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“Oh, Alex. You were eighteen. You were practically still a child yourself.”
“I could legally drink, get married, vote, and fight in battle. I wasn’t a child.”
She cups my face. “It wasn’t your fault. Or your mum’s, or your dad’s, and certainly not Belle’s. It was Tom’s fault, and he’s the only one who needs to bear any responsibility.”
I turn my head and kiss her palm. I don’t agree, but I’m not going to argue with her.
“Poor Belle,” she says, lowering her hand. “Do you think she’s been able to put it behind her?”
“Yes, I do, and Damon has helped a lot with that. She’s never talked a lot about it, but I think she’s had trouble… you know… with men, a bit. Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell him initially, and perhaps that helped, because he didn’t have to take it into account when they were together. I know she idolizes him, and he worships her, which is sweet.”
She wrinkles her nose at me. “Alex Winters, saying something is sweet. I didn’t think I’d ever see the day.”
I lean forward. I love that she listened to my story with patience and kindness. “Maybe it’s time we retired to the apartment for a bit,” I murmur. “You know, to have a rest before the game.”
“Is that in air quotes? ‘Rest’?”
“Maybe.”
Her eyes glow. “Come on, then.”
We rise from the table, and our plates are immediately whisked away by one of the waiters. We thread through the guests and spot Damon standing talking to a couple of his older relatives, over by the cable car. We wait until he spots us, and he excuses himself with a smile and comes over.
“We’re just going to the apartment for a rest before the game,” I say.
“Sure,” he replies. “See you at three.”
“Are you having a nice time?” Missie asks him.
“I’m having a fabulous time, and so’s my fiancée. She really is the Belle of the ball.” We both chuckle, and he grins. “She’s looking forward to her hen night,” he adds. “She’s so glad you’re going, Missie. She said she’s looking forward to telling you all Alex’s dark secrets.”
“I have so many,” I say.
“She did mention that she’s found photos of when we were all in the band,” Damon states.
Missie’s eyebrows shoot up. “You were in a band?”
“Yeah, with Saxon and Kip. They were fifteen, we were thirteen.”
“Jeez,” I say. “I thought I’d burned all the photos.”
“We wanted to be the Arctic Monkeys,” Damon says.
“What was your band called?”
Damon and I both say at the same time, “The Antarctic Coyotes.”
“That’s a great name,” she declares, laughing. “Why aren’t you famous?”
“Because we were terrible,” Damon replies. “You were pretty good on the drums.”
“I was awful, it’s okay to say it. You could sing, and Kip’s always been a guitarist. Saxon was a terrible bass player, though. It was one of those phases you go through when you’re kids. It didn’t last long.”
“Jesus,” Damon says, “I’ve just remembered, that was when we both had our hair bleached.”
“We didn’t get out much so we were as pale as vampires,” I tell Missie. “We both looked like Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”
She giggles. “Oh I’ve totally got to see those photos now.”
