The Statistical Probability Of Love At First Sight (21 page)

He looks away, blinking hard.

“It’s like with the night-light,” she says, and even when he starts to shake his head, she pushes on. “Maybe the point of the story isn’t that he wouldn’t help at first. Maybe it’s that he came around in the end.” She says this last part softly: “Maybe you both just needed more time to come around.”

“It’s still there, you know,” Oliver says after a moment. “The night-light. They turned my room into a guestroom after I left for school, and most of my things are up in the attic. But I noticed it there this morning when I dropped off my bags. I bet it doesn’t even work anymore.”

“I bet it does,” she says, and Oliver smiles.

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“This,” he says. “The rest of my family is home, but I felt like I couldn’t breathe there. I just needed some fresh air.”

Hadley nods. “Me, too.”

“I just needed…” he trails off again, glancing over at her. “Is it okay that I’m here?”

“Of course,” she says, a bit too quickly. “Especially after I…”

“After you what?”

“Barged into the funeral earlier,” she says, wincing a little at the memory. “Not that you didn’t already have company.”

He frowns at his shoes for a moment before it seems to click. “Oh,” he says. “That was just my ex-girlfriend. She knew my dad. And she was worried about me. But she was only there as a family friend. Really.”

Hadley feels a quick rush of relief. She hadn’t realized just how powerfully she’d wished for this to be true until now. “I’m glad she could be there,” she tells him truthfully. “I’m glad you had someone.”

“Yes, though
she
didn’t leave me with any reading material,” he says, thumping a hand against the book.

“Yeah, but she also probably didn’t force you to talk to her.”

“Or tease me about my accent.”

“Or show up without an invitation.”

“That’d be both of us,” he reminds her, glancing over his shoulder at the entrance to the hotel, where a bellhop is watching them warily. “Why aren’t you inside, anyway?”

Hadley shrugs.

“Claustrophobic?”

“No, actually,” she says. “It hasn’t been too bad.”

“You’ve been imagining the sky, then?”

She looks at him sideways. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“Me, too,” Oliver says, tipping his head back.

Somehow, almost without even realizing it, they’ve moved closer together on the steps, so that although they’re not quite leaning against each other, it would be difficult to fit anything between them. There’s a scent of rain in the air, and the men smoking cigarettes nearby stub them out and head back inside. The bellhop peers up at the sky from beneath the brim of his cap, and the breeze makes the awning shudder and flap as if it were trying to take flight.

A fly lands on Hadley’s knee, but she doesn’t move to swat it away. Instead, they both watch it dart around for a moment before it takes off again, so fast they almost miss it.

“I wonder if he got to see the Tower of London,” Oliver says.

Hadley gives him a blank look.

“Our friend from the flight,” he says with a grin. “The stowaway.”

“Ah, right. I’m sure he did. He’s probably off to check out the nightlife now.”

“After a busy day in London.”

“After a
long
day in London.”

“The longest,” Oliver agrees. “I don’t know about you, but the last time I slept was during that stupid duck movie.”

Hadley laughs. “That’s not true. You passed out again later. On my shoulder.”

“No way,” he says. “Never happened.”

“Trust me, it did,” she says, bumping her knee against his. “I remember it all.”

He smiles. “Then I suppose you also remember getting into a fight with that woman at the gate?”

Now it’s Hadley’s turn to look indignant. “I did
not
,” she says. “Asking someone to watch your suitcase is a perfectly reasonable request.”

“Or a potential crime, depending on how you look at it,” he says. “You’re lucky I came to your rescue.”

“Right,” Hadley says, laughing. “My knight in shining armor.”

“At your service.”

“Can you believe that was only yesterday?”

Another plane crosses the patch of sky above them, and Hadley leans into Oliver as they watch, their eyes trained on the bright dots of light. After a moment, he nudges her forward gently so that he can stand up, then offers her a hand.

“Let’s dance.”

“Here?”

“I was thinking inside, actually.” He glances around—his eyes skipping from the carpeted steps to the restless bellhop to the cars lining up outside the entrance—then nods. “But why not?”

Hadley rises to her feet and smoothes her dress, and then Oliver positions his hands like a professional ballroom dancer, one on her back and the other in the air. His form is perfect, his face serious, and she steps into his waiting arms with a sheepish grin.

“I have no idea how to dance like this.”

“I’ll show you,” he says, but they still haven’t moved an inch. They’re just standing there, poised and ready, as if waiting for the music to begin, both of them unable to stop smiling. His hand on her back is like something electric, and being here like this, so suddenly close to him, is enough to make her lightheaded. It’s a feeling like falling, like forgetting the words to a song.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she says, her voice soft. “I can’t believe you found me.”

“You found me first,” he says, and when he leans to kiss her, it’s slow and sweet and she knows that this will be the one she always remembers. Because while the other two kisses felt like endings, this one is unquestionably a beginning.

The rain begins to fall as they stand there, a sideways drizzle that settles over them lightly. When she lifts her chin again, Hadley sees a drop land on Oliver’s forehead and then slip down to the end of his nose, and without thinking, she moves her hand from his shoulder to wipe it away.

“We should go in,” she says, and he nods, taking her hand. There’s water on his eyelashes, and he’s looking at her like she’s the answer to some sort of riddle. They walk inside together, her dress already dotted with specks of rain, the shoulders of his suit a shade darker than before, but they’re both smiling like it’s some sort of problem they can’t shake, like a case of the hiccups.

At the door to the ballroom Hadley pauses, tugging on his hand.

“Are you sure you’re up for a wedding right now?”

Oliver looks down at her carefully. “That whole plane ride, you didn’t realize my father just died. You know why?”

Hadley isn’t sure what to say.

“Because I was with
you
,” he tells her. “I feel better when I’m with you.”

“I’m glad,” she says, and then she surprises herself by rising onto her tiptoes and kissing his rough cheek.

They can hear the music on the other side of the door, and Hadley takes a deep breath before pushing it open. Most of the tables are empty now, and everyone is out on the dance floor, swaying in time to an old love song. Oliver once again offers his hand, and he leads her through the maze of tables, weaving past plates of half-eaten cake and sticky champagne glasses and empty coffee cups until they reach the middle of the room.

Hadley glances around, no longer embarrassed to have so many pairs of eyes on her. The bridesmaids are not-so-subtly pointing and giggling, and from where she’s dancing with Monty, her head resting on his shoulder, Violet winks at her as if to say,
I told you so
.

On the other side of the room, Dad and Charlotte have slowed almost to a stop, both of them staring. But when he catches her eye, Dad smiles knowingly, and Hadley can’t help beaming back.

This time, when Oliver offers his hand to dance, he pulls her close.

“What happened to those formal techniques of yours?” she says into his shoulder. “Don’t all proper English gentlemen dance like that?”

She can hear the smile in his voice. “I’m doing my summer research project on different styles of dancing.”

“So does that mean we’ll be doing the tango next?”

“Only if you’re up for it.”

“What are you really studying?”

He leans back to look at her. “The statistical probability of love at first sight.”

“Very funny,” she says. “What is it really?”

“I’m serious.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He laughs, then lowers his mouth so that it’s close to her ear. “People who meet in airports are seventy-two percent more likely to fall for each other than people who meet anywhere else.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, resting her head on his shoulder. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Yes,” he says, laughing. “You, actually. About a thousand times today.”

“Well, today’s almost over,” Hadley says, glancing at the gold-trimmed clock on the other side of the room. “Only four more minutes. It’s eleven fifty-six.”

“That means we met twenty-four hours ago.”

“Seems like it’s been longer.”

Oliver smiles. “Did you know that people who meet at least three different times within a twenty-four hour period are ninety-eight percent more likely to meet again?”

This time she doesn’t bother correcting him. Just this once, she’d like to believe that he’s right.

There’s a statistical and very probable chance that this book would not have happened without the wisdom and encouragement of
JENNIFER
JOEL
and
ELIZABETH
BEWLEY
. I’m also incredibly grateful to
BINKY
URBAN
,
STEPHANIE
THWAITES
, everyone at
ICM
and Curtis Brown, the wonderful teams over at Poppy and Headline, my colleagues at Random House, and my very supportive friends and family. Thank you all.