Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Jack’s cocky laughter versus Nate’s rare cheekiness.
That mellow, silly, comfortable way I feel with Jack compared to the excitement and passion Nate sparks in me.
And once again, it comes back to who I envision myself to be when I’m with them.
But who am I, damn it? What do I most connect with? The allure of the free spirit I can be, trotting the globe and living life to its fullest? Or a simpler, laughter-filled, everyday existence appreciating the little pleasures?
Both have their appeal.
Ultimately, what this exercise tells me is that I still don’t know myself at all.
Three days later, my anxiety has peaked, and I’m no closer to figuring out what I want. I know my dad is convinced you can’t love two people at once, but the longer I obsess over Jack and Nate, the more I doubt Dad’s conviction.
I think he’s wrong.
I think I’m in love with them both.
I keep waiting for my heart to put me out of my misery. Give me an answer. A sign. But I’m as torn today as I’ve ever been, and I have no clue what to do about it.
So I’ve fallen back on old habits of avoidance. Sequestering myself in the library under the pretense of homework and research. Hiding from the conflicting emotions I’m unable to understand or to process.
But these past few days, a creeping feeling has crawled its way into my brain and burrowed deep. The awful, unsettling nausea of wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake by not choosing to go to Budapest with Nate.
Or Sydney with Jack.
I should’ve just agreed to go.
To Budapest.
Or Sydney.
I release a silent scream as I trudge down the sidewalk toward the Talbot Library. I’m liable to drive myself mad at this point. Whatever. Fine. I didn’t say yes to either trip. That might be the least of my concerns right now.
Because they’ll both be back in a week wanting an answer to the question that matters: Do I love them too? And if so, which one?
As I’m approaching my usual table, Mr. Baxley spots me and marches over with unusual haste.
“You’re late, Ms. Bly,” he reprimands me, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
I eye him in amusement. “Am I? I didn’t realize we’d made an appointment.”
“You didn’t receive my message?”
Brow furrowed, I pull my phone from my bag. “I didn’t see any message. Maybe you sent it when I had no service on the Tube— ”
“Forget that,” he says, dismissively waving at my phone. “I have news.”
“You do?”
“Indeed.”
“Okay… What is it?”
Mr. Baxley bestows me with the rarest of gifts.
A smile.
“I do believe I’ve learned the fate of your Josephine.”
50
MR. BAXLEY PUTS A PLEASE CALL AGAIN SIGN UP ON HIS DESK AND escorts me into the special archives section. Excitement gathers inside me as we walk past familiar doorways and delve deep into the bowels of the library toward areas students aren’t otherwise allowed. By the time we reach our destination, I’m nearly jumping out of my skin. The anticipation is too much.
We enter a locked room under harsh white lighting where equipment covers lab tables.
“What is all this?” I ask, a bit awed as I examine our surroundings.
“Document authentication, restoration, and preservation.”
I resist the urge to let out an excited squeal. I doubt Mr. Baxley would appreciate losing the use of his eardrums.
“Over here,” he says, and my gaze follows his gesturing hand.
On a table, inside a clear plastic bag, is a leather-bound book. It’s warped and tattered and looks like it was flushed down a toilet a hundred years ago.
“A friend of mine recently had access to a collection of artifacts from the Victoria that have never been on public display before. This journal was among them.”
I turn toward him, my jaw gaping wide. “This was on the Victoria?”
“Recovered from the wreck.” He bats my hand away when I reach for the precious book. “I can’t let you handle it. However, she did agree to provide me with photos of its entries. These were among them. I suggest you read the top entry first.”
“Am I allowed to include these in my paper?”
“Indeed. These copies are for you.”
Mr. Baxley hands me a stack of printed papers featuring close-up photographs of the yellowed journal pages.
“There’s almost no water damage,” I say, marveling at the legibility of the handwriting.
“The journal was kept in a safe. It remained remarkably watertight for years on the ocean floor. They suspect the seal had only recently begun to fail when it was recovered. Just a small amount water had been inside, according to the report at the time. Much of the damage is the result of depressurization when the safe was brought up and opened.”
My heart is pounding as I lower my gaze to the page Mr. Baxley indicated.
The journal entry is short. Written by a noblewoman on her way to America aboard the Victoria, it describes an evening on the ship at the captain’s table. With a rather dry wit, she provides observations about members of her dinner party.