Page 153 of Perfect Satisfaction

Now, it’s my head that drops back on my shoulders. “Since the moment you walked out on me, I’ve wondered.”

She shifts a bit until she’s facing me. “Wondered what?”

“Why you wouldn’t give me a chance to explain.”

Carefully, Sula stands. Leaning down she brushes her cheek against mine so I’m wrapped in her scent, enveloped in her. I feel the wetness of her tears trapped between us when she leans in to whisper, “It’s because I never was taught how to love—not the kind you deserve. Not the kind that places the radiance on your face I’ve been privy to. God, I wish I was the woman who was,” before she presses her lips against my cheek.

Did she just say that? Does she believe that?

Before I get a hold of my emotions, Sula picks her way back to the path, leaving me with tumultuous emotions swirling inside.

And more regrets than I can sort out.

CHAPTERSEVENTY-SEVEN

When I was a child, a quote by Paddington Bear made me want to visit London. Now, as an adult, it’s the people themselves. It’s said if you come to London, you’ll meet people from every country in the world.

What better way to emerge—or disappear if that’s your choice.

As people, we’re built to be curious and London appeases that curiosity from (of course) Buckingham Palace, the Eye, to the British Museum, and National Gallery. Let’s not forget getting outdoors. Sometimes the quietest moments can be the most satisfying.

—StellaNova

I spend the next few days in Londontrying to recreate Sula’s life as a child. But what I find out after Hastings dug up the name of the Moore’s old limo driver—and a few drinks at a local pub—left me understanding young Sula up to the moment I met her.

Brilliant.

Unfailingly polite.

Extremely lonely.

It’s not hard to apply those same descriptions to the woman who sat with me in front of West Moore’s permanent shrine to his own narcissism.

But there’s still something mysterious, and I suspect I know who holds the key to revealing it.

Without hesitation, I FaceTime Liza. A miniature of that face answers. “Hey, button. Is Aunt Liza there?” I ask my goddaughter.

“Hi, Uncle Arek. Where you at?”

“Not at home. Where are you?”

“At home.”

“Good answer. It’s a school night.”

“If it’s a school night, then why are you out so late?” She pouts at me the same way her aunt pouts. Even if Liza was the one shooting me such an appealing look, it would do nothing for me.

It never has.

Only one woman has ever twisted my emotions with a mere look—my wife.

“Because I’m working. I’m also not a seven-year-old girl who is supposed to have been in bed an hour ago.”

“You’re no fun, Uncle Arek. Here’s Aunt Liza.” There’s fumbling on the video before a harried Liza is on screen. The first words out of her mouth are, “Tell me you’re coming for a visit to take your goddaughter off my hands so my sister and I can have a night out together?”

“If I was in the US, I’d consider it.”

She tips her head, causing her mahogany top knot to flop to the side. “Where are you?”