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I briefly ask him how he is for him to tell me how Nash and Sienna are back at home and driving him crazy. Throughout the conversation, I find myself laughing, knowing I was always the mediator between them. Nash has middle child syndrome, and Sienna is spoiled for being the baby of the family.
“Maybe in a few months, I can organize a trip back home so Bentley can meet everyone.”
“I’d love that, so would Kate,” he says with ease. “I know your mother has a press tour coming up, so make sure you speak to her, coordinate with her when she’s back.”
“I will, Dad. Promise,” I assure him. “Dad, I love you.”
“I love you too, Jessa.”
We hang up the phone as a smile graces my face. I’d never have reached out to my family if it wasn’t for Andy.
It always comes back tohim.
It’s only just after nine now, and despite my restless night, my mind doesn’t want to switch off.
Something compels me to hop out of bed and retrieve the brown leather-bound journal from my sock drawer. As I pull it out, the memories of how writing fueled my soul come fresh to my mind. Then, I hear Andy’s voice from the past. He pushed me to finish my assignments, holding me accountable when I had deadlines. There was that one time I had an assessment to submit. He stayed up with me all night, so I wouldn’t fall asleep.
There’s a pen still inside it, buried in the internal spine. I walk back to bed to climb in, then open the first page. It’s blank, but my thoughts are not.
The pen glides so effortlessly on the paper, writing words to a story that flows from page to page until I glance at the clock, and it’s midnight.
Twenty pages are written, the most I have done in my entire time in London.
I shove the journal in my nightstand, turning off the lamp and resting my head on the pillow.
And for the first time, in the longest of times, I fall into a blissful uninterrupted sleep.
* * *
Benedict places his fork down, then wipes his mouth with his napkin. He arrived back home late this afternoon, and after the best sleep I’ve had in a long time, I somewhat have the patience for him to talk about work.
“Enough about work,” he says, fixating his gaze on me. “I apologize for my behavior last night. I forgot Andy is your cousin, and spending time with him is important to you.”
I place my fork down, too, wondering where this is leading.
“I should’ve told you.”
“You were right. Bentley can be a distraction. He’s getting older and more demanding.” His expression hardens, but his stare remains controlled. “I can’t even remember the last time we—”
Our butler, Fredrick, walks in carrying a glass jug of water. I thank him politely, despite Benedict’s annoyed expression.
“As I was saying…”
“Look, we’re both tired all the time. It’s just a phase. It will pass.”
I smile through the lie, knowing part of this is my doing. Yes, I’m half-dead when I hit the pillow with barely any energy and knowing Bentley will wake up again in a few hours. But also, I began to resent Benedict for his absence in our son’s life. If he has the time to make love to me, he has the time for his son.
He tried, on occasion, but I played the same card, and he gave up trying to convince me. I can’t even recall the last time we had sex, let alone had an orgasm. I’m certain that the changes in my body after having Bentley are another reason Benedict gives up trying. My breasts, along with the rest of my body—aren’t the same as the woman he met on that rainy day in London.
Benedict doesn’t entertain the conversation any further, calling Fredrick back to bring him some coffee.
“I was thinking, how about dinner in London? I have this Friday night free, and don’t forget we have the polo match to attend on Saturday.”
“If Eliza is free, that would be nice.”
“And why don’t you invite Andy? I’m sure he can bring a date. That woman he brought to the ball?”
“Oh,” I stammer, blindsided to this now double date. “I can ask him.”
