Jo was born in Bristol, like her parents, but all four grandparents were Jamaican immigrants. I wonder if she feels like she’s got one foot out of the UK by virtue of her ancestry. I suspect she likes me better for being American, even though I find being American pretty darn embarrassing, especially now that we’re the ones on the wrong side of a global war. I do hold on to my language, my accent, and American vocabulary out of vague stubbornness, but the truth is I’m much happier living in Britain. It’s only little annoyances that niggle at me sometimes. Food packaging that’s tricky to open. References to sitcoms I’ve never heard of. Moments of cultural ambiguity—is she really inviting me in for tea or just being polite? Moments where I wonder if I’m being too loud, too honest, too much myself. Private jokes between Hugh and his friends. Ancient customs that are impossible to wrap my brain around.

“I hope no one tries to fly out here on the Day.” Jo’s brow furrows. “That could end it right there.”

Before I can ask if she’s serious, the shop bell rings, Mrs. Wickett shuffling in for her midday cup of tea. Jo stands to greet her, offering an arm to help the tiny old woman sit. I wave to Mrs. Wickett and am favored with a dignified nod.

As Jo goes into the tearoom kitchen to put on the kettle, I gaze around at her cozy business, the cream lace curtains, low ceiling with beams painted white, cheerfully crooked walls, zigzag cracks where damp’s getting in, and mull the look on my friend’s face before that bell rang. I’ve always assumed she’s playing along with everyone else. Jo’s sensible. If I were asked to describe her in a single word, that would be it. She’s only in her fifties. She wasn’t brought up here like most of the others were. But with every day closer to the Day, I wait for her to break, to wink, to show that it’s a tradition, no more, and so far it hasn’t happened.

Jo seems worried. Industrious as ever, but with a weight to it, not unlike that certainty Charlie had in his face yesterday.

I sip my tea, too fast, again. I haven’t been in this country long enough to adapt to the heat of their beverages. I set the dragon cup down clumsily, and a dribble spills over the edge onto the white lace tablecloth. I dab it with my napkin as Jo sets the teapot and cup in front of Mrs. Wickett and flumps back down in the chair opposite me.

“We got your biscuits in before we shut down orders for the week. Forgot to tell you, but they’re in the shop.” She nods over her shoulder.