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"You do, too," I say. And I mean it. He's the most beautiful, tender man I've ever known.
For the third time in my life, I feel a desperate sense of loss. Resentment sinks its claws into me and I want to cry.
But crying is pointless.
No one can save me from myself.
We stand there in complete silence. I can feel his eyes on me. I just stare straight ahead and force out a yawn to fill the deafening silence.
"Madam. If we don’t get home in time, I’ll be sacked. This is the last time I will lie for you. We have to go," Ken screams out of the window. We both jump, but I’m relieved for the excuse to get in the car and leave. I give Harry an apologetic smile and start to get in. He grabs my hand, my fingers itch to hold on, but I don’t.
I pull out of his grasp and climb into the car.
I shut the door and roll the window down and look up at him, letting myself get one last glimpse, wincing against the harsh light, shading my eyes, and say, "Sleep well, Harry."
"See you tomorrow?" he says.
"Yup. Can't wait," I say and roll up the window and lean forward to say hello to Ken.
Just as the window closes, I swear I hear Harry whisper, "Liar."
My head whips around to look up at him, but he's already gone.
18
Lilly
Three Months Later
Coventry, England
* * *
The only thing worse than a nosey person is a nosey person who’s got you as a captive audience.
I’ve spent the last thirty minutes, trapped in a car with the nosiest woman on the plant. I’ve been smiling when I want to scream. Talking, when I’d rather be silent. I’ve been stifling the urge to ask “how much longer” every couple of minutes.
I arrived in Coventry by train from London this morning. My sister's best friend, Cara is getting married this weekend. We've known her since she was a little girl, so of course, we all had to come. The rest of my family has been here since Christmas. My parents decided that since we were all going, we should make a vacation of it. So, after the wedding, we're staying on the family’s estate. I couldn’t say no, but two weeks of the English countryside with my family time sounds like a recipe for panic and stress. The bright spot in my week is that my closest friend Aiden is coming up for the wedding. He lives in Wales and is going to be my plus one. Besides the therapist I’ve been seeing since I left Ghana, he’s the only person I told about Paul.
I love my family. I love seeing them, but I also hate it. Being together means I’ll get questions, and looks, and everyone tip toeing around the elephant in the room. It also means pretending I'm happy and never letting my guard down. At the end of my time with them, I always feel guilty and tired. In my last session with Liz, my counselor, she told me to think about telling my family what happened while we were all together. I want to. I just don’t know how to say the words. So, I’m prepared to tip toe and keep things to myself.
But right now, I think I'd prefer tip toeing to these women who act like bulls stampeding through a china shop when it comes to my life. I can't imagine asking a stranger the kind of questions Freya's hurling at me, but, then again, I live by the golden rule. I don't want to answer their questions so I don't ask them.
They were waiting on the platform when I arrived. Freya, the groom’s sister, is a bombshell. She’s tall, with dark hair, flawless olive skin, beautiful dark brown eyes, and a figure I eye with much envy. We’re the same height, but with curves for days. My only curve is my ass and it was only accentuated by my otherwise, flat as a board body. She hugged me hard enough to bruise my ribs. The other woman in the car, who introduced herself as the family’s housekeeper, is named Jan.
She’s a petite woman, with a head full of thick, long, gunmetal gray hair pulled back into a severe bun. Her dark eyes are friendly, but intense and she looks like she doesn’t miss a thing. She greeted me with handshake. Her grip was like a vice. She didn’t hug me, and I and my ribs were grateful for that.
As soon as we got in the car, Freya started talking and hasn’t stopped since. She’s only paused long enough to give me a chance to answer their questions and then she starts up again.
Turns out Freya is a wannabe investigative journalist who thinks she needs to know everything about me before we get back to the house. She’s already asked where I lived, if I have a boyfriend, why I live in Miami, if I like it there, if I live alone, if I go out a lot? (She loves Miami after a bachelorette weekend she spent there in her 20s). I’d answered all of her questions as politely and briefly as I could until she decided to take her questions up a notch.
"So, why are you arriving late? The rest of your family came on Christmas Day," Freya asks cheerily. She maneuvers her huge ancient Land Rover down a tree lined, two lane road. It's five days before New Year’s Eve. Five days before the wedding. Five days sooner than I wanted.
"I'm hardly late," I say. I’m unable to keep the defensiveness out of my tone, though I try to soften it with a laugh.
Jan touches my shoulder. I jump in surprise. She hasn’t said a word since we got in the car and I’d forgotten she was even there. I turn my head to see her smiling warmly, with a conspiratorial twinkle in her dark eyes. “Didn’t mean to scare you, love,” she says gently.
“I just wanted to ask if you ate on the train. You'll probably want an early lunch as soon as we get to the house. I can call ahead to tell them to have something ready.”
