.
“So what will you do between now and your arrival?” I ask, changing tack.
“I finish my job here in a couple of weeks. And Mom and Dad are already planning a going-away party for some friends and family.”
“Are you sad to be leaving them all behind?” I ask as I pass the ornately Gothic Bank of England building.
“Hardly,” he says. “My best friend, Grant, has already booked a ticket to come over in March. He’s also English, moved out here when he was a kid, and he can’t wait to visit. And my parents have suggested they fly out in April, so I’m going to be all set for company for a while.”
“That’s so lovely,” I say.
“Where do you live?” he asks. “I mean, which part of town?”
“East London. Wanstead, near the park. It’s nice. You should look at it. Have you looked at places to live yet?”
“I have. I’ll look at Wanstead later, but from the list you gave me I’m almost settled on Brixton. It looks kinda cool, based onthe Google images I’ve seen of it. I’ll try it for six months and take it from there.”
“Didn’t fancy the dizzying heights of Belgravia?” I suggest.
“I looked at it, but my checking account curled up and died when I saw the rents for a studio apartment there.”
“It is pricey. Also a bit wanky,” I say.
“Wanky?” he laughs.
