Neon Hearts–Unedited

I did it. I fucking did it! I absolutely cannot believe I’m here. How in the world have I managed to fly completely across the world just for it not to feel real? Being in London has been the dream of my life, but to actually be here is surreal. I want to share this moment with Cam, and then I remember that it won’t be possible to get the reaction I want, the support I want. I shake the worries from my thoughts and remember that I’m here! I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do!

The driver of the black cab, which was way more expensive than it should be, tries to help me with my bags, but it seems more like he’s struggling than he’d like to admit. The cold April wind doesn’t seem to help much with the difficulty of this task, and I huddle deeper into my puffer coat. While I did have a hefty four suitcases, he seemed to be able to pile them into the back of his large black cab back at Heathrow just fine. Maybe I had slightly, overpacked, but what does one do when they move to a different country for the first, and hopefully last, time? Simon is an older man, chatting away about how I am the first American writer he’s ever picked up. Which doesn’t say much since he’d only started a month ago. I’m honored just the same.

“This is a first for me, too,” I muse, wishing he’d let me help even with the carry on. The sweat on his brow has me feeling guilty, but he won’t hear a thing about it. Something about showing a nice American girl true British chivalry. “I’ve never been outside of the U.S., let alone starting a new life in a foreign country.”

“That’ll show all of your enemies how wrong they were, won’t it,” Simon laughed.

“Well, it certainly showed me who I can trust,” I chuckle back, a sinking stone settling in the pit of my stomach. The many fights and arguments ringing faintly in my ears. Shaking it off, I smile back up at Simon, remembering everything London has to offer: a new job; a new world; a new experience. And then there was Finn…

“Well, ye can trust me,” Simon lilts dramatically back to me. He is leaning against the open trunk of the van. “Do you know anyone here? It might help the transition a bit.”

“I do, actually. My friend has lived here all his life. We met back in high school.”

“Oh, is that who you’re meeting?”

“Well, he couldn’t make the date today. Something came up at his job, I guess.”

And then it occurs to me that this man could absolutely be a murderer or looking to lure me away for some nefarious reason. A shudder runs through my veins, but only for a moment. And then it occurs to me that this man is from reputable cab service that will definitely come looking for me if I was not found dropped off precisely where I have booked. And then it also occurs to me that if I haven’t arrived at my destination in a timely fashion, Audrey will move hell and high water to make any and everyone involved pay for it.

But now that I am standing in front of my new flat, looking up at the two-story Victorian façade with bright red bricks and limestone rimmed windows, I can feel my pulse racing. Excitement dulls in comparison to what I feel right now. My feet are glued to the pavement, still taking it all in.

“Well, there you are Miss,” Simon says, standing back pleased. “Do you need help bringing it up?”

“Thank you so much, Simon,” I say, digging in my purse for the bank notes I painstakingly got at the airport cash exchange. “You’ve been great!”

Fleshing out a twenty-pound note, I thrust it in his direction. I know that twenty might be too much, but I have nothing else. It was strange collecting the cash from the teller, seeing the multicolored bills felt like I was getting Monopoly money rather than the two-hundred pounds I asked for.

“You have a blessed time here, Miss, and I hope to see some of your work soon,” Simon smiles at me, refusing the tip.

“Oh, well thanks, again!” I smile back dumbly. I can’t possibly imagine him reading what I write, let alone approving of it. Shame isn’t an emotion I feel about my writing anymore, but I never know how normal people will react to a sex columnist. I turn back to the building, Simon speeding off behind me. I need to text Nina that I’m here.

Nina seemed like a well-rounded individual online, but who wouldn’t? While I didn’t plan on having a roommate at all, the rent prices in the city had made that decision for me. That and Cam’s lack of support kind of solidified my need. And besides, having a roommate could only do wonders for my non-existent social life and my bank account.

While Finn is technically the only person I know in the city, he doesn’t need me to be all up in his space. Although he offered, I declined. He then graciously pointed me in the direction to a fairly safe site, and the first message was from Nina. She was nice enough in all of our chats, but she seems to live in her own world. When she isn’t showing off her cooking skills on social media, she is a bank teller up the street. The dichotomy took me by surprise at first, but who am I to judge? I write about any and all kinds of sex for a living.

“Ava!”

I look up to see Nina clutching her coat tightly around herself. It is definitely cold as fuck outside, but I guess my brain blocked it out from the adrenaline high. Although, I am wearing a thick sweater and puffy coat, Nina is bare from the waist down. Of course, coming from Colorado granted me some rights when it came to the cold, I would never walk out in anything less than basketball shorts and a light jacket in this kind of weather. The wind decides to make itself known and whip back Nina’s coat. I rush up the stairs to hand over my carry on to spare Nina the frigid welcome, but it’s too late. She is cursing under her breath about balls and devils and whatnot.

As quickly as I can, I turn back to the stoop and manhandle the other four bags up the stone steps to Nina. She continues her string of curses, but I don’t feel all that bad anymore because she definitely decided to come out here in her panties and no shoes.

“Bloody hell, how much stuff did you bring?!” She huffs at the sight of the four extra-large bags. We usher them inside the warmth of the lobby and Nina slams the security door a bit harder than necessary.

“Well,” I huff back, slumping over the last bag to catch my breath, “I did just uproot my life to come live here, so…”

“Fair,” Nina shrugs, shaking off her coat and planting it on the coatrack next to the main door.

“Why did you decide not to wear pants?” I can’t hold back the question any longer.

“I would have, but they were so far and you had texted me already, and it didn’t seem necessary to put them on to let you in. I didn’t think you would have ten bags to lug up the stairs,” She rolls her eyes, tugging the first couple of bags to the small elevator in the corner of the lobby.

“Oh, great, we have an elevator?” I look up hopefully at Nina, until the door dings open. The door is slightly smaller than the elevator but even peeking in tells me that Nina and I could be pressed as close as possible and it would still be a tight fit with the bags. I frown.

“Yeah, it’s not great…,” Nina looks back at me. “But I refuse to bring up twenty bags to the second floor. Shove ‘em on.” She pushed the two bags in and smashes a button on the wall. The car dips uncertainly under the weight and adjusts itself. Maybe I don’t ever want to take this elevator. If it’s shifting at the weight of a couple of bags, what would it do with my size 20 self? As I shove the other two in, the car seems to struggle with the weight and I’m certain I don’t want to find out what would happen if I got on. I watch as the door squeals shut and Nina struts to the stairs next to the unfortunate elevator. It is a spiral staircase that has motion sensor lights to lead the way up.

“So, the elevator is crazy tiny. Is that normal?” I ask.

“It’s actually fairly spacious for a flat building. This place is pretty old, so it’s a plus that is has an elevator at all.”

“Oh,” I chirp back. Of course I knew some things would be different than the States, but I guess even in larger cities elevators are a luxury. “So, do you use it often?”

“Pfft, no,” she cackles. When she reaches the second floor landing, I stop behind her. But she keeps going.

“Welcome to Europe, lovie. We keep going up.” She points at a sign with large black letters stating FLOOR ONE.

“So, what is the name of the first floor,” I pout.

“That’s the ground floor. Oh, don’t fret. You’ll get used to it.” And with that, Nina trudges up the rest of the way.

-----

After collecting my bags from the wheezing elevator–and trying not to flinch when the car jerks up after relieving it of the pressure–Nina “introduces” me to the flat. According to her, spaces have emotions and conflicting energies when new people are invited in.

“It is important that you are introduced to the space, to honor it and to see how it will accept you,” Nina says, waiting by the door before bringing in any of my bags. As strange as it seems, I understand what she means. Having new people in a space changes it, and sometimes not for the better. I can understand that more than most, not really having a space of my own until recently. I can’t quite pinpoint when I stared speaking Nina’s language, but I definitely feel more comfortable with this virtual stranger.

Moving to London has been an enormous adjustment, clearly. It isn’t every day that one is offered a life- and career-changing position in a new city. When I had applied to the new London office of WellPop Magazine, the magazine I have been working for since graduation, I hadn’t expected to get the interview. And when I got the interview, I definitely didn’t expect to get a call back. And when I entered the office of the new Editor-In-Chief for the London HQ, I hadn’t expected to be signing a contract to move to the city for a two month trial.

But now I am here. And I’m meeting my new apartment. And I’m excited and scared and thrilled and motivated and a little bit drunk on the feeling. I can feel the sting of tears in my eyes and try to hold them back.

“Well, here’s your half of the flat, love,” Nina opens the door a bright white room that was completely bare of everything except a double bed.

I step inside and can’t hold it back any longer. Hot tears stream down my face, one, two, three at a time.

“It’s very bright in here since the room faces south. And the landlord doesn’t particularly care about holes in the walls, so curtains are a must…” Nina’s voice fades into the background as my shoulders tremble.

I made it. I fucking made it!

I’m here! I travelled across the world and I’m fucking here!

Everything feels too surreal. All the fights, all the worries, all the harsh, but loving, research about the daily lives of Black women in the UK given to me by Audrey. All of it amounts to something in this emotionless, bright white room and doesn’t let me go.

“Are you okay?” Nina wraps an arm around me. But I apparently cannot form anything coherent other than blubbering on about how grateful I am and how beautiful this flat is.

“Oh, she’s gone mad,” Nina mutters to herself. Turning to reassure her, I catch sight of Nina’s long bare caramel legs and lose it again. How is this real?!

“Why don’t you have any pants,” I sputter and begin laughing. It’s utterly ridiculous, I know, but I can’t stop the tears or the laughter or the joy or even the sorrow.

“Yeah, she’s lost it.” And with a toss of her long curls, Nina stalks off down the hall. So I give in to my fit, laying across the bare mattress and sob my eyes out. Thank goodness I decided not to wear any makeup.

Nina wordlessly returns with a glass of water, and I chug it down.

“I think it’s the jet lag. Do you want to lay down?” Nina hands over a pink pillow and thin fleece blanket.

“No, no. I’m fine. I think everything just hit me once I finally stopped moving, you know.”

“Well, yeah,” Nina shrugs, as though this isn’t the most significant moment of my life.

“I think I need to call my sister,” I sniffle, reaching into my coat pocket. “Shit, I don’t have a SIM card!”

“Your phone still needs a SIM?” Nina scrunches her nose at me.

“Yes, of course it does. I don’t have a secret identity as an mega-influencer unlike some people.” I purse my lips back at her, wiping away my tears. “What’s the Wi-Fi?”

-----

“Ava! Why didn’t you call Mom and Dad?! They’re freaking out on me!” Audrey screeches through the phone. Why is this the first thing my sister manages to say to me after giving me the statistics of planes crashing into the Atlantic versus the rates of Black women getting kidnapped in the U.S.? The planes are safer by a mile.

“It is simply because I knew you would be awake all night until I called you.” That seems to stun her, and I grin into my phone camera. My baby sister has always been and will always be the strangest person I’ve ever met, and yet she’s exactly like me. Audrey is exactly two and a half years younger than me, my polar opposite but my best friend. While she is a bit anxious about the things she can’t control, she has no intention of trying to control everything. It seems to me that Audrey wants to make sure all of her ducks will be in a row before she even assembles them. And while I know she just wants to take care of me, sometimes I worry about her worrying.

“I will text Mom and Dad,” Audrey sighs, rolling her eyes.

“Thanks,” I smirk. “How were they?”

Since signing onto this job, my parents have run around like chickens with their heads cut off. Would she be warm enough? Was there someone she could make her emergency contact? How did insurance work over there? Where would Cam fall in this equation? None of these questions had any answers by the time my plane had taken off last night.

“It seems as though they are mourning you moving even farther away. Like you’re intentionally getting as far from them as possible,” Audrey states. She pushes her pink glasses farther up her nose, her lips pressing into a flat line.

“Well that’s better than them trying to fly out to Denver, fly with me here, and then fly back. I think we’re making progress,” I yawn. “What time is it there?”

“About three,” Audrey yawns back.

“You seriously stayed up until three A.M. just to make sure I got here alright,” I smile at my sister in such a chummy way that clearly freaks her out.

“Ew, not everything is about you. I’ll have you know,” she yawns again before finishing, “that I happen to have insomnia and a paper due in the morning that I started about five hours ago.”

I laugh wholeheartedly, knowing exactly which class it’s for.

“You really have nothing pertinent to say about Jane Austen? You have so many thoughts about Jane Austen.”

“I know, but the professor doesn’t need to know about those thoughts, especially since she wouldn’t like them very much.” Audrey rubs her eyes, clearly defeated. It is times like this when I really think about how much we are alike. The same halo of curly dark hair, golden brown skin, the singular dimple in Audrey’s left cheek where mine is on the right. It is so obvious we are sisters, but our personalities are drastically different. Where I am a nurturer, Audrey is quick to isolate herself. Where I want nothing more than to talk about all things literature, Audrey loathes it entirely, opting instead for a chemistry lab. Where I needed to cross an ocean to find myself, Audrey found that living an hour and a half from home was enough distance to feel free.

Although I know Audrey couldn’t care less, I drone on about Jane Austen. Not that I feel a kinship with Austen’s writing but rewarding her as a female writer in her own right is enough to show my admiration. This conversation seems so mundane, but it’s hitting me again that I’m a world away from my sister. “I miss you, Bean.”

“I literally just drove you to the airport.” Audrey rolls her eyes.

“Oh you’re right, I can't miss my favorite sister after moving to a foreign country.”

“England is hardly foreign, and I’m your only sister,” Audrey grumbles.

“But still my favorite.”