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“Hmm?”
“Don’t let him bully you around.”
I didn’t have to ask whom she meant.
“Love you,” I told her.
“Right back at you, babe.”
* * *
I mopedaround the apartment for a while as the sun was starting to set over Hyde Park, and although I knew that Sofia was happy being spoiled by Elsie, she’d need her parents back.
The problem was, I wasn’t sure I could go back to Parkvale. Not after what happened.
I sighed. Kate was right. It was time to throw in the towel on this British adventure. Xavier and I might have loved each other once, but it was becoming more evident that we did not work in the long term. If being with him meant playing second fiddle to judgy aristocrats and his never-ending schedule of work and old boys’ events, I was always going to be trailing after him, feeling like a used shoe. One that was kicked around whenever I wanted something more.
I couldn’t do it. And clearly, he couldn’t either.
And the more I thought about it, the angrier I got.
Suddenly, I found myself checking for flights back to New York from Heathrow. There was one tomorrow that we could make, maybe even sneak away while he was at some godforsaken garden party. I found our suitcases stored in a closet in one of the many rooms of the flat Xavier barely used, then pulled them out and started tossing whatever I had left in the apartment into them. My clothes were fragmented all over this damn country—some in Cumbria, some in Parkvale. Well, whatever I missed, I could easily replace. Same as Sofia.
Once I’d made the decision, I turned into a tornado, not caring for folding or sorting, just chucking books, clothes, anything I could find that was ours into the bags. I was more afraid of losing my nerve than anything else. I knew if I stopped, I might not start again.
But then, when I was opening and closing drawers, trying to remember all the random places I’d put things, I found something that stopped me in my tracks.
It was another picture. This one was even smaller than the last I’d found and not even framed, just resting simply in the drawer on top of a spare handkerchief and next to a few loose cords. It was a photo of just me that Xavier must have taken, again when I was asleep. My eyes were closed, and I had a sort of half-smile on my face like I was lost in some sweet dream.
I flipped it over to find a date scrawled on the top.
Francesca, June 28
Home at last.
He’d taken it on our first night here. Right after he’d made love to me, after the onsen, after he’d promised me everything.
I think I’ll always long for you, Ces. Even when you’re right here.
I stopped, sweater in hand, but I was fully frozen.
Oh, God. What was I doing?
“No,” I said, dropping the sweater on the bed and shutting the drawer harder than I probably needed. I looked back at the suitcases, both of them nearly full by now. “Oh,no.”
I moved in a frenzy, running back to them and starting to yank things out even faster than I threw them in. I wasn’t doing this. I wasn’t going to give up on the love of my life. It had only been a few weeks since his life was turned upside down. I owed him more than that.
Really, I owed him everything.
And so my thoughts ran until there was a knock at the door, startling me so much that I shrieked and threw handfuls of clothing into the air. They fell around me like oversized confetti as I turned to view my intruder.
Xavier stood in the doorway, looking quite a bit worse for wear. In addition to the rumpled hair and dirt smudged across his handsome features, his red and white shirt now bore more than a few bloodstains. There was a hole in his right knee, and he had a large cut above his left brow. He’d been brawling—that much was obvious, and by the smell of cheap liquor wafting off his big body, I doubted it had been with any more polo spectators.
Honestly, though, I would have hated to see the other guy.
He wasn’t looking at me, however. His eyes were glued to the open suitcase on the bed and the stacks of clothing next to it. His gaze drifted over the room, down to the garments scattered across the floor, then found my bare feet and drew slowly up my body.
And then, at last, he spoke in a gravelly voice, though no less toe curlingly delicious, particularly since that South London edge was out stronger than I’d ever heard it.
