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Louie blinked, fascinated. “Nowdoes he get a time-out?”
“No, but Mommy is about tothrowhim out if he doesn’t watch his mouth around you, sweetie,” Arya fussed.
Louie was the only kid I was in contact with. I forgot how coddled they were.
“I can’t let her go.” I gathered the divorce papers and ripped them to shreds, letting them rain down on Christian’s marble floor. “Especially after she fu—” I started, then saw Christian’s and Arya’s bulging eyes. “Forgot,” I amended, “her ex-boyfriend and dropped him like a hot potato. She’s single now. Fair game.”
Arya looked at me like I was a complete moron. “She’s not single, Einstein. She’s married. Toyou.”
“It’s not a real marriage.” These words had never felt so much like a lie on my tongue.
Arya bowed an eyebrow. “This is news to me, since you have all the components of a real one—you love each other, there’s enough angst between you to last for an entire season ofGrey’s Anatomy, and the physical connection is there.”
“What’re you gonna do?” Christian asked, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
“Go to London, fu—fabulously, obviously.” I produced my phone from my pocket, already going through flights. “I’m not ready to give her up.”
“Good thing your suitcase is already packed.” Christian jerked his chin to the suitcase by his door.
I whipped my head up, scowling. “My clothes smell like shit.”
“Shit!” Louie exclaimed, giggling. “Shit, shit, shit!”
“That’s it, out of my house!” Arya stood up and pointed at the door. “By the time you’re done with my precious baby, he’ll have the vocabulary of a drunk sailor.”
“At least let him do his laundry first.” Christian chuckled. “He can’t try to win her heart smelling like cra—crab.”
“He’s a billionaire.” Arya was already halfway into the vast hallway, about to put Louie down for his nap. “He can afford a nice please-marry-me-for-real suit.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
DUFFY
The night Kieran finally convinced me to watchThe Damned Unitedwas the rainiest day of the year.
I wore my fluffiest, most ridiculous pair of jammies for the occasion. The ones I’d stuffed into the back of my closet in my adolescence when I decided I wanted to be an ice queen, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to throw away. They were my first Christmas gift from Tim and held a special place in my heart, since they were one of the first “real” gifts I’d received since my biological father had left us. Up until then, it was all rewrapped items we already had at home or things I knew were hand-me-downs from the neighbors.
There were dozens of printouts of me laughing on the PJ bottoms. Custom-made sleep attire that was supposed to please me but really mortified me as a teenager. The PJs were magnificently ugly, but I’d been wearing them a lot since I returned to England a few weeks ago. They reminded me of the old me. The one who’d blossomed the first time Tim took her for a Nando’s and wasn’t ashamed of how completelyenthralled she was by the small gesture. I missed that person. A lot. But I was beginning to reconnect with her. My accent had morphed back to its South London self. I was beginning to take more interest in arts and creativity, less in brands and stilettos. I stopped going to SoulCycle—I never much liked it, anyway. The spinning machine’s seat did horrendous things to my lady bits—and I got my workout walking places and watching old-school fitness DVDs with Mum like the last couple of decades had never happened.
“I can’t believe it took me almost a month to convince you to watch this masterpiece.” Kieran shoved a raspberry Jammie Dodger into his piehole.
“I can’t believe you convinced me, period.” I rolled my eyes, slurping fountain Diet Coke, a leftover from our nutritious McDonald’s dinner. “It’s about footie, has virtually no fit men in it,andit’s about footie.”
“You already said that.” Kieran shifted on our living room couch.
“Not enough.” I shook my head solemnly. “Never enough.”
A few minutes into the movie, I was properly annoyed.
“It’s not even set in our era!” I waved a hand at our TV. “Literally, there was nothing good about the seventies other than ponchos. I miss ponchos.”
“The seventies are still your era, you dimwit.” Kieran laughed.
I kicked him across the couch, and he kicked me right back. Amused, I took another drag of my Coke. Being back home felt weird, but somehow right. I’d slipped right back into my family’s life, like a piece of a puzzle they’d been waiting for so they could complete the picture.
In the mornings, I worked at the chippy with Tim and Kieran, which was lovely. The fresh air by the Thames felt good in my lungs; talking to tourists,seeingpeople happy put me in a good mood. I was no longer holed up in a stress-filled studio or stuffy offices. Then I usually clocked off and went around the city taking pictures. Of buildings. Ofpeople. Of trees. The Thames. I wanted to show them all to my husband, but even if they were all just for myself—I took pride in them.
In the evenings, I had dinner with the family. Real dinner, with carbs and a glass of wine. Sometimes I went down to the pub with Kieran. Watched cable shows with Mum. Played cards with Tim. The more time I spent with my family, the more I struggled to remember what it was that I’d found so atrocious about my pre-Manhattan existence. These days, the only thing I missed about the place was Riggs.
