by Monica James
“Yes,” Belle professes while I close my eyes, squeezing back my tears.
“How could you?” I spit, barely able to speak. “That one action changed my life forever.”
She has the nerve to break down and look at London for support. But he stands rigid, fists bunched tight in the crease of both elbows. “I know,” she says, her voice echoing her impending hysteria. “I’m sorry, but I just wanted someone to love me. With you gone, maybe London would finally let you go. But he never did.” Her attention falls to his muscled chest where his tattoo is, as if supporting her claims.
I’m trying to be strong, goddammit, I’m trying, but when I look at London, I feel like I’m seeing him for the first time. This incredible, fierce man before me has protected and loved me for all time. All those times when I thought he didn’t care, I was so, so fucking wrong.
I take a moment to focus on him and only him because through the storm, he is the only thing anchoring me from slipping into an abysmal darkness. With that mussed, dirty blond hair kicked to the heavens and those hypnotic stormy blue gray eyes, London Sinclair takes the word “bad boy” and fucking makes it his own.
But underneath that image lies a man with a heart so big that for countless years, he has shielded me from pain and, in turn, doubled his own. I thought he didn’t care, but it seems he cared too much.
The name, my name tattooed across his chest, over his heart, is affirmation of how wrong I’ve been.
I make no secret that I’m paying homage to his ink, and I promise myself that I will make amends for everything I’ve put him through. But things have changed, and when Belle steps toward London protectively, I know she won’t let him go without a fight.
“You left in such a hurry,” Belle says, continuing her tale. “I wanted to at least say goodbye. But your phone was disconnected. No matter what I did, our friendship meant something to me. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but you were a good friend to me, Holland.”
I scoff, but I’m in no position to judge. I slept with the boy she was crushing on for years.
“When word got out I was pregnant and London was the father, your parents made it clear they didn’t want anything to do with me. So I had no hope of ever finding out where you went, but I always hoped you were happy. I know how tough life was for you.”
“Don’t patronize me,” I snap, not wanting her pity. “Life is tough for everyone, especially when you’re in high school. I couldn’t care less what those people thought of me because none of them mattered to me.”
She toys with a gold locket around her neck while the corner of London’s bowed lips lift in a satisfied grin.
“That day after prom was the last time I spoke to Lincoln. After graduation, he went off to college. Everyone did. But us.” London is unmoved by her sentiments.
“My mom was furious and said she’d take care of it. But there was no way I was hurting my baby. I know what it’s like to be unloved and unwanted, and I wouldn’t do that to my child. And neither would London.” She gazes at him with nothing but love, and a surge of jealousy sweeps over me.
“If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know where I’d be.”
Metallic burns my tongue when I bite my cheek so hard, I draw blood. This trip down memory lane is one I have no interest in hearing. “How did you find out Emily wasn’t your daughter?” I gently ask London because I’ve had enough of Belle. I can’t shake the feeling she’s doing this to rub salt in the wounds—to show me the life she’s led with London and all the history they share.
London frowns, the memory still raw as he hoarsely replies, “When she was two, she began suffering from terrible seizures. They didn’t know what was wrong. They did bloodwork, and that’s how I found out”—he takes a steadying breath—“my blood wasn’t a match to hers.”
“But that didn’t make a difference,” Belle interjects. “He still raised her as his own.”
How can she be so damn smug? She lied to him in the worst possible way. His devotion to Emily and Belle reveals just what kind of man London is. I don’t think I’d be as understanding.
“So you were a…couple?” I ask even though I’d rather not know the finer points to their past.
“No, never.” London is quick to reply, shaking his head firmly. “But when Belle told me she was pregnant, I did the right thing by her and Emily. I know what it’s like to grow up without loving parents and questioning your worth every single day. I wouldn’t do that to my child.”
I simply stand mute and catalog the ways I hope to rectify the wrongs of the past. “Why did you send…Lincoln”—I can barely say his name without wanting to be sick—“those letters?”
When Belle pales, I know this can’t be good. But what’s the worst she can say? I’ve surely heard it all. “About nine months ago, Lincoln came back to Los Angeles for his grandmother’s funeral. We bumped into one another and well”—she pauses, wrestling with her words—“old habits die hard. I’m so ashamed of myself. I’m so sorry.”
I take it back because what she just said is the worst, the absolute worst she could say.
I feel sick. No, actually, I feel fucking betrayed.
“I didn’t know you were together, I promise,” she hastily declares when I dig my fingernails into my palms. “He only told me of his life with you after…” She gestures with her hands, which is code for after he cheated and reverted to being a spineless asshole. Actually, it seems he was set to asshole this entire time.
“He told me he wasn’t happy in New York and that he wanted to leave you and come back to LA. That’s how I knew where you lived. How I knew where to send the letters when that son of a bitch left me the next morning. He threatened to sue for custody of Emily if I told anyone what we’d done.”
My mind is racing. None of this makes any sense, but he did come back to LA for his grandmother’s funeral. I couldn’t leave New York because of the Rossi case. Well, that was my justification not only to Lincoln but to myself as well.
“That’s why I sent him the letters. They were never for you. Lincoln knew they were for him. I’m sure of it. I wanted him to know that regardless of what happened, I wasn’t the same girl I once was. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I wanted to torment him just as he’s tormented me for ten long years. There was no way I would allow him to threaten my daughter.”
“That…motherfucker,” London growls, his jaw clenched. He looks intent on murder. It’s apparent this is the first time he’s heard this story. It seems I can’t stop being the reason behind his pain.
“I fell for his bullshit because he told me he missed me. That he missed what we had. That you were—”
“Spit it out, Belle. Nothing at this point could possibly shock me.”
Her gaze keeps darting back and forth between London and me. “He said that you were frigid, boring, cold. That I knew him better than anyone. I always had.”
London tongues his cheek, shaking his head with a sinister grin. He appears primed on finding Lincoln and beating him to a bloody pulp.
That pathetic coward.
He did what he did for no other reason than because he could. He knew Belle was weak, and what better way for a narcissistic asshole to get his kicks than to flaunt his superiority to someone he sees as less, a mere plaything he toys with when bored.
That shit doesn’t stick with me, but Belle is clearly the woman he uses and abuses time and time again because she allows it to happen.
Belle is broken. Looking at my once best friend, I see that now, and it saddens me to know that I played a part in her downfall. I should have been a better friend. Or seen the signs. But instead, I allowed myself to be played by the one person who has single-handedly ruined our lives. So I’m not here to judge because I’m no better than Belle.
Didn’t Lincoln play me as well?
“I told London I saw Lincoln. And that you two were together, living in New York. Lincoln told me you had made a name for yourself as some hotshot lawyer. He told me
this just as he was about to walk out the door. He said this was the reason he would never settle for someone like me. I was fun, but you”—she pulls in her lips—“you were someone who you settled down with.”
There is so much wrong with that sentence.
That explains how London knew where I lived and what I did for a living. Caught in this wicked tempest, it warms me to know that even though he knew I was with Lincoln, he still took the time to look me up.
“I never told you, London, because I knew you’d find him and kill him,” Belle says, turning to London, begging he forgive her. “I pretended we merely bumped into one another because I didn’t want you to know what I did.” She lowers her eyes while I suddenly feel as though I’m encroaching on a private moment.
Even though there are so many more questions, I don’t think I can stomach anymore. There is so much to process, and I honestly don’t know where to start.
“I was following you because I wanted to tell you everything, that Lincoln…” But I thrust out my palm—I’ve heard enough.
“I need to go,” I say on a rushed breath. London’s attention snaps my way. Those eyes are telling me not to leave, but I’ve kept it together thus far. I can’t take any more.
I need to leave because I need to do one thing, and that’s find Lincoln and ask what in the ever-living hell is wrong with him.
Belle hugs her middle, nodding. This purge hasn’t given her the freedom she thought it would. She appears even more imprisoned by the past.
With a ringing in my ears and my heart thrashing wildly within, I know I only have minutes before I submit to this numbness overthrowing me.
How does one respond to discovering their whole life has been a lie? My parents, Lincoln, Belle, even London in a sense have all had a hand in shaping me into somebody they wanted. I feel so violated. So deceived.
“Princess…” London hustles forward, but I just can’t. I need to wrap my head around this, and I need to do that alone.
When I retreat, he freezes, mouth slightly parted in confusion. I don’t want to hurt his feelings—that’s the last thing I want to do. But in light of everything I’ve just heard, everyone is innocent until proven guilty. In no way do I believe that Lincoln is innocent, but I need to hear that from him. It’s the only way for me to move on.
For so long, I’ve allowed other people to have a say in my life, but no more.
“You’re going back to him?” he asks, his question riddled with so much emotion it almost suffocates me with the weight.
The truth should set one free, but for me, it’s done the complete opposite. I’m a captive to myself. “No, London,” I reply, stepping forward and meeting him halfway. “I’m going back to me.”
To anyone else, such a riddle would leave them baffled. But not to London. He understands what I have to do. No matter my impending breakdown, I owe it to Lincoln, but more importantly, I owe it to myself.
My whole life, everyone has done what they thought was right for me, but in reality, it was right for them. And this is me…taking back what’s mine.
London wrestles with what’s right and wrong, but this isn’t his decision. We stand mere feet apart, our gazes affixed to one other. There is so much reflected in those poignant eyes. He doesn’t want me to leave, but I know he will let me go. That’s what you do for the people you love. There is no greater gift than self-sacrifice, and London is saving me once again.
The space between us is a magnetic field, a perfect push and pull. He towers over me, his muscled chest rising and falling with a hypnotic cadence. My name tattooed over his heart has been his answer, and it’s now mine.
It’s time I find out who the real Holland Brooks-Ferris is.
With the slowest of movements, he reaches forward while I hold my breath. “‘Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished. For never was a story more woe. Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.’” He concludes his fated reference with a sweep of his thumb along the apple of my cheek.
His touch scorches my skin, but I refrain from leaning into his tender embrace because unlike the star-crossed lovers…this story won’t end in tragedy.
I promise.
The taxi ride back to my parents’ house passes by in a blur. I spend the entire trip with my forehead pressed to the glass as I get lost in the City of Angels. I can’t believe this has happened. It’s what you read about in magazines or books—this stuff doesn’t happen in real life.
But I’m living proof that it does.
I tore out London’s heart as I called a cab and left him once again. But I couldn’t stand being in that house for a second longer. He said that he and Belle weren’t together, but does she live there? Do they co-exist for the sake of their daughter, of Lincoln’s biological child?
I can’t even think his name without wanting to be sick.
Lincoln has lied to me since the first moment we met. I should have known better, seeing as in the beginning our kisses were covert, but after high school, during college, for the past few years—has all that been a lie too?
I feel so stupid.
The fact Lincoln cheated on me doesn’t affect me the way it should. Yes, I feel betrayed, but more than anything, I feel a fool for not seeing his true colors sooner. Even though I’m prepared to listen to what he has to say, I won’t fall for his lies once again.
Fool me once…
I violently scrub at my lips, wishing to wash away any trace of him from my skin. He said I was frigid and boring, and I suppose he’s right. I was all those things because being with him didn’t excite me. He didn’t set my heart on fire. I was merely sleepwalking through life.
But now that the sleeping giant has awoken, I refuse to go back to living in the dark.
The cab driver turns into my parents’ driveway as the gates are open. They’re expecting me. The fact only amplifies my already frayed nerves, and I rub my sweaty palms down my pants. I pay the driver, who has been awfully kind by leaving me alone to wallow in my woes.
The moment I step out of the taxi, the front door opens, and my parents emerge. Both look worried, and their unkempt appearance reveals they probably didn’t get much sleep. Shielding the bright sun from my eyes, I peer into the universe, silently begging she grace me with compassion.
This is going to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Not only will I confront Lincoln, but I will confront my parents too. I know they had my best interests at heart, but it was never their decision to make.
This tangled web ends here.
My pace is measured as I catalog everything I want to say. First things first—Lincoln will apologize to my parents for speaking to them the way he did last night. Then I will call him out for the lying, cheating bastard that he is.
My mom rushes down the stairs and throws her arms around me. “Oh, Holland. I was so worried. Thank god you’re all right.” I hug her back, wishing this could all be solved with a tender embrace.
“I’m okay,” I mumble as I look at my dad over her shoulder. With hands dug deep into his pockets, I know he’s going to be a tougher nut to crack. After all, he was the one to throw London from our porch and give him a forever reminder of what our love would do. London knew confronting my dad was suicide, but he didn’t care. That scar above his lip is proof of that.
But getting my head back in the game, I gently pull from my mother’s arms. “Where is Lincoln?”
Her relief soon turns to dread, and my already raging temper simmers to its boiling point. What did he do? “If he has disrespected you in your home, I will—” But she soon extinguishes that notion.
“Come inside, sweetie. We need to talk.” I’ve had my quota of talking today, but I nod all the same.
She wraps her arm around me, hugging me to her side. She isn’t her usual chatty self, which has me guessing whatever she wants to discuss isn’t good. My father rubs my shoulder when we climb the stairs. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m okay,” I reply with a weak smile. He doesn�
�t seem convinced, especially when he takes in my clothes—London’s clothes.
He doesn’t say a word and simply leads us inside.
The heavy door closing is like sealing my fate for good, and I can’t censor my thoughts a second longer. “Where is he?” I ask, gently shrugging from my mother’s embrace as I desperately search the room for Lincoln.
We’re standing in the foyer, so I quickly sprint into the living room, adamant on finding him. He’s not in there, so I make a beeline for the kitchen. My bare feet soon come to a screeching halt.
“He’s gone, sweetie.”
“What?” I spin wildly, frantic for my mom to explain what exactly that means.
She wrings her hands together. “After we left the restaurant, we came back here and found Lincoln packing his things. He said he would be staying at his parents’.”
“Did he say anything else?” I ask, hunting through my pockets to find my cell. There is no way he’s getting off that easily.
“Not really. He didn’t seem to want to talk to your father and me. I’m so sorry. We shouldn’t have caused a scene. I should have just agreed to have the wedding—”
But I soon interrupt her, never wanting to hear that vile word ever again. “There is no wedding, so stop beating yourself up about it.”
“No wedding?” Her eyes widen. “What do you mean?”
Sighing, I run a hand down my face, utterly exhausted. “I mean Lincoln has been lying to me for a very long time.” When my father stands beside my mother, tears threaten to finally break past the floodgates. “You all have been.”
“Where were you last night?” my dad asks, but his question is futile. He knows where I was.
No matter that over ten years have passed since he last asked me a similar question, I still feel like I’m seventeen years old. I can’t shake this feeling that no matter what I tell them, it’ll all amount to an unforgiveable betrayal.
My voice quavers as I confess my sins. “I was with London.”
My mom gasps while my father shakes his head. “Holland, what is the matter with you? After everything he’s done to you, to this family, how could you go to him?” The disappointment rolls off him while I hang my head in shame.