I nod again, looking off at the row of buildings behind his head. I wonder what Everly is up to now, where she decided to go. She never talks to me like Hugh and the others. She never makes half-assed apologies for what’s happened to me because it’s considered polite. It’s another thing we both understand about one another. Those are empty words to us.
I take out my phone, ignoring Hugh as he attempts small talk, and text, Miss me yet?
I wait for her response, but when it doesn’t come right away and Hugh repeats my name, I look up. “Yeah?”
“I was asking if Ollie is back in town.”
“Mmhmm.” I glance at my phone, hating the way it’s silent. Maybe I’m pushing Everly too fast. I’m new at this whole flirting thing. If that’s what we’re doing. I’ve never really had to work for a girl before.
Flirting? I think we’re past that, but I’m not good at defining what we’re doing, either. It’s a little more than a hookup. It’s complicated as fuck because I’m falling for her arse over elbow.
“How is he?”
I toss my phone onto the table, scowling. I should go for a run when I get back to the hostel. It might clear my head.
“He hasn’t called you?” I ask.
“He hasn’t called anyone, Reid. What has he been doing in Paris with you?”
He says the last bit as if I’m the last person in the world someone would want to spend time with. Maybe I am, but Ollie’s a good mate. He could have spent his leave anywhere instead of with me in Paris, but… Well, I think he was trying to help me. We never really did the whole heart-to-heart thing. He crashed at a cheap rental and we hung out, but it wasn’t as if he was babysitting me.
A pigeon coos around my foot, its head bobbing for food. I toss a few chips off my plate so it’ll leave me alone.
“He’s fucking Ollie, Hugh. Nothing he does makes sense.” My leg bounces away the seconds as I stare my phone down, ignoring everything else. “He’s still a cock-up.”
Hugh barks out a dry laugh. “Remember that time the two of you stole the headmaster’s Aston Martin and painted it pink?”
I wasn’t likely to forget, but that feels like ages ago. I can’t say the world is easier now—it’s never been easy for me—but at least then I wasn’t on the wrong side of a nervous breakdown or PTSD or whatever the expensive French shrink has been treating me for.
“You have a meeting with Tom tomorrow,” Hugh cuts in, drawing me back to the conversation at hand. “I told him you were doing well. That we’ve kept in touch since you’ve been in Paris.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” I clear my throat, trying to knock away the angry tone my words take on. “You don’t need to lie for me. I’m fine. I can do my job. I can write.”
I reach for the bill when the waitress comes to the table, but Hugh shakes his head. “Company’s paying for it. Consider it a business lunch.”
I slouch back in my chair and cross my arms. Everything about this meeting is off, and I’m starting to wonder if Hugh is no better than the rest, waiting for the inevitable. But I’m not going to break. I’m not going to be reduced to some crying pussy who can’t handle himself. I’m going to prove them all wrong.
The fact that Everly hasn’t gotten back to me is making me nervous. It shouldn’t, but it does. That only bothers me more.
“I have to go, Hugh. Thanks for the lunch.” I stand and take a few steps away before spinning around. I shove my hands into my pockets. “And for the rest as well.”
Everly
Paris is a lingering hangover. You can never fully shake it off, either. At least, I can’t now that I’ve seen Paris with Beckett. I’m still making up my mind about London.
I strolled through Hyde Park for a bit, watching the rowboats lazily drift across the Serpentine, before deciding to navigate my way to Harrods.
I sort of lied when I told Beckett I didn’t believe in magic. I guess I don’t believe in the conventional kind. I believe in the magic of similarities, where humans are creatures of habit who fundamentally create more of the same.
And I can’t deny the magic in traveling. No matter which city you visit, they’re all similar.
I guess that’s why I don’t miss Manhattan much. I was never one of those New Yorkers who believe there isn’t a world outside of their precious island. The city is great. I like it just fine. But I like Paris, too. And so far, Beckett is giving me plenty reason to love London.
That’s why I fell in love with the idea of traveling. It wasn’t like I was on some self-discovering pilgrimage à la Eat, Pray, Love. I wanted to leave my mistakes behind, but I wasn’t searching for the existential meaning of life. I don’t care.
What I care about is that the world is a big enough place that if I keep going, beyond Paris, I can lose myself to exploring. It’s scary enough to walk out the door; it’s harder to take your passport and book a plane ticket without knowing what’s next. Harder when you’re flat broke. I only have so much to pawn before I have to cave and crawl back to my trust fund.
I’ve never been good at planning, so why bother? When I get back from London, I’ll close my eyes and blindly pick a spot on a map and go where my finger lands. No excuses.
I take my time as others rush by me on the sidewalk. I swallow, tugging on my bag’s strap as I fall a bit in love with the window displays. There’s money to think of now that I’ve lost my job. I could call my parents and try to smooth that disaster out, but I’d rather not. I know I can do this on my own. Maybe I won’t go too far to start. Maybe Berlin or Florence. I do love Italian men.
A canary yellow dress in the window catches my eye, and I’m struck with serious dress envy. A sheer floral overlay, a full skirt. What would Beckett think of me in this gorgeous dress? Where would we go? I hear his whispered endearments, feel the warm ghosts of his hands on my body from earlier.
I sigh. I did love Italian men.
I’ve done a lot of stupid shit before, but I can’t believe what I’m doing here in London with Beckett is a mistake. It’s scary and fast, sure, but it doesn’t feel wrong and it’s too late to stop us from falling. It’s no longer about whether we should be in each other’s lives because we already are. It’s slipping dangerously toward the truth that we’re going to be leaving each other soon.
It’s like finding that giant present under the tree at Christmas, only to discover it’s for someone else. Life’s a bitch for letting me have Beckett for just a short while. He needs to be kept in good condition because I have to return him soon, price tag attached, unworn.
I stare back at the yellow dress longingly. Window shopping is something of a new art for me, especially at Harrods. Back in Manhattan, I could walk into any store and buy what I wanted. I never had to struggle with whether I could afford it or not. I can afford a lot of things. I’m a very wealthy woman.
Or was.
I don’t miss the money. It would make things easier, but I don’t miss everything else that comes with it. I never thought I was better than anyone because I don’t think I’m very good to start with, but grow up with people like Hudson who are self-entitled and spoiled and the world skews into a very different place. It’s something Beckett might never understand about me.
I walk over to the makeup counter and sneak a spritz of perfume from a glittery bottle of Viktor & Rolf before the saleswoman catches me. She makes a passing comment about the Armani outfit I’m wearing, no doubt trying to get me to buy the perfume. The dress is last year’s line, and I’ve worn it so many times in Paris that it’s starting to pill because I don’t take it to a dry cleaner like I should. My method is Febreze until I absolutely, unequivocally have to drag my suitcase down to the laundromat.
I hate laundry as much as I hate dishes and cleaning. I’m not a fan of this adult business.
I wander into the lingerie section, not sure what I’m searching for. I take a mesh corset off the rack and hold it up against me in the mirror. There’re pretty opaque details on the bra cups, and the black satin ribbi
ng looks like the Union Jack. It’s beautiful but maybe too old-fashioned.
Then I look at the price tag and that’s definitely not happening. I don’t know why, but I want something special for Beckett. I want him to see me in something I’ve only ever worn for him. That’s important to me, that I’m special to him.
I find a pair of navy lace French knickers with cutouts over my hipbones. The apex-style bra that matches has delicate bows on the straps. They’re worth a day’s paycheck, but since I made so much post-Hudsongate, I decide to splurge. I’ll find something else to pawn if I have to when I return to Paris.
I’m in line when a cry rings out behind me. I try to ignore it, waiting not-so-patiently, but if we weren’t roped in, I might actually leave. I don’t want to cause a scene.
I’m fine.
When I’m kicked in the back of the leg, I start to think about it all over again. Maybe I do need to jump these ropes, forget the lingerie. I mean, Beckett’s a guy—if I get naked, that should be enough to get the job done.
A sticky hand punches my calf, and I suck in a breath, whirling around to the flustered mother behind me trying to tame her devil child and the shrieking infant in her arms. I turn back around, swallowing down my panic, but I’m growing cold and things are growing fuzzy and dark around me.
I fish through my purse for my wallet, pushing aside the ruby necklace my dad gave me for my sixteenth birthday. My hands won’t stop shaking.
“Miss? Miss, I can help you over here.”
The baby is wailing, and the bratty toddler won’t stop hitting the back of my leg. The mother is yelling now, too, and the woman behind the register is flagging me on. I take a breath and stumble forward, but my legs are a little weak and I feel like I might collapse. I probably look like Gumby.
I throw the bra and panties on the counter, glaring over my shoulder at that baby. Don’t they have pacifiers in England?
I’m fine.
The lady behind the register tries for my attention now so I can pay. I think about just throwing my purse at her so she can figure it out. I’m trembling as I count the money, and when a tear splashes on top of the stack of banknotes in my hand, I realize I’m crying, too.
I hand everything over, averting my eyes, forcing myself to think of something else, me being someone else. I’m that happy girl in the sun, and Beckett’s there, too…
She hands me the bag and the receipt, and I blow out a breath. She’s looking at me strangely, but I can’t cause a scene. I fumble with the bag and my purse, thankful that I’m not wearing heels. I’d probably be on my ass right now.
The toddler breaks a bottle of perfume behind me. The mother curses, and the baby is still fussing as I try to skirt around the mess.
“Oh, please. Shite, Tammy…stay away from the broken glass. Be a good girl now for Mummy.”
I can’t really step around them. There’s a toddler, a stroller, and broken glass in my way. The hazard of all shitty hazards for me to stumble into. The mother hands the baby off to me, desperation on her face. I think I might be sick with the infant’s weight in my hands. It stares back at me with large green eyes, and my heart breaks. I think the rest of me does, too, because I should be comforting it or something. Instead, I stop breathing. I run over to the counter and hand the baby off to the woman behind the register and rush out of Harrods, slipping over the spilled perfume and broken glass.
I’m having a nervous breakdown on the sidewalk of Harrods like a fucking champ.
I’m fine.
My hands are shaking so badly it’s hard to unzip my purse. I turn my back to everyone on the sidewalk. I don’t need or want the attention. If I can talk to Beckett, hear his voice, I might be okay.
I mean I am okay.
I’m about to call him when an unknown number comes up. I connect without thinking.
“Everly?”
It’s Julia.
Fuck, I’m not fine.
The events of last year rush over me, and suddenly I’m back there. Back when the hours faded into one, long blackness. Stuck on my bathroom floor, half-naked and choking from sobbing so hard.
There was no one. I mattered to no one. We didn’t matter to him.
You’re like every other worthless trust fund baby, used to getting your way, he’d texted. Michael was too much of a coward to face me—he locked me out of his office. I begged at his door, even as the interns looked on.
“I don’t want you,” he’d yelled when he finally called that night. “And if you come after me again, I’ll ruin you.”
He had anyway.
Michael fed me lies, and I lived off them, bingeing as if I was starving. It didn’t matter that he was friends with my father, didn’t matter that he was twice my age or that he was my professor. His words mattered to me—the time he spent making me feel like I was important, like I was talented and smart, meant everything.
We snuck into the coat closet at a charity event, and I gave him head because he told me he wanted me, that he was tired of pretending he didn’t love me. I rode him later in his limo that night, too, while the driver circled the block so no one would find out. Michael had ripped my gown, rough, marking me as his. We could be together, he’d said, still inside me, if I was quiet. If we stayed a secret.
Three months later and I was nothing more than that dumb slut who got knocked up by her college professor.
He’d said he loved me, worshipped me. And then I saw them outed as a couple online. I never thought… I was too stupid to believe otherwise. I meant nothing. While he fucked me in his office, in his car, in a bathroom, he paraded around Manhattan with Julia Wilkes, the philanthropist socialite.
I had no one now—no one to turn to, no one to help. Julia, the sister I never had, meant nothing. Just a bitch who went behind my back.
I was easy for him. Easy. And it would be better if I wasn’t around.
The blade pressed into my skin, tears falling around me.
Worthless.
It didn’t hurt. I was crying too much, anyway. My lungs burned, my eyes raw. And then the black was crimson until I was nothing at all.
Beckett
I want to hit everything and everyone on the way back to the hostel. No one is walking fast enough and the sidewalks are too crowded, and I’m still upset that I thought I could have lunch with Hugh without it turning into a therapy session. I’m sick of people handling me like a fucking grenade.
The idea of losing myself to writing seems more appealing the closer I get, but then I remember Everly and that madness silences as soon I push through our door. Maybe it’s too early and she’s not back yet. I hold my breath, waiting to see her on the bed.
Her purse is on the floor, along with a Harrods bag, and it smells like someone took a bath in perfume. I hear a soft noise as I step farther into the room. The soles of her feet are sticking out from under the bed.
I sink to the floor and press my face flat. Everly cowers against the wall. “Bad day?” I ask.
Her blue eyes are shiny, but there aren’t any tears on her cheeks. This is the Everly who scares me. The one who’s so broken she falls apart and becomes still, letting the world carry on without her.
“Me too.” I hold back my sigh. I know she won’t want to hear it, and there’s no point in trying to fix her. I can’t. I reach out, take her hand in mine, and squeeze. “We’ll hide here together until it gets better.”
We sit in silence, caught in a painful staring match. I’m about to close my eyes when her hand tugs on mine and she slides over the dusty wood floor closer to me. I reach for her other hand and drag her out a second before she launches herself at me. She wraps her body around mine and cuddles close, pressing her ear against my chest, her fingertips digging into my shoulders, as though I might pick up and leave London right now.
I should ask her what’s wrong. It’s not like I don’t care—I do—but I’m afraid of what could happen, what she’ll do to my life if we carry on together. She’s equal parts amazing and terr
ifying. I wish I could strike some balance, get some footing before we both tip and fall over.
I end up sitting cross-legged on the floor, wrapped up in Everly for the afternoon as the two of us try to decide why life is the way it is and why it has to suck so much. And why we’ve found each other.
The endless whys of two people when they start falling into that terrible, horrible, wonderful collision of love.
Everly
If it bothers Beckett to find me hiding under the bed when he gets back from his meeting, he never says anything. Eventually, we decide to pry ourselves off the floor and find something to eat.
We’re both in a weird mood, making stupid small talk as we walk to a Lebanese restaurant. Beckett insists I try something new and pretend like I’m traveling there. I go along with it because I know he’s trying to make me smile. But I know he’s hurting, too. I’m not blind to his hurt, even if I’m caught up in mine.
By the time we finish dinner, we’re back to the new normal—the tension, the flirting. I feel like I have a blindfold on, stumbling into something with Beckett. If this keeps up, it’ll be the two of us in bed. Soon.
I’m right.
Back in our room, some indie band I’ve never heard of plays from Beckett’s phone as I strip down to only my panties. He takes his shirt off and levers his body over mine. Our breathing is ragged, and I don’t know what I’m doing. I mean I know what we’re doing, but I’m not sure about me. What the hell am I doing with Beckett Reid when I’m supposed to be traveling the world?
“What are…Am I hurting you? Why are you crying?”
I shake my head, trying to quiet the screaming in my head. I feel as though I’m being torn in a million different directions. Like he has me strapped to some medieval torture device and is quartering me with each soft kiss, each gentle touch. I wipe my tears away—or try to—but he holds my hand still. I’m being a buzzkill right now. I know I am. But why…
“I don’t want to like you.” My voice is a rough whisper. I struggle to swallow, to take another breath, to not fall to pieces in his arms.
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