"Yeah," I reply, bracing myself, but Jason comes out of left field.

"Seriously, what's with the geese?"

I look up to see his eyes flashing, his mouth set in a tight line to suppress his riotous laughter.

"Oh, it's a dumb childhood thing," I say. I roll over onto my stomach, then lay my cheek down in the wet grass. My mind is still swirling, my heart still racing.

"Come on, you know I'm still basically a dumb child," he says, giving me a poke in the ribs. "Spill."

So I tell him the story, a mixture of my fuzzy little-kid memories and the endless rehashings from my parents. As I talk, I remember how my dad used to act out chasing the damn bird away, me tucked safely in his arms, both of us screaming back at a little goose. By the time I finish the story, Jason and I are both flat on our backs in the grass, clutching our stomachs in laughter.

"Your dad sounds like an awesome guy," Jason says when his laughter has finally slowed.

"He was," I reply, sighing deeply.

"Was?" Jason props himself up on an elbow. I can feel him staring at me.

"He died when I was seven," I say, my eyes trained on the sky above me.

"Oh, right. I'm sorry," he whispers, reaching his arms out and pulling me close. He buries his face in my hair, planting a soft kiss on my temple. I reach up and grab on to his arm, which is circled around my chest. I give it a squeeze, simultaneously blinking back tears. I breathe deeply, taking in full breaths of thick, damp, grassy air. I can't believe it, but lying in the grass, enveloped by Jason, is better than being in any hotel bed or swimming pool could ever be. I don't care that I'm shivering from my damp clothes and the cool wind. I don't care that I'm covered in so much mud I could build my own hut. I don't care that my hair has probably wound itself into such a tight knot I may have to shave my head. I close my eyes and settle in, ready to lie here forever.

I take a deep breath, breathing in the air, heavy with the smell of rain. Jason hasn't said anything for a few minutes. My heart is pounding out of my chest, but I have to ask.

"Jason, does this mean-" but the question catches in my throat. I feel fat raindrops roll down my face, sticking to my eyelashes.

"We should-" Jason says, and the rest of his sentence is cut off by a clap of thunder. We both scramble to our feet. Jason grabs my hand and takes off running. I don't know if he knows where he's going (I certainly don't), but I'm happy to be pulled along. My feet sink deeper into the mud with each sprint, splashes flying up my legs. My jeans are fully soaked, and mud is caking deeper and deeper in my sneakers, but I don't care. I shake my curls, heavy with rain and covered with grass and mud, and they slap across my face, sticking in my wide smile. We run clear across the expansive field. I fall into a perfect pace with him, grasping his hand tightly, thinking back to that first night in London when we ran from the house party, thinking of how much has changed.

We slow to a stop underneath a huge shade tree, a bright blue bike leaning against its trunk. It's one of those rickety old cruiser styles, and it looks like there's more rust than bike there. Jason quickly tests the wheels, giving it a few rolls, before climbing on.

"Hop on," he says, his wet hair plastered across his forehead.

"Where?"

"Right here," he says, patting the slippery handlebars as I raise my eyes at him. "What, you want to stay out here?"

I look up. All I can see is a sheet of gray clouds.

"Are you hoping the sky is going to drop a helmet?" Jason says, teasing me.

"Or a Volkswagen," I mutter, giving the sky one last look. "Fine, fine. I guess it's safer than hitchhiking." I scramble up onto the handlebars, and as I try to settle in, Jason grabs my shoulders and gives me an effortless lift. Next thing I know, we're speeding down the narrow lane back toward town.

I've made a HUGE mistake -J We're staying in Stratford for the night, in a little hostel that has the personality of a mental hospital. The walls are white; the beds are white; the sheets and towels are white. I'm sharing a room with half the girls on the trip, packed into bunk beds like we're booked on a steamer ship. My bed is old and metal, and every time I turn over, it squeaks. And I'm turning over a lot. Everyone in this room probably hates my guts. I say a little prayer that they all sleep like the dead before turning over for the billionth time. I can't help it. My brain won't quiet enough for me to fall asleep.

I want my mom. She's a champion at calming me down, a skill she's honed over years of dealing with my minor freak-outs. I want nothing more than to be home, curled up on the couch, watching TiVo and eating animal crackers, under the big afghan that Gramma Lichtenstein made for me when I was born.

But I don't have the afghan. Instead, I have this awful, scratchy hostel blanket that smells like asparagus and bleach.

Every time I close my eyes, I picture the kiss. It comes with such intensity that I can practically feel it. It was the perfect kiss in every way except for one: it was with Jason Lippincott. Was that supposed to happen? Was that meant to be? Is he meant to be? This whole time I've been chasing after Chris, but I haven't gotten any closer to him. I have gotten closer to Jason, apparently. Close enough to lock lips. And then I'm off again, reliving the rain and the grass and the kiss.

But just as soon as I'm feeling blissful, I hear Jason's voice in my ear calling me Book Licker. I hear him telling me that finding the one is "bullshit." I hear his dirty jokes about Big Ben and see him stringing himself up to a wall and embarrassing the living hell out of me. I even picture him depositing tampons in my locker in ninth grade and scrawling on Phoebe's painting.

This was clearly not meant to be. I mean, sure I've learned to tolerate Jason on this trip, but I still fundamentally don't want to be around him. I'm pretty sure that as soon as we get back to the States, we'll go right back to ignoring each other. We are not friends. We are less than not friends. We don't have anything in common.

My MTB won't be an annoying, immature, uncultured, dirty-joke-making boy like Jason. He won't be an attention whore who is spending every waking minute trying to be the loudest person in a room. He won't be a guy who hasn't even read a single book, much less a Jane Austen novel!

It was an accident. We were wrestling, and we fell, and we got caught up in the moment. He bewitched my hormones with his crooked, mischievous smile, his ridiculous freckles, his mess of a mop of hair, his low voice, making fun of me like it's all some kind of inside joke, like he's known me forever ... and before I know it, I'm back to the kiss, reliving it again....

The rain ...

The soft pressure of his lips ...

The feeling of his hands in my hair ...

The sounds of my classmates rifling through their overnight bags wakes me. I guess I finally did fall asleep after all. I sit up too quickly and smack my head on the ceiling.

"Ouch," I yelp, rubbing the quickly growing goose egg on my forehead.

"Well, look who's awake," Sarah Finder grumbles. "Glad someone could get some sleep. The rest of us were kept up by some major squeaking."

"Seriously," Evie whines, tossing her toothbrush back into her Louis Vuitton tote. "It was like you were doing the nasty with someone up there."

"Sorry," I mutter, turning bright red. I don't even want to think about what Sarah would do if she found out about Jason's kissing me. She would probably convince the whole school that I had a third nipple or an STD. I miss Phoebe. As soon as I get back to the hotel, I'm writing her an email and begging her to get on Skype.

"Can I have my charger back, please?" Evie sticks her palm out and taps her toe theatrically on the floor. I didn't know "please" could sound like an insult, but she has managed to pull it off.

The perk of us all having the same phone? We all have the same charger. I "borrowed" hers last night after she went to sleep.

Down in the lobby of the hostel, a rumpled employee is handing out sack breakfasts. Inside, I find a semi-stale croissant, a foil-wrapped pat of butter, and a small container of cranberry juice. It doesn't matter. My stomach is all jumbled up. I couldn't eat if I wanted to.

As I climb the steps and shuffle onto the bus, I look for Jason, but he hasn't made it on yet. I take a window seat toward the middle, wondering if he'll eventually plop down beside me and steal my breakfast. A few minutes later, that rusty head of baseball cap-covered hair pops up in the front of the bus. My stomach turns a somersault.

Jason starts down the aisle, nodding to people as he passes. When he finally notices me and the empty seat beside me, I'm not totally shocked that he doesn't take it. I am shocked that all I get is a half nod before he plops down into a seat two rows ahead of mine. Not even a snotty good morning when he calls me Book Licker? Not a word?

I crane my neck over the seat in front of me, thinking maybe he'll turn around and say something, but the bus shudders to a start and we set off down the road. Jason doesn't even glance back in my direction.

When I lean my head against the bus window, I can make out Jason's arm resting against the glass two rows up. I can see him passing something to the seat in front of him, but I can't make out what it is. I wait and watch closely, but I can't tell. The next time I see him make a move, I stand up and fake stretch, and that's when I see what he's doing. He's passing a note to Sarah Finder.

I fall back into my seat so hard I feel the metal springs poke me in the rear. I don't care. Frankly, it feels good to have a reason for the tears welling up in my eyes, even if it is a literal pain in my butt. I shut my eyes tight before a single tear can fall, and conjure up all those things about Jason I listed last night-how he's annoying and calls me names, embarrasses me, hates the books I love, has to be the center of attention-and before I know it, I hate him again. But now I have an even bigger reason.

Because he gave me the best kiss of my life-my first real kiss kiss-and is now pretending it never happened. Even worse, he's flirting with Sarah in front of me.

The rest of the ride is miserable. I try to listen to my iPod, but every song seems like some sappy love song. Jason was right. What a bunch of crap.

When we're just outside the city, my phone buzzes against my thigh. I dig it out of my pocket and flip it open to see a text.

Just wanted to say hope ur having a good day -C I've never been so happy to have a charged phone in my life. A sweet text from Chris is exactly what I need. And it's finally a text I don't have to analyze or decode. One that doesn't need some kind of witty response. I can actually respond to this one all by myself with (gasp!) honesty.

I've had better ...

Seconds later, a response comes.

"If ur going through hell, keep going." -Churchill I laugh. My dad used to say that all the time, and my mom would swat at him for saying "hell" in front of me.

I like that 1

How bout the Frost quote?

3 things about life: It. Goes. On.

I press send and imagine Chris in some cafe somewhere, a burnt caramel mocha and a book on the table, his phone in his hand. Maybe he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose before he sends each reply; maybe he's got to push up the sleeves on his worn flannel shirt. I imagine his hair falling over his eyes as he types, and my heart gives a little flutter.

UR awesome. Meet up soon?

The bus shudders to a halt, and I'm thrown forward into the back of the seat in front of me. My phone clatters on the ground, and I have to contort like a pretzel to reach it from underneath my seat. As I get up, I see Jason ahead, his head bobbing down the aisle. I fling my bag over my shoulder and make my way up the aisle, but something in a seat two rows up catches my eye. It's a small white piece of paper, probably a receipt, folded tightly. Writing is scrawled on the back. The note.

I want it. I feel the same itching intensity I normally feel while standing on the starting blocks at a swim meet. Just give me the signal; I'm ready to bolt.

I reach out and snatch it up, and when I turn around to see Deirdre peering out under her frizzy hair to give me a strange look, I smile at her. "I can't believe people would leave their trash on the bus for someone else to pick up," I say, rolling my eyes. I stuff the note into my bag.

Back in my hotel room, I latch the chain, as if someone is going to bust in and accuse me of stealing. I unfold the note and read the two sets of handwriting: Sarah's loopy cursive spelling out What happened to you guys last night? and Jason's trademark chicken scratch replying, I screwed up. In more ways than one.

I read it over again. And again. And then a fourth time. After the fifth, I wad it up in my hand hard and fling it with all my might across the room. It's only a small scrap of paper, though, so it flutters and then drops limply near my feet. I don't know what else to do, so I stomp on it hard. And then again. And then I jump up and down on it.

When I finally stop, I'm out of breath, but a sense of calm comes over me.

So it was a mistake. We do hate each other. We are complete opposites. It was just hormones. It didn't mean a thing.

I won't think about it again, ever, not even for a second.

It feels like my brain has been cooked into scrambled eggs. All I know is I need to get the anger out, so I drop to the floor, flat on my back, and do a hundred crunches. When I'm done, my abs are tight and burning, my lungs begging for more oxygen.

I sit down on the big fluffy bed and pull the comforter around me like a cape. Then I drop back on the bed and fall asleep, gaining back all those lost hours from last night.

When I wake from my nap, I realize I've missed lunch. Oh well. I still have negative appetite. I spot my towel from the hotel pool hanging over the rack. As soon as I slip into my suit, I feel my muscles start to burn, begging for a good workout.

Up on the rooftop pool, I execute a perfect dive into the water, barely making a splash. I start freestyle, pulling myself hard through the water, but it's not long before I switch to the butterfly. It's not my best stroke, but it works my body so hard I can't think of anything else.

Except the kiss. The kiss that was a mistake. The water isn't doing its job today. Nothing is muted. In fact, it all seems louder. The kiss was a mistake? But then why did it feel so right at the time? I've had enough kisses in my life (okay, four) to know that what happened yesterday was different. Special. Downright awesome. My mind wanders back to the moment in the grass, right before the rain, when I could feel his breath in my hair. I'm about to get lost in the memory when reality clicks in and brings me back. Apparently, the "different" feeling was that I'd never been kissed by accident. I'd never been kissed by someone who didn't want to kiss me back. (Even Johnny Cafferty, who had to kiss me during spin the bottle at summer camp, wanted to kiss me. He told Phoebe and she jostled the bottle at the last second so it landed on him.) When will I ever understand anything about love?

Between Mark, Chris, and Jason, I keep getting it wrong. Mark is a dream, Chris is a mystery, and Jason is a mistake. Or maybe they're all mistakes? I don't even know anymore.

Then it hits me: all this time, Chris has been asking to see me, to meet up. And I keep turning him down. Why? Because I'm afraid, and that's a stupid reason to run away from someone who actually likes me-who is actually happy he met me-even though he doesn't know the exact truth about who I am.

If my parents' relationship has taught me anything, it's that things don't last forever-they can't-so I shouldn't waste a single minute. Connection is a matter of destiny: if Chris turns out to be my MTB, then he won't care that I'm not really a supermodel. He'll love me anyway. Besides, he has already met me. Dad always said great reward comes with great risk; it's time for me to risk something.

I swim over to the edge of the pool where I've left my towel and my phone. I flip it open and dash off a new message to Chris.

How bout tonight? -J I click send, then snap my phone shut and dive in for another punishing lap. I'm halfway through when I realize there's someone standing on the edge of the pool, right at the end of my lane. I come up for air, swiping the water from my eyes.

"Julia!"

Impossible. I blink, several times, realizing I must have a lot of chlorine in my eyes. There's no way. I'm dreaming.

"Fancy meeting you here! I totally forgot the juniors were staying at this hotel."

Mark Bixford, Man of My Dreams, MTB original, is standing on the pool deck, smiling down at me.

UR on. Meet me @Camden market 2nite for some mulled wine & meandering? -C My phone beeps with a new text, but I'm too stunned to look at it. Or maybe it's just my brain beeping-some inner alarm going off. MTB! MTB!

"What-what are you doing here!" I exclaim. The combination of the hard workout and the shock makes me sound sputtery and shrill. I grip the side of the pool, resting my chin on the ledge, trying to conceal as much of my body as possible. My Day-Glo swim team one-piece doesn't exactly have major sex appeal.

"Uh, well, I heard there was a pool on the roof, so I figured I'd come up here and check it out," he says, shrugging.

"I meant in London," I say. I'm still blinking chlorine out of my eyes, but I don't blink too fast, in case he's some kind of mirage and I could accidentally blink him away.

"My dad got called in last minute to cover fashion week," he explains, and I remember that his father is kind of a big-deal photographer. Not only does he regularly have spreads in Vogue and Harper's, but he volunteers photographing cancer patients at the children's hospital. He donates a photo shoot to the Newton North PTA's charity auction every year. Obviously, Bixford Senior has transferred his awesomeness to his son. "Since I had no spring break plans, he brought me along. I figured a London adventure would be fun."

"But I thought the hotel wasn't even open yet. To regular guests, I mean." As if that even matters right now, Julia. You are a conversational wizard.

But Mark doesn't roll his eyes or sigh or crack a joke. He just nods and explains that his dad knows Mrs. Tennison's husband's brother (or whatever), too, and in exchange for some photos to hang in the hotel's dining room, the Bixfords are staying in the hotel for the rest of the week.

A shiver passes through my body, and I have the sudden realization that Mark Bixford, my MTB, is standing here, and I'm in a pool. I put my hands up on the ledge of the pool and start to haul myself straight up onto the deck. I make it about halfway out of the water when it strikes me that I'm about to be standing in front of Mark Bixford, my MTB, wearing a wet bathing suit. The horror sends me plummeting backward into the pool, water splashing onto Mark's perfectly white sneakers.

I have a moment when I think about staying on the bottom of the pool until I die ... or Mark leaves, whichever comes first. But that only lasts a minute before I burst back to the surface, gasping for breath.

"Do you need help?" Mark bends down and offers me one of his hands. I need a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. And possibly a lobotomy, because my brain is, like, frozen from shock.

I grasp his hand and he pulls me straight up onto the deck in one fluid motion. I can feel his eyes on me in places I only imagined Mark Bixford's eyes would go. I'm simultaneously horrified to be wearing my swim team suit and thankful I'm not in a teeny bikini. I cross my arms in front of my chest, then drop them to my sides, then cross my hands at my waist. I must look like I'm doing some kind of half-naked Macarena, so I dive past Mark for the towel I left before I got into the pool. I wrap it around me like a cape.

"I, uh, well ...," I mumble, praying that my brain will emerge from its watery fog and start to actually function. "I'm going to head downstairs. I need to get dressed."

"I'll ride with you," he says. He follows me toward the elevator and jumps in front of me to punch the button.

The elevator dings down each floor. The noise is loud and crisp and somehow chipper, a signal of something exciting about to start. I can't believe Mark is actually here and talking to me, not just because he thinks he should. I have to keep sneaking glances at him to be sure it's not a dream. I hope he doesn't notice.

I focus on not staring at him, and try not to think about the silence stretching between us, either. I won't speak, because if I speak, I'll blow it. There's water in my left ear-I can feel it-but I refuse to try to shake it out. I am not going to start hopping up and down like a lopsided jackrabbit in front of Mark.