Where are you? I wonder. And when we meet again, will it already be too late?

  She said good-bye to me. For all I know, her match has been made.

  I haven’t prayed in a long, long time. Not since I left home, really. But I close my eyes and clasp my hands together, asking God to help me find a way to be with Courtney.

  Amen.

  ***

  Friday night is a disappointment.

  A big, fat disappointment.

  All night, I flick my eyes to the door, waiting for Dina and Courtney to breeze in together. Hoping she’ll tell me that she got my messages but wanted us to have a chance to cool down before talking in person.

  But she doesn’t breeze in. Not her, and not Dina.

  Until almost two o’clock in the morning.

  I’m in a foul mood, wiping down the bar, when I hear someone at the end of the bar ask for a beer.

  “Who do I have to screw around here to get an Amstel?”

  My eyes snap up, landing on Dina, who’s sitting at the bar with her elbows on the counter. And no, she’s not the woman I want to see, but she’s the next best thing.

  “Hot Stuff,” I say, hoping to get some information about Courtney.

  “Dumbass,” she replies.

  I open an Amstel and place it on a cocktail napkin in front of her.

  “What do I owe you?”

  “No charge,” I say. “Where is she?”

  “London,” says Dina, lifting the bottle to take a swig.

  “For how long?”

  She puts the bottle down and sighs. “A month.”

  “Wait. What? A month?”

  “Dumbass,” she says again, taking another gulp of beer. “She’s been transferred to London for the next four weeks. You know what that means, don’t you? It means she’s going to get her match while she’s there.”

  I’m not stupid. That was the first thing that occurred to me when Dina said A month.

  “Fuck!” I yell, putting my hands on my head and lacing my fingers together. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  “Indeed,” says Dina, nodding at me. “You are, indeed, fucked.”

  “Why did she…I mean, when—”

  “She left on Saturday.”

  The day after our fight.

  “And she won’t be back—”

  Dina shrugs. “Mid-June at the earliest.”

  “She’s being matched by June first,” I murmur, feeling like the rug’s been ripped out from under me and not liking the feeling at all.

  “I know.” Dina points to a neat stack of shot glasses. “I’m losing my buzz. Pour us two Tito’s, huh?”

  “I’m not in the mood,” I growl.

  “Huh. Okay. Then I’ll just go home.”

  “No! No, no, no! Fine. I’ll drink with you.” I pour two shots of vodka and nudge hers the short way across the bar. “What are we drinking to?”

  “Hail Marys.” She picks up her glass and taps it against mine before shooting it back. “Long pass. Made in desperation. Little to no chance of success. But the clock’s running down, and there’s no time for anything more strategic or elegant.”

  “You like football?”

  “I love football,” she purrs. “Part of the reason my mummy can’t find me a man is that they all love cricket more than American football.”

  “I can’t offer her marriage,” I hear myself say. “I’m not ready to get married.”

  “Who is?” she asks. “Nobody, that’s who.”

  “Are you in touch with her?” I ask. Dina nods. “Tell her we can be exclusive. We can even move in together. I’m open to compromise.”

  “That would be awesome if she was too.”

  “But she’s not.”

  “You know she’s not.” Dina shakes her head. “The girl is getting married. She’s got it in her head that it’s the only way for her to be happy.”

  “It’s fucking ridiculous,” I mutter.

  “If you’re so open to compromise, why don’t you just go ahead and marry her? If it doesn’t work out, get a divorce.”

  I think of my parents, who’ve been married for almost thirty years, and how terribly disappointed they would be to watch their son’s marriage fail. “I don’t want to get a divorce. Besides, that’s crazy.”

  “It’s not so crazy,” says Dina, gesturing to the Tito’s bottle. I pour us both another shot. “You’d get all the time you need to figure out if she’s the girl for you, and she’d get the commitment she wants so badly.”

  “It doesn’t work like that! Marriage isn’t some crazy experiment. It’s a forever commitment. It’s for people who’ve dated for a few years and live together and have shared friends and a plan for their lives. I don’t have a house or a—a solid job, health insurance. I don’t know if she wants kids someday. Jesus, I’m a bartender, Dina. That’s not the sort of—”

  “You do understand the concept of arranged marriage? She’s marrying a stranger, Josh. He could be anyone. A bartender. A gambler. Just your regular, run-of-the-mill asshole.”

  “The experts vet the contenders.”

  “Sure. But everyone lies a little.”

  “Dina, I’m not—”

  “Besides, I don’t remember her asking for health insurance and houses. She just wants someone who wants to try building something with her. And call me crazy, but I think that someone could be you.”

  I shake my head. “It won’t work.”

  “How do you know that? Maybe it’s the Indian in me,” she says, holding up the shot glass to clink again, “but I know marriages built on a lot less can work. I’ve seen it. I know it’s true. Hope. Optimism. Friendship. A willingness to grow together, to learn about each other, to have each other’s backs. You guys already have that stuff—and heck, Josh, you and Courtney have actual, physical attraction too. That’s a huge bonus! No matter how you look at it, getting married is a giant crapshoot. Fifty percent end in divorce, despite best intentions.” She gives me a look and throws back her shot. “Oh! Wait. I take that back. Here fifty percent end in divorce. In India, where many marriages are still arranged and failure is not an option, the divorce rate is one percent.”

  “Are you actually suggesting that I marry her?” I ask, taking the bottle and putting Tito back in his place.

  “I’m saying that you and Courtney already have a lot of the right ingredients for success. Would it be conventional? No. Would it be risky? Sure. Would you have to make up a lot as you went along? Yes. But who doesn’t? Call me crazy, but I honestly believe you could make it work if you wanted to. I’m just…” She takes a deep breath and sighs, looking tired and a little frustrated. “I think you two care about each other. I want to see my friends happy. That’s all.”

  I cross my arms. “So, what’s the Hail Mary?”

  “You already know.” Dina slides off her stool and hitches her purse up on her shoulder. “It’s just a matter of how much you want to be with her.”

  “A lot,” I whisper.

  “Then do what you gotta do,” she says, her dark eyes severe.

  “Let me get you a cab,” I say, coming around the bar to walk her out. We stand on the sidewalk side by side. “You’re pushy, you know.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I know.”

  “I hope I get a front row seat when you’re going through something like this.”

  “Not bloody likely that’ll happen anytime soon.”

  “Brandon Chillar played American football, you know.”

  “Which is why I’m an eternal Packers fan,” she answers with a chuckle.

  A cab pulls up to take her home, and I stand on the curb for a long moment—until the red taillights have completely disappeared into the night, until I am left alone to make the biggest decision of my entire life.

  ***

  On the bus ride home, I do some quick math and realize that if it’s two thirty in New York, it’s eight thirty in London. I dial her number, but—yet again—her voice mail picks up.

  “Hey,” I say, “it’s Josh.” I look out the window, taking a moment to think about what I want to say, and then settle on, “I think you’re a coward for going to London without telling me. I wish you would have stayed in New York and talked to me. I wish you’d even talk to me from London. I just—I feel like we could figure this out together if we talked.” I pause again. “And I know you said to live a happy life and let you go, but that’s bullshit, Court. It’s total bullshit. We care about each other. We…we have something here, and I’m mad at you—I’m so fucking mad at you—for going away.” I swallow over the lump in my throat. “I know you’re not going to pick up. And I know you’re not going to call me back, so I’ll…I’ll just…”

  I realize there’s nothing more to say, so I press “End” on the phone.

  She made her choice: marriage.

  Now it’s time for me to make mine.

  If I want to be with Courtney, there’s only one way to make that happen, and I might already be too late. God, please don’t let me be too late.

  When I get home, everyone’s asleep, so I plug in my laptop at the kitchen counter, and type in “www.arrange_me_too.com.”

  “Fuck,” I hiss when the page comes up.

  Aside from the fact that it’s brutally cheesy, I forgot about the $399 fee. That much? For an e-mail address? What the actual fuck?

  If I pay $399 for this goddamned service and another $1,000 for a last-minute plane ticket across the pond, that’s it. I’m tapped out. I won’t make rent on June 1. It wouldn’t be hard to find someone to take my room, but I’ll have to move out of here, and no matter what happens with Courtney, I’ll technically be homeless.

  Which means this is the moment.

  I need to make my decision now and once I do, there’s no turning back.

  If I fill out this form, answering every question as best I can to be matched with Courtney, I’ve made my choice. I’m choosing her over everything. I’m choosing her first.

  I’m doing something I’m not comfortable doing because it’s the lesser of two evils.

  It wouldn’t be conventional or easy, but being with her might make it all worthwhile.

  I sit back and picture Courtney’s face—at Tidewaters, at the theater, on the train, and at the wedding. Laughing with me at the Rum House and crying on the pavement after kissing me.

  I love that face, I think, feeling my own soften with tenderness.

  Suddenly, I hear her voice.

  “Yeah. Marriage. I’d like to skip all of this crap and cut to the chase.”

  “I’m not dating anymore. Ever. It’s soul-crushing.”

  “Inside of me, I’m overwhelmed that you think so well of me.”

  “It will happen, Josh. I believe in you.”

  “I can’t. I do care about you.”

  I close my eyes as her voice fills my head, and with it, so many happy memories of time well spent with her. When I open them again, my hand has made its way to my chest and rests flattened over my heart.

  And that’s the moment my decision becomes final.

  I wouldn’t say I’m in love with her.

  I definitely wouldn’t say I’m ready for marriage.

  But I don’t want to give up on her. I don’t want to give up on us.

  Not now.

  Not yet.

  And hopefully, God help me, not ever.

  CHAPTER 11

  Courtney

  About two weeks after I arrive in London, I am sitting across from my aunt Lucy at an elegant table in the Palm Court at the Ritz when my phone dings.

  Lucy Salinger Brown Edmonton Claridge-St. James, who is my father’s older sister and just divorced from her third husband, raises a sculpted brow.

  “Should you check on that, dear?”

  I’m about to pull my phone from my purse and take a quick look when a server arrives with a three-tiered silver stand of delectable-looking tea sandwiches. My mouth waters.

  “I’m sure it can wait,” I say.

  “You children and all of your modern gadgets,” she says. “Do let it wait. I’m famished.”

  It’s probably the office, and frankly, they don’t deserve my attention this afternoon. I told them I’d be unavailable, and I mean to stay that way. I’ve been at their beck and call since I arrived in London, and this is the first chance I’ve had to see my aunt.

  I take an open-faced sandwich decorated with radishes, cream cheese, and dill and can’t help a soft murmur of delight when I take a bite.

  “Is there anything as perfect as afternoon tea at the Ritz?” Aunt Lucy asks me with a delighted grin.

  I smile back at her, and it occurs to me that it’s probably my first genuine smile since I set foot on British soil a fortnight ago. That thought makes a lump gather in my throat and Josh’s face flash up in my mind. I feel the all-too-familiar longing tighten my chest, sharp and pinching, and take a deep breath.

  “Wrong pipe?” asks Aunt Lucy.

  I take a sip of tea. “No. I’m fine.”

  But suddenly the radish and cream cheese that was so delicious a moment ago has lost all of its appeal.

  I haven’t heard from Josh in a week—not since last Friday night, when he called and left a message calling me a coward, then hung up the phone midsentence, like he was giving up. Since then, I’m convinced that he has given up on me, and as much as I try to convince myself that it’s for the best, I cannot deny that I am missing him much more than I thought I would.

  Every romantic thing I see in London reminds me of Josh, and since it’s the height of a beautiful spring, my heart’s in a permanent state of deprivation. The rainbow of flowers at Kensington Gardens and the couples that share rowboats at Regent’s Park, young families brunching at sidewalk cafés in Covent Garden and crowds exiting the evening show of Wicked in the West End—all I can think about is how much I would have loved to share all of this with him and how sad I am to be alone.

  I lift my chin.

  But not for long.

  Tomorrow I should be receiving my match from ArrangeMeToo.com, and then—hopefully—all thoughts of Josh will start to fade until he is firmly part of my past.

  “You’ve lost your appetite?” asks Aunt Lucy, glancing at my half-eaten sandwich.

  I shake my head, clear my throat, and pop the second half into my mouth.

  “So, darling niece, it’s been too long. I need an update on everything in the world of Courtney Jane!”

  “What do you want to know, Aunt Lucy?”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No,” I say…but hopefully soon.

  “No one? No contenders?”

  “Not yet. But when there is, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Don’t rush into anything,” she advises, taking a puff pastry filled with egg salad and humming with pleasure as she consumes it in one bite.

  “Aunt Lucy! You’re one to give advice! You knew Uncle Roland for a handful of weeks before tying the knot.”

  “Roland Brown,” she says, her eyes softening at the name of her first husband, “swept me off my sweet little co-ed feet. It was such a whirlwind, I can barely remember how it happened.”

  I can.

  I begged her to tell me the story every time we visited England when I was a child.

  As a junior studying abroad, witty and wealthy Lucy Salinger met twice-her-age Roland Brown, the eighth Viscount Somers and a respected professor, at a mixer on her first evening at Oxford. He escorted her to every party and dance thereafter, and less than three months later, on the night she was supposed to return to the United States, they ran away to Gretna Green and got married.

  Her parents were furious and threatened to disown her, regardless of the fact that she was now a viscountess. His parents were not at all pleased to have a young American in the family. But everyone settled down after a few months, and it turned out that Lucy and Roland were actually a pretty good match. Lucy brought energy and sparkle into his life, and Roland offered young Lucy stability and true love. The only problem was that their twenty-year age difference meant that Roland’s heart attack at fifty-five left Lucy a widow in her midthirties, a few years before I was born.

  “I love the story of you and Uncle Roland.”

  “Uncle Roland. You never even knew him, darling.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The story was so romantic.”

  Her eyes dim for a moment. “He was my true love, you know. My one true love. I loved John Edmonton, and Frank Claridge-St. James was a good enough sort, I suppose, but Roland?” She sighs. “You never really get over your first love.”

  Out of nowhere, thoughts of Josh flood my mind and I look down, blinking at the starched pink napkin covering my lap.

  “Courtney Jane?”

  “I haven’t fallen in love yet,” I say, hoping that if some small portion of my heart has convinced itself that what I feel for Josh is love, denying it aloud will invalidate it.

  “I know,” she says thoughtfully. “Not in high school or college.”

  I shake my head. “The right guy never came along, I guess.”

  “You’ve had boyfriends, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Just no one special.”

  “No one who would have made a good match,” I say firmly, grateful when the server reappears to refresh our hot water and offer us sweets.

  For the rest of our tea, I direct the conversation toward my mother and father, and half an hour later, I’m hugging Aunt Lucy good-bye outside of the luxurious hotel.

  “When shall we meet again?” she asks.

  “Lunch this week?”

  “I’ll ring you for a date,” she says. “And will you come out to Somer House next weekend?”

  I think of Aunt Lucy’s country estate and practically sigh with pleasure. “I’d love it.”

  “Be well until then, darling,” she says, kissing me on the cheek before hailing a cab.

  As I wave good-bye, my phone beeps in my bag, reminding me that I have incoming messages, and I reach for it, pressing my thumb on the bottom button and watching as my home screen comes up. I have two texts and several e-mails waiting.

  As I stroll north from the Ritz to my flat in Mayfair, I tap on the texts. One is from Dina, telling me to have a Friday-evening gimlet somewhere amazing, and the other is from my mother, asking for the e-mail address of “that charming playwright.” Apparently, Simi Frederick wants to reach out to Josh about staging one of his plays at her annual festival in Boston this October. I don’t have his e-mail address, but I share his phone number and encourage her to call or text him, hoping that Simi’s patronage might lead to something big. He deserves to be a success. I want that for him so badly.