The Weight Of Life - Whitney Barbetti

Table of Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three

THE WEIGHT OF LIFE

WHITNEY BARBETTI

Copyright 2017 by Whitney Barbetti All Rights Reserved First Edition

Cover photography by Perrywinkle Photography Cover design by Najla Qamber Interior design by The Write Assistants Editing by KP Curtiss, Tracie Brown Proofreading by Alexis Durbin; Amanda Maria; Ginelle Blanch

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The use of any real company and/or product names is for literary effect only. All other trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.

Some people are so much sunlight to the square inch. -Walt Whitman

To the bullies who unknowingly taught me the power of perspective.

CONTENTS Note to Reader Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Acknowledgments More Books by Whitney Barbetti About Whitney Barbetti Coming Soon

The Weight of Life is a standalone novel. There are characters who appear in this book that have appeared in Into the Tomorrows and Back to Yesterday, but reading those books is not required to read this one.

If you would like to be notified as soon as my next novel releases, please subscribe to Whitney Barbetti’s newsletter at http://www.whitneybarbetti.com/signup/

Thank you for reading!

CHAPTER ONE

CARS PASSED me and I reached my arms out, letting their lights flash over my body, illuminating me in the pitch-black night, as though they could provide the warmth my arms had been missing for so long. I tried to imagine that each pass of light had a physical effect on my limbs, like I was experiencing a life renewal on that bridge, washing me of my grief. But when the lights stopped for a moment and all that enveloped me was silence, everything as it was before, the pain of the memories sliced through me again. I closed my eyes, curled my fingers into fists, and pulled my arms to my center, holding myself the way he once had. Someone brushed past me and muttered an accented, “Sorry.” I was jolted from the absolute silence of that brief pause in my existence and looked out over the dark abyss in my view. Westminster Bridge, London, was a magical place—for me, at least. From the side where I stood, legs braced against the railing, it was as if I was on the edge of the world I’d known; a world full of heartache and love and angst, and I was facing the beginning of something new. Someone else brushed me from behind and I grabbed the straps of my backpack more firmly, reminded that the new world I had found myself in was still occupied by the same people of old, people willing to dip their hands into bags that didn’t belong to them and help themselves to the contents anyway. Below me, the dark vastness of the River Thames glided past, under the bridge, and out the other side. There were murmurs of the other people walking on the bridge, people who walked it without the intention of stopping and inhaling the atmosphere like I did. I reminded myself that while the world continued moving, I was still here—hands gripped like vices on the railing, forcing myself to stand completely still. In ten, twenty years, I wanted to remember what it felt like to stand by the side of a bridge three months after losing the man I’d loved. A bridge we’d planned to visit together, one of many plans that were now forced to be buried in the darker parts of my mind. But I’d walked the bridge for him, for Colin. I could think of him without crying now, which was a triumph in and of itself. My chest still ached for the piece he’d unknowingly carved from me, and the regret that lived in its recesses was a near-constant reminder.

I pulled up my phone and checked the time. It was seconds from the new hour, which meant Big Ben would chime soon. I smiled at the background photo: Colin and I hanging off the edge of a cliff, safely roped. I remembered that trip—I remembered all our trips. I pressed my finger against his chest in the photo, and vowed to continue my own pursuit of happiness, despite the grief I carried. I could hear my brother’s voice now. “Mila, you obeyed his final wishes. Don’t regret giving him the last thing he asked of you.” Big Ben punctuated the silence with his first chime and I let out a sigh and chewed on my lips. What my brother said gave me little comfort. I’d never forget that I didn’t get the goodbye I wanted. The bell chimed again and two men laughed, capturing my attention away from the water. I looked up at them, the men in dark hooded jackets, hands tucked into the pockets of running shorts as they approached. One had dark blond curls that battled against the light breeze brushing past us on the bridge. He looked like he belonged on the beaches of California, surfboard in one hand and sunscreen in the other. He had a handsome face, strong features and wide lips. I turned my attention to his companion, a man who was attractive too—but in a different kind of way. In a way that made me unable to turn away. His mouth was more serious than the blond man’s, and his hair was dark, thick—short on the sides and longer up top. His jaw was clean-shaven, revealing his strong jaw line and full lips. His eyes were cast down, so all I saw was a set of thick lashes as he listened to the blond man talk. They couldn’t have been much older than I was, somewhere in their mid-twenties, but something about the darker haired man caught my attention so much that I didn’t realize just how long I was staring at him until his head lifted and his gaze collided with mine. His mouth went slack and a wrinkle formed between his eyes as he took me in. I should’ve looked away that second, but there was something about his face. The way his eyes held mine in equal measure, the way he fumbled in his steps, just barely, not enough to attract the attention of the man who walked beside him, but enough that I noticed—it pulled me in. As he moved closer, quiet enveloped me, as if the sound of traffic had been sucked up by a vacuum. His eyes sharpened. I’d expected brown irises, but his were a light blue-green—maybe hazel. Their lightness contrasted against the dark eyelashes that framed them. He was even more attractive like this, his gaze fixed. It was as if helium had filled my belly, with how light it felt, and my hands tightened on the railing. He and his companion paused mid-step, ten feet from me, and I didn’t know what to do. Should I have averted my eyes and pretended I wasn’t staring, or keep staring until he broke contact? But I didn’t get a chance to choose between the two choices, because a sound to my left jarred me, just before someone bumped painfully hard into me. The noise was back again, with a bang in my ears.

Against me, two people struggled with something—a purse or wallet, maybe. “Let go!” the woman yelled as she yanked on the strap. Each time she pulled, the man leaned back harder across my body, pinning me to the railing. He smelled sour, like he’d rolled around in fish. I winced as the scent assaulted my nostrils, and held onto the railing. The back of the railing pressed hard against my spine, leaving me biting down on my lip, leaving me without enough air to yell. Everyone within a half dozen feet of us paused, taking in the commotion. And then of those people, half of them continued on their walk, clearly desensitized to muggings. When no one moved to help the poor, elderly woman, I tried to yell at the mugger, but I couldn’t fill my lungs to do more than squeak. The two men I’d seen stepped in, and the struggle intensified. The mugger tugged again as others’ hands closed over his shoulders, pressing me so violently hard against the railing that the wind was knocked out of me. I chanced a glance over my shoulder at the water below, knowing I was a breath from tumbling over the side of the bridge. The final tug was strong enough to loosen the woman’s hands. Any second and he’d have the purse completely in his hands. So, I did something stupid: I pushed his shoulder, jolting him enough that he stumbled back again, and leaned far enough that I flipped right over the rail of the bridge. I wasn’t sure if I screamed. I wasn’t sure if I shouted for help. I wasn’t sure of anything except grasping desperately for that railing as I backflipped over it, as if my life depended on grabbing it—which it probably did. My chest slammed against the other side of the railing, but my hands held firmly above me. It was enough to send panic like a lightning bolt through my body. My legs felt tingly then, and I waited to lose my grip and slide right into the murky water that awaited me below. Gravity weighted down my body and I felt my sweaty hands slip. Just then, a hand closed over my wrist, and tugged it up. I looked up at the dark-haired man I’d made eye contact with a minute before and my lips trembled open. “Don’t let go,” I begged. “I won’t. I promise.” His other hand closed over my wrist and he pulled, maneuvering me up a few inches. “I’m going to fall,” I gasped, looking over my shoulder. The water, which had felt like a dozen feet below me when I was on top of the bridge, suddenly looked like a hundred feet away now that I dangled above it. “You’re not going to fall.” He gritted his teeth, his face determined. “I need you to swing your leg up and hook your foot in this molding.” He nodded at the decorative molding holding up the railing. “I can’t. My legs aren’t working.” Panic was setting in. My legs were going numb from it. With a calmness I didn’t completely feel, I whispered, “Just let me fall.” “What? Are you mad?” He shook his head, and a crease took up residence between his

eyebrows. “I’m not letting you go,” he bit out in his thick English accent. “It’ll be okay. It’s not too far. I can swim.” “You are mad. You’ll drown before you make it to the side.” “I can swim.” “You just said your legs aren’t working. And a frail thing like you won’t be able to paddle your way to land.” He shook his head. “Why am I even arguing with you? Sam, help me.” The blond man—Sam—appeared beside him, and he reached down, wrapping around my other arm. “On three,” Sam said, looking at his friend. The three seconds they counted felt like a lifetime, but sure enough with their combined strength, they towed me up. The man with dark hair hooked an arm under my legs to haul me over the railing, but my legs collapsed as soon as my feet hit the ground. He swore under his breath and tugged me up until he could wrap his arms around my back. With my legs loose like Jell-O, I clung to him, trembling, as he supported most of my body weight. My face pressed against his chest, and I squeezed my lids tight, halting the tears that beckoned. It was all so overwhelming, the fear and shock and now, the safety of his hold. As I regained my bearings, I took in his scent—like apple and basil, but warm too. Perhaps the warmth was from the feel of being in his arms. But it was comforting, the first time I’d found comfort since crossing the Atlantic. His hands, though they held me, seemed reluctant to do so. And just when I felt them start to ease up, my legs started to feel more solid and I pulled away. Had I really just embraced a complete stranger? I backed up a step, stumbling a little like a deer finding its legs for the first time. I looked up into his face, and he stared at me. He didn’t look angry, but he didn’t look entirely welcoming, either. “Are you alright?” I blinked at the question, which had come from Sam. Not the unhappy life raft of a man I’d held on to. I turned to look at him and swallowed before speaking. “I am. T-ththank you.” I let out a breath and pushed my hand through my hair, laughing a little at myself. “I almost went swimming.” “I think swimming is being too generous.” Sam and I turned to the dark-haired man who’d spoken. He looked between us and shrugged. “You’re wearing a backpack, boots, and heavy clothing. You’d have sunk.” Immediately after saying it, he looked away. “Ah, true. Next time you want to go swimming, wear something more appropriate.” Sam winked at me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Sure you’re alright?” I nodded, eyes dancing over to the other man before I looked at Sam again. “Thank you. Sam, right?” He smiled, that movie-star smile he’d been wearing when I’d first seen him. “Yes. And

this is Ames.” He nudged his friend harder than necessary, which caused Ames to glare at him. “That was pretty shit luck, to be pushed over by that pickpocket.” I couldn’t stop playing with my hair, thanks to my boundless nerves, the double shock of almost dying to now standing in their presence. With Ames doing his best to avoid looking directly at me and Sam smiling like I’d given him some kind of happiness. “Well, you might’ve saved my life. Can I—” “Then why’d you tell me to let you go?” Ames’ harsh words stopped me. He looked me up and down before settling on my face. “Because I thought I’d fall.” “I said I wouldn’t let go.” He said it defensively, like he was angry I doubted him. Sam pushed on Ames’ shoulder, causing his expression to relax. “I think you need a beer, my friend.” Sam looked at me. “And you do, too. Unless you’re more of a wine drinker? And what do people call you, besides ‘you’?” Laughing, I shoved my hands into my coat pockets. “People call me Mila. And I think, right now, you could put anything alcoholic in front of me and I’d drink it.” “Then it’s settled, Mila. Let’s get a drink and celebrate you not sinking to the bottom of the River Thames.” Ames glared at Sam. “Really, Sam?” “Lighten up, mate.” Sam slapped him on his upper back and winked at me. “I’ll buy.” “Funny joke.” Ames gave him a look that Sam ignored. “I don’t get the joke?” I hadn’t meant to say it aloud; I’d meant to ask Sam, but my eyes were on Ames when I asked. “Because,” Sam began, pointing the direction we were to walk to grab a taxi, “Ames runs the pub we’re going to.” There was a moment, slight as it was, where I questioned climbing into a taxi with two strangers in a foreign city. But the doubt dissipated as quick as a breath when Sam all but shoved Ames into the taxi, and held the door open for me to climb in after him. Still, I texted my brother the address Sam gave to the taxi driver. Just in case.

CHAPTER TWO

TEN MINUTES LATER, the taxi driver pulled up to a quiet corner, directly in front of a gray-stoned building. I fished out money for the driver, but Sam reached past me and handed him a note, giving me a smile. Ames was already out of the taxi and standing on a dark sidewalk in front of a darker building. The glass panes of the door had been painted black, only giving the slightest glimpses of the inside through the uneven stripes where the paintbrush had run dry. “Free Refills,” I said, reading the gold letters across the glass, just as Ames’ hand closed on the handle. He paused and looked at me, but before he could say anything, Sam came up beside me. “Yes. Ames is a cheap date.” “Only the water’s free. Unless your name is Samson Baxter. Then it’s double.” He opened the door just a hair and turned to us again. “And this isn’t a date.” “He’s a nice bloke, when he wants to be,” Sam said beside me as he nudged me gently with his arm. “I’ll take your word for it. He seems like he regrets hauling me up over that railing.” Not my finest moment, to be sure—which made me want to fidget with my hair, embarrassed. “Ah.” Sam grabbed the handle of the door that had closed behind Ames and pulled it open for me. “Well, he might.” I laughed, but I wasn’t sure if it was all that funny. “And so … what? You invited me along to torture him?” “Precisely.” He gave a curt nod of his head, and placed a hand on my back as I walked over the threshold and into the bar. It was like something I’d seen in a movie. Shotgun style, it sported mirroring dark brick walls on the two longest sides. Along the left wall was the bar, with white-washed crates mounted on it, holding all kinds of bottles of liquor. A long, L-shaped lacquered bar wrapped around the wall, accompanied by stools with red, plush-looking seats. On the opposite side of the bar were several wooden tables pushed up against the brick, accompanied by the stools at the bar. And dotted down its center were plush arm chairs, with steel, circular tables between them.

It was cozy, and warm, but also surprisingly stylish. With the wood-planked ceiling and the industrial, exposed lightbulb lights that hung from it, it was a perfect mixture of new world finding its place in the old world. “Are you going to sit?” Ames asked, interrupting me from my gawking. He lowered himself to a stool with Sam on his left, who was leaning over the counter to talk to the adorable, blonde bartender. I had to choose between sitting next to Sam or next to Ames, and I surprised Ames and I both when I chose the seat next to him. I shrugged out of my jacket and folded it to lay on the empty seat beside me before I turned to Ames. He’d removed his hoodie, revealing a dark gray tee that was fitted— distractingly so. His arms were more muscular than I’d realized, his body toned and fit. From his profile, he had a very … aristocratic look about his face. From the excellent lines of his jaw, his full lips, and his almond-shaped eyes, it was a face I’d seen a dozen times, in history books, painted with great exaggeration. And maybe I’d seen the same face in a book with a happily-ever-after, too. Prince Charming didn’t scowl as much as him, though. “This is your bar?” I asked, hoping to invite him in with some conversation. “I manage this pub, yes.” When I started to ask another question, the blonde bartender popped—literally, it seemed—in front of us. “Oh, hey Ames. Missed us so much that you couldn’t bear a night out?” She propped her elbow on the bar, gave him a teasing smile, while her blonde bob danced around her chin. “Want the usual?” He nodded and she turned to me. “Oh, hello,” she said, and tilted her head sideways. Her eyes were large, and the brightest blue I’d ever seen. She wore dark makeup heavily around them, making the lightness of their color all the more shocking. “What can I get you?” Her accent was slightly different than the guys’. It had a lilt to it, almost musical. Giving her a smile, I glanced quickly up at the chalkboard on the wall behind her. The first thing that caught my eye was called “Forbidden Fruit Sangria,” with a cartoonlooking apple for the “a” at the end of “sangria.” “I’d like the sangria,” I told her. “Excellent choice,” she said, and ducked, her hair flying up in a mess of strands before she straightened and it all fell back into place perfectly. I found myself touching my own hair, which was past my bra strap at this point, and feeling a strange kind of longing for a hairstyle that didn’t need constant tending to. I watched as she moved behind the bar like a little fairy, darting back and forth. Sam had already gotten up and moved to a table filled with young twenty-somethings, and appeared to be flirting with them, judging by the giggles that erupted from that direction. Which left me alone at the bar with Ames, who was doing his best to avoid engaging in conversation with me.

“I’m not sure I properly thanked you,” I said, the silence between us becoming unbearable. “For, you know, saving me.” He was silent for a long moment, making me wonder if he’d even heard me. But then he turned his head and stared at me in a way that made my stomach all light again, that balloon of helium expanding inside of me. “Yeah.” Instantly, the balloon deflated, along with whatever hopes I’d had of having a conversation with him. “Are you angry with me?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound selfconscious. Because I wasn’t. I knew my faults, wore them proudly in fact, but if someone was angry with me, I wanted to know why. And, considering I’d spoken only a handful of sentences to Ames, with none of them being incendiary in the slightest, I wanted to know what it was about me, that made him so … unfriendly. “No.” I wasn’t ready to give up yet. “Are you annoyed with me?” “No.” “Do you wish I’d leave?” That question gave him pause. But when he spoke, I believed him. “No.” “Are you always this chatty?” “More so, in fact.” The bartender set the drinks down in front of us. Mine was beautiful, a pale yellow with slices of lime, lemon, apple, and pear floating across the top. And before I lifted it to my mouth, I could already smell each fruit. “Well, this looks and smells amazing.” I smiled gratefully at the bartender, whose black name badge read “Jennie” in gold letters. “Thanks, Jennie.” She nodded at me, her smile wider at my using her name. “Hope you like it.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could feel the weight of Ames’ gaze on me. He was waiting to see how I’d take to the sangria, I knew. And suddenly, I felt self-conscious. Turning to him, I said, “It’s rude to stare.” He blinked once, his blue-green eyes clearing, but looked completely unperturbed by what I’d said. “In some cultures, maybe. You’re American.” I swirled the little stick that adorned the wine glass. “Can’t put anything past you,” I joked. The medley of fruit spun faster and faster, until it was just a blur of colored flesh and pulp. “Why are you in London?” Because he’d asked me an actual question, I rewarded him with a sip of the sangria. Lemon burst on my tongue. “Well, at the moment, I’m drinking sangria in a beautiful little bar beside a man who might or might not wish me gone.” I spun the fruit again and looked at him. “What are you doing in London?” His eyes went flat. “I live here.” I didn’t miss the duh tone in his voice when he answered that.

“But you don’t sound like you’re originally from here.” “And how would you know that?” “Well,” I started, and then cleared my throat. “You don’t sound like this, all posh and lyrical,” I said, in an Estuary English accent. Lowering my voice a bit, I said with a more Cockney accent, “And you don’t sound like this, having a handful of unpronounced letters.” His eyes widened slightly, which was essentially praise to me, so I wiggled a little in my seat. “And it doesn’t sound Welsh, or Scottish, either, more of a mix of Estuary and…” I spun my finger in a circle as I thought, “I’m not sure what it is, but it’s not from here.” And that missing bit of his accent was probably one reason I enjoyed hearing him speak so much. “You imitate accents?” He completely avoided my almost-question. “I’m a voice actress.” “Hm.” He sipped his beer and then looked straight forward. “You need to work on your Estuary. Sounds muddled.” I smiled, because he was trying to insult me. “I will. So, where are you from?” He turned back to me and looked thoughtful for a moment, as if he was trying to decide whether to tell me or not. I licked my lips and his gaze dipped for a moment before he met my eyes again. “My family is French.” I wasn’t sure why that little fact made him infinitely more attractive, almost uncomfortably so. But the way his lips had pursed as he’d said it, made me think about how … sexy that language was. “Say something in French.” “No.” “Why not?” He laughed, catching me off guard. “I just did.” “’No’ is ‘no’ in French?” My shoulders slumped. “How disappointing.” “Well, it’s spelled n-o-n, but yes. Pronounced the same.” I rolled my eyes and took a sip of the sangria. “Thanks for humoring me with your dazzling French.” “Anytime.” The laugh softened his mouth, making me feel a little tipsier than I knew I was. He was good-looking in a way that made my stomach hurt a little, especially when he was looking at me with his whole focus. Someone bumped into me from behind and I turned to see Sam leaning over us. “Oh, the sangria. Like it?” I nodded. “It’s so refreshing.” Sam clapped Ames on the back. “Ames’ creation. He’s quite proud of it, so feel free to layer on the praise.” Ames glared at him, and I marveled at how interesting their friendship was. Ames had clearly seemed much more relaxed when it had just been him and Sam on the bridge, but

something about Sam’s behavior now was grating to him. “I’ll do my best.” I gave Sam my best smile and saw Ames shift in his seat out of the corner of my eye. “So, what are you doing in London, Mila? When you’re not falling off bridges, that is.” “I like that you pluralized my experience this evening. And I’m mostly exploring.” I didn’t feel like getting into the fact that I was technically here working, especially not when I was sitting beside the manager of a bar—a bar I might end up reviewing for work. “Just seeing all the sights, I guess.” “What have you seen so far?” I nibbled on my lip. “I’ve seen Big Ben and Westminster Bridge.” “Over and under it.” Ames’ quiet joke made me laugh, but he was staring straight ahead. Without looking directly at me, it still felt like he was watching me. “Ah, brilliant. What’s next on your list of things to see?” Sam asked. “I was thinking about being a true tourist and taking a double-decker tour—on the big red busses.” “Bring a poncho. The weather looks a bit dodgy tomorrow.” “I don’t mind a little rain.” “Your choice,” Sam said, straightening. “But London is more than big red busses and muggings.” He elbowed Ames, who seemed to know exactly where this conversation was going, because he looked like I’d expect an animal up for slaughter would look. “Ames was a tourist himself ten years ago. I bet he’d love to show you around.” As funny as it was seeing Ames uncomfortable, it wasn’t a goal of mine to continue it. “Thanks, but I’ll manage. I’m a perpetual tourist.” “If you do need a tour guide, I’d be happy to help. And when I say ‘I’d’ I actually mean ‘he’d’.” He pointed at Ames whose jaw was set in a line, his eyes daggers. Jennie came by and pointed at my near-empty glass. “Want a refill?” “Pub closes in ten minutes,” Ames said, cutting her off. “Now that’s a lie.” Sam laughed and clapped Ames on the back again. My phone buzzed and I looked at it, seeing a text from my brother. I would actually need to get some work done on the trip, and I couldn’t accomplish much with any more sangria. “Thanks, but I should get going anyway. What do I owe for these three drinks?” “You’re not buying theirs,” Jennie scoffed. “Yours is four pounds.” “Nothing,” Ames said immediately after, causing Jennie and Sam to look at him. But I wouldn’t accept his generosity. I felt in that moment like I’d overstayed my welcome—my presence had caused Ames some kind of stress and the adrenaline of the moment on the bridge had made me suddenly sleepy.

“Thanks, but I’d like to buy theirs, too.” Ignoring Ames protest at paying for my drink, I pulled out twenty pounds and placed it on the bar, hoping that was sufficient for the beers when Jennie seemed reluctant to tell me their cost. I downed the rest of my sangria and slid the twenty-pound note on the bar top. “Thank you, Jennie, for the great service.” Giving Sam a smile goodbye, I slid off the stool and walked to the door before turning around just in the doorway. “Thank you, Ames.” He lifted his head, eyes connecting with mine from across the room. “For not letting go.” I gave him a small smile just before I pushed out the door. The night seemed much darker on these narrower streets, and despite Sam’s friendliness, I felt lonelier than when I’d first arrived in the United Kingdom. I pulled my jacket tighter around me and walked in a direction I didn’t know—I just knew I needed distance from the feeling of unwelcomeness. I rubbed my hands to conjure some warmth. I’d made it to the next block before I heard, “Wait.” He spoke it at a normal volume, but the way his voice bellowed, it held the command of a shout. I turned to see Ames approaching me. He’d forgotten his jacket in his haste to follow me, and seeing him in the dark like this made him much more real than he’d appeared to me on the bridge. “Take it.” He pushed the money back into my hands. I shook my head and tried to give it back to him, but he wrapped both his hands around mine, the crumpled-up money cradled in my hands. The feeling of his skin warming my hands stopped me dead in my tracks and I looked at him under the fuzzy bit of light above us. “I owed you a beer,” I said in quiet protest. “You owe me nothing.” Almost imperceptibly, his fingers tightened around mine before letting go. “If you come again, however,” he began, shoving his hands in his pockets. I held my breath, waiting for his response. He backed away, but kept his eyes locked on mine. “I’ll charge you for a refill.” It wasn’t particularly funny, but it caused me to laugh regardless. It was the strangest invitation I’d ever received, because I knew that despite whatever misgivings he had toward me, he wouldn’t mind if I came by again. I just didn’t know why or if I actually would. “Okay.” A warmth bloomed in my chest, spreading outwardly. He was feet away from me, hands still shoved in his pockets. “It was nice to meet you, Ames.” “It was … something,” he paused, like he didn’t want to say my name aloud. But then he shook his head in a way that seemed like he found me funny. “Mila.” “Maybe I’ll see you again.” I took a step back and my boots scuffed on the pavement. He stayed in my vision until I turned around and hurried away.

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN I WALKED AWAY from Ames, and the super cool pub he managed, I faced the prospect of my tiny, windowless hotel room with more than a little trepidation. Despite being windowless, it wasn’t awful. If I lay on the bed and stretched my arms, I could touch the padded wall at the far end of the room and the glass enclosure that held the shower, toilet, and sink. It was the oddest room I’d ever stayed in, and for someone like me—it was far too silent. When I’d left Colorado, I’d been surrounded by the things that reminded me of Colin, the man who had collapsed in my arms. The man who had made me promise, a hundred times throughout our relationship, not to see him should he end up spending his final days in a hospital. And in keeping the promise I made to him, in staying away when his heart stopped beating, I’d successfully broken a part of my own heart. The main reason I slept horribly was because the high I’d felt in leaving the bar had dissipated once I’d arrived at my lonely little room. Perhaps part of that high was thanks to that whole nearly-drowning incident. But it was also the first time since leaving the States that I’d been able to forget a little bit about the heaviness I’d carried across the Atlantic with me. It’d been three months since Colin had been buried, but it felt like many more. My restlessness tonight, tossing and turning and tangling myself in these sheets, blurred into all the others where I could hear Colin as though he were only a few feet away but always out of reach. Finally, in the morning, after a terrible night of sleep, I opened my eyes to stare at the ceiling. “This isn’t what Colin would have wanted for you.” I could hear my brother’s words as if he was sitting beside me, reassuring me as he had so many times. “He’d want you to keep spreading your happiness, Mila.” The promises Jude spoke did little to buoy me, even as I’d agreed to his offer to go to London in his stead. We both knew he didn’t need me to go there for him. As his twin sister, I could see right through him. But neither of us called each other on it, and so I agreed to hop on a plane to London for five weeks, to do the things he wanted me to do for the travel blog, with a few off-the-beaten-path things as well. I’d grabbed a handful of pamphlets from the local restaurants and my hotel, and now I

stared at them, spread out across my unmade bed, unable to choose what to do next. I’d seen Big Ben, had fish and chips, and had managed to get lost more than once—though I wasn’t sure that last one qualified on anyone’s must-do bucket list. As if he could hear me thinking of him, my phone buzzed atop a pamphlet for a double-decker bus tour with my brother’s face lighting up the screen. I briefly debated not answering it, not wanting to hear his disappointment in my complete lack of work ethic these last few days. But I knew that’d only concern him more, so I answered it after the third ring. “Hello, brother dearest.” “Mila-moo,” he said, his nickname for me. “What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into in London?” “Surprisingly, none thus far.” I decided to leave off the part about me hanging over the Westminster Bridge for now, as I flopped onto my back on the bed. “But the day is still young. Speaking of,” I leaned over to look at the clock, “it’s noon here. It’s gotta be six in Colorado, right? That’s early.” “We’re going on a hike today,” Jude explained, and I knew the “we” was him and his girlfriend, Trista. “What’s on your shortlist of plans today?” I chewed on my thumbnail as I eyed the brochures. “Um…” Jude laughed, that deep, rich sound reminding me so much of home that my stomach hurt. There was something about having a twin, that invisible thread keeping you connected no matter how far you were separated by physical distance. “Do I need to go to London and force you into the wild?” “Would you?” That would make it all so much easier on me, to have my brother here, nudging me along. “I was thinking about it, actually. Mom and Dad wanted to go, too.” I made a face and rubbed my forehead. “Could you just … lose them, maybe? Airports are big. It’d be believable.” Jude laughed again. “You know how they are. They won’t want me to fly alone.” “Yeah,” I said softly. The same heart condition that had killed Colin was present in Jude, which meant that my brother could meet the same fate. It wasn’t a thought I entertained too much, because I didn’t delight in melancholy things, but it wasn’t something I could easily forget. “Bring Trista. That’s what girlfriends are for.” “I’m not sure if she’ll be up for it, so it might have to be Mom and Dad.” “Ugh,” I sighed. “The fact that I’m debating dipping into my nearly-empty savings to buy a plane ticket and escort you here myself—instead of them—should tell you just how excited I am about having them around.” “It’ll be great. You can show us all the places you’ve been and the things you’ve seen and maybe it’ll bring you guys together a little bit.” My brother and I had different parenting experiences. But I supposed that it wasn’t

terribly surprising that having one sick child and one healthy child meant the latter would be forgotten, often. I never held it against my brother—of course not. If anything, the fact that I was born with a whole heart had been like a constant reminder to not waste time, to not take things for granted. So, in my parents’ minds I was Mila, the reckless wanderer. The girl born with wings and a spirit for life that exhausted those around her. I’d played my part well, until a friend in high school psychoanalyzed me and said my antics were cries to my parents for attention. I didn’t need attention; I needed to live for me and for Jude. “Yeah, maybe,” I told Jude, sounding more resigned than I should’ve. Poor Jude always felt like he was stuck in the middle between us, a position I didn’t envy in the least. And while they would tsk and sigh and say, “Did you hear your sister did…” inserting whatever ridiculous thing I’d done that week—I’d never tell Jude, “Thanks for having a heart condition—I’m basically an orphan when you’re around.” Even thinking it made me cringe a little, because it was such a terrible and insensitive thing to think. “When do you think?” “Probably near the end of your month there. So, tell me, what did you do last night?” I made a face that if he’d seen, he would’ve known that I was debating on what to reveal, exactly. “Well,” I began, closing my eyes briefly to try and remember what I was doing before I nearly fell off the bridge. “I wandered down a few streets. Bought some trinkets in—or is it at?—Piccadilly Circus. And then I got on the tube and got off on the wrong stop, somewhere around Westminster Bridge, which was pretty perfect timing, actually, because I made it just before the hour struck.” I chewed on my thumbnail some more. “And then I ran into this guy—Ames. He has a bar. Or pub. Or whatever. Anyway, it’s this dark, kind of moody place with a really cool name.” “Oh yeah?” I could hear Jude shuffling papers and knew the inevitable was coming. “Did you take notes?” “Sure did,” I lied through my teeth, eyeing my empty notebook with a bit of annoyance that I hadn’t thought to bring it out once. “What’s it called?” “Free Refills. In Camden.” I impressed myself for remembering, which wasn’t saying too much. And because I was remembering, I grabbed my notebook and jotted down the name and area of London, and a quick note: Good sangria. “I…might go back.” “Great. Maybe this Ames fellow can give you a few places to visit while you’re in town. I’d like you to see things that aren’t in every guidebook. Big Ben is great, but it’s not going to bring a lot of traffic to our site—everyone’s seen Big Ben. You know?” I nodded and rolled to my side, staring at my coffee maker longingly. I hadn’t yet had a cup, even though it was noon, but the talk about Ames’ bar had me thinking about that sangria I’d had. “I’ll ask him,” I said, already deciding that I would go back—if nothing else but to pick his brain a little. “Be careful on your hike today, okay?” “I will. Bye, Mila-moo.” After hanging up, I sighed and stretched my back. I’d be seeing Ames again, and this

time I’d have to take better notes about the bar, and create a list of things to see in London to appease Jude and my own natural curiosity. After looking up Free Refills online, I had the hotel call a taxi and packed my backpack purse with my things, before setting off to Camden.

CHAPTER FOUR

SHE WAS BACK. It was the first thought I had when she breezed through the door, her dark hair like a storm around her from the wind outside. She had large, purple sunglasses on her face that she pushed up to hold back her hair when she saw me. She just stood in the doorway, smiling at me like she was happy to see me—why?—one hand on her backpack and the other held up in a wave. “Hello,” she said, and I briefly debated pretending I didn’t see her. She was beautiful. Actually, the word itself didn’t suffice. But I wasn’t keen on admiring beautiful things at the moment, so her beauty was gratingly annoying, like nails down a chalkboard. I looked down at the rag I was scrubbing the bar with as she approached and plopped herself onto a stool, which she spun around on for a moment before stopping. “It’s quiet,” she commented, looking around. “It’s Sunday,” I replied flatly. “Oh, right. Sorry, I’m a little discombobulated on my days since I’m not on a normal schedule right now.” She just smiled at me, all bright and bold, and I looked at her like the alien she was. “Do you want a drink?” She pursed her lips, leaning over the bar as she stared at the chalkboard signs above my head and tapped on her chin with one purple nail. “I suppose that’s the reason most people come into a bar, right?” Even though she was obviously being sarcastic, I didn’t sense any kind of anger or annoyance in her tone. In fact, she was the absolute opposite—all sunshine and fucking rainbows, like I’d made her day just by being here. In my own damn pub. “Some do,” I agreed. “But many come for the company.” She laughed, that sound that made me set my jaw. Her presence was so very jarring— that tsunami of brightness she spun into a room was so against who I was. It didn’t help that she reminded me so much of her. And just that brief, flicker of thought had me rubbing the cool metal of my ring with my thumb. “People come here? For company?”

I narrowed my eyes on her. She didn’t move in the slightest. “Yes.” She gave me that full-toothed smile and I wanted to ask her if she’d ever even touched any kind of unpleasantness in her life, because if she had, I didn’t know how she could smile like that—all bright, and gratingly inviting. “Well, that makes sense, because you’re so damned cheery. Calm down,” she said with a dramatic eye roll as she slung her backpack onto the bar and settled in. “Can I have a beer?” she asked sweetly. Who was this creature? Completely unperturbed by my surliness, not the slightest bit put off by my attitude. I slapped a coaster on the bar and grabbed a pint glass, pulling the handle on the tap. I eyed her the whole time, watched as she pulled a purple-covered notebook out of her backpack and a purple, glittery pen, too. I found the juxtaposition of all that purple and her clothing interesting. In comparison to the purple, she was dressed rather plainly—in ripped blue jeans and a white, flowy top. The only purple on her was her fingernails and the sunglasses holding back her hair. I tried to remember what she’d been wearing the night before, when I’d met her, but all I could come up with was the way her face had looked when I’d held her over the side of Westminster Bridge. Perhaps I resented her a little. I knew how devastating, how crippling, grief could be. And to see her sitting on my stool, practically radiating life, was more than a little jarring. I knew it wasn’t kind of me to think so, but because I wasn’t going out of my way to show her kindness, I didn’t mind one bit. I hadn’t even asked her what kind of beer she’d wanted; I just poured her the one I favored. It was dark, and not a beer that most tourists—of the female variety especially— tried and liked. It gave me a little bit of excitement to imagine her tasting it and then wanting to spit it immediately out. She uncapped her purple pen and tapped on the notebook as she looked around. I didn’t dare ask her what she was doing as to not encourage her into conversation. Placing the beer on her coaster, I could hardly contain my anticipation of watching her absolutely fucking hate it. But as if she knew I was waiting to see how badly she hated it, she let it sit there as she studied me. “How are you doing today, Ames?” It unsettled me, hearing her say my name like that. Much as it had the night before. Truth was, the beer had loosened me a little bit then, enough to engage with her in light conversation. But I couldn’t explain why I’d chased her out of the pub and shoved her money back into her hands. Or even why I’d practically invited her back for a second visit. So I couldn’t be too annoyed that she’d shown up, taking me up on my regretted words. But I was annoyed. Because it wasn’t just the way she said my name that unsettled me. It was that annoying little hum, like an appliance turning on, reminding me how much Mila reminded me of Mahlon. My Mal. I rubbed my finger over the ring again, a habit I did so often that I had a light callous right where finger met palm. “What are you doing?” I blurted out.

She pulled the beer away from her mouth and raised one eyebrow. “I’m drinking a beer in your bar.” “Pub.” “Right.” She tapped her pen on the notebook, scribbled something. “What’s with the name?” she asked as she traced the logo on her napkin. “That’s a story for Asher.” “Asher?” “My father-in-law.” Her gaze darted to my hand, which I held atop the bar—no shame in showing what I wore on my left hand. “Oh,” she said softly, nodding. “It makes sense.” She gave me a rueful smile and wrote something else before closing the cover on the notebook and setting it aside. “What makes sense?” Before she could answer, the door opened and Sam walked through, shaking his head like a wet dog. Water splattered all over the place, but he just grinned at me. “Ames,” he said in his loud, boisterous voice. “Good to see you.” I gritted my teeth. “Sam.” I nodded at him and started pouring the same beer I’d poured for Mila, a beer I knew he favored. I snuck glances at her, but she was looking at Sam with great interest. There was something sharp about the way she observed people, like she wasn’t just listening, but sorting them out—their quirks, their mannerisms. “Well, hello again,” Sam said, reaching toward her for a handshake. “You’re back?” “Yes,” she looked briefly at me, “I am. He didn’t scare me away, surprisingly.” I placed Sam’s beer on the bar with less finesse than usual, and foam spilled up over the top and onto his napkin. “The fuck, A?” Sam shook his hand, which was covered in foam and gave me a strange look. “Sorry.” I rubbed my hands on the towel tucked in my waist as Sam returned his attention to Mila. “You’re drinking a beer this time?” Nodding, she dipped her finger just barely into the glass and pulled it back out. “Wine’s for when the sun goes down.” “Is that so?” Sam leaned in toward her, and I knew immediately what he was doing. He was a terrible flirt, but had seemed almost immune to Mila the night before. Now, he was practically a bloody peacock, preening for her attention. “Well, sure.” She ran her hands over the curved corners of the coaster—and why the fuck was I staring at her hands? I could do with a distraction. “Wine at night sets the mood.” “And what mood’s that?” he asked, leaning in further toward her.

She gave him a little smile, and her hair slipped over her shoulder just so. “Whatever mood you’re after, I suppose.” I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination, but that delicate voice of hers took on a lower, more melodic note. And furthermore, I wasn’t sure why I was so damn interested in their conversation. I moved to the other end of the bar top, and wiped at an invisible stain, forcing their voices from my mind. Objectively, I could say Sam was probably an attractive fellow, with his dark blond hair in a little bun—one I’d often threatened cutting off. When we used to do pub crawls, Sam was often trailed by a bevy of women willing to sacrifice their evening to him. I never envied that kind of attention, because I had Mal. And perhaps because I didn’t have that now, I could rationalize a kind of jealousy for how easily Sam captured attention. By the time I could no longer realistically pretend that the bar was as filthy as I made it seem, I moved back toward them and did my best to ignore them. Loudly, as if he was trying to get my attention, Sam said, “Ah, I like you!” Sam wagged a finger at her and looked at me. “She’s interesting, isn’t she?” I gave no comment, just returned to running my rag down the bar. “This is a good little bar,” she said, sipping her beer—which, to my surprise, was nearly gone already. “Pub,” I corrected her. Both Sam and Mila looked at me, and I busied myself with refilling the snack bowls before making a show of giving Sam one of them—and disregarding Mila completely. Sam noticed, the arse. He pushed his bowl between he and Mila and leaned toward her. “Looks like Ames is fresh out—of pretzels or manners, no way to know for sure, but you can share with me, if you’d like.” “That’d be lovely,” she purred, dipping her hand in the bowl at the same time that Sam did. I did my best to glare at him too, but realized too late that there was no reason for me to be glaring. She was just some American tourist—I’d never see her again. If she fell off any other bridges, she’d be someone else’s problem; not mine. But it did bother me to see Sam flirting with her, and it bothered me even more to see Mila reciprocating. I stepped away, roughly wiping down the end of the bar I’d already wiped down, my ear open to their conversation despite my best efforts to pretend I was deaf to it. “How do you know Ames?” “Went to primary school with him, actually. Friends most of our lives, except for the bits he traveled the world.” “Funny, he doesn’t strike me as a guy who would travel the world,” she said. I felt her looking at me and forced myself not to tense. “If you’d known him even eight years ago, you wouldn’t think he was the sort of guy to run a pub, either.” “What do you do, Sam?” she asked, swiping her tongue over her top lip, capturing the little droplets of beer that clung to it after her sip.

Why the fuck was I watching her lips? I scrubbed harder across the bar, its gleaming surface mocking me in my annoyance. I moved a couple inches closer to them, busying myself with unnecessarily polishing of the keg handles. “I’m an artist. Paintings, mostly, but some pottery too, to work my muscles.” He held his hands out for her inspection. My jaw ached from clenching it, as I watched her take his hands in her tiny ones, and lean closer to examine them. “Wow. Your hands are a hundred different colors.” The fact that she actually sounded awed by that pissed me off. “What do you paint? Landscapes? People?” “Nudes.” I expected Mila to blush, or laugh, or do anything except the exact fucking thing she did, which was, “That’s brilliant,” with a softness in her voice that I hadn’t heard yet. “It’s something,” I muttered, but my voice carried across the near-empty pub and they both turned to look at me. “What’d you mean by that?” Sam asked. Both appeared riveted by my answer. Fucking Sam. He knew I thought he was talented. Perhaps I didn’t say it in so many words, but it didn’t take an art critic to see the skill that he possessed when holding a paintbrush. And he knew that I admired his talent, but he was putting me on the spot for a show in front of Mila. Arse. I motioned a hand at him. “You’re talented, you know it. You hardly need me to stroke your ego.” Sam pressed a fist to his chest and his eyes softened. The affection of his look was ruined when he opened his mouth and said in his most sarcastic tone, “Wow, A. Really hit me in the feels with that compliment.” I had half a mind to toss my dirty rag at him, but I knew I needed to calm myself. Mila did not affect me. Maybe if I told myself enough times, I’d actually believe it myself. Shrugging, I said, “What do I know about art, right?” “Well, I’d love to see your work.” Mila sipped her beer and seemed more animated than before. “Maybe I’ll show you sometime.” “I’d like that. Have you seen his nudes?” she asked me. I wasn’t one to feel embarrassment—but something about the way she asked it, so casually, with that voice all soft and innocent, made my neck go warm. Damn Sam. I wished he would shut his bloody mouth, and he bloody well knew my thoughts based on the grin he gave me.

“He hasn’t—I think he might be a little bit of a prude.” I glared at Sam for the remark, who then added, “He’s a good guy—if a bit daft sometimes. What do you do?” If I hadn’t been standing a meter away, listening to their conversation, I wouldn’t have believed what I heard—but there it was. Mila, speaking in a French accent, said, “I’m here working, actually. For a month or so.” Sam did a double take—mirroring the reaction I’d had the night before, when she’d slipped into the English accent. Sam looked at me like he wasn’t entirely sure he had heard her correctly. Nodding, I tilted my head toward her and mouthed, “She’s mad.” “She’s French?” Sam asked me, loud enough for her to hear. Mila just laughed, and then wiggled in her seat like she could hardly contain the glee that wracked her body. “Oh my God,” she trilled. “I fooled you both! You don’t know how happy that makes me.” Sam shook his head. “Or are you American?” “Mad, I tell you.” “I’m not mad.” She laughed. “I’m a voice actress. Well, an aspiring one. I’ve done some small gigs, but nothing big yet. I’m still perfecting my accents. But I’m here for my brother. He’s a travel blogger, and I’m here in his stead, exploring London, writing about it.” “Do that again,” Sam said, wagging a finger at her. “The accent. That’s brilliant.” “Okay.” Her smile slipped to something more demure and her whole face changed, her eyebrow raising just slightly, and her jaw tightening. “I’m a voice actress,” she said, slightly hissing the “s.” “It doesn’t pay the bills—yet—so I’m here doing work.” “Christ. Russian, too?” “Eh,” I said, shrugging. They turned, Sam looking at me like I was a bug who wouldn’t go away and Mila looking at me with that annoyingly bright smile on her face. Could she not be offended by me? It hardly seemed possible. “I’m still working on that one, I’ll admit.” She leveled me with a look, lost the austerity she’d adopted before speaking with the Russian accent. “But I’d like to see you do better.” “Ames can only do two voices: asshole and silent. The latter is often preferred.” That time, I did toss my rag at him, which he caught deftly before it hit him in the face. “What an interesting creature you are,” Sam said with awe. Mila was delighted by Sam’s praise and bobbed her head before clearing her throat. “I’m still trying to get the different English accents—specifically in the London area— down. But it all sounds the same to me, so it’s hard.” “It seems that way, but I imagine it’s not much different from the different regional accents in America, yeah? You’ve got Southern, Yankee, Midwestern…” “That’s true.”

“So, you’re definitely American then?” She nodded. “I’m so glad you had to ask.” She appeared to be barely containing all her glee, and I half expected her to start clapping from it all. “Ames?” Lotte, my sister-in-law hollered from the back of the kitchen, before popping her blonde head around the corner. “Oh, hey, Sam.” She gave him a full-toothed smile, the kind that always knocked me back a few feet for how similar it looked to her sister’s. It was probably the only thing they had in common. “Lotte the Hottie.” Lotte blushed as Sam moved around the bar and wrapped her in a hug. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Been busy?” Lotte shrugged. “The studio isn’t totally busy yet, you know.” She lost a bit of the sparkle that had been in her eyes, and looked around the pub, her gaze landing in the direction of Mila. “Hello,” Lotte said cheerfully, and looked back at Sam. “You brought a date?” If I was blind and also oblivious, there’d still be no missing the way her voice changed, the way she straightened a little, looking between Sam and Mila with a tightness she hadn’t had before. Jealousy was a green-eyed monster that lived in my blue-eyed sister-in-law, but I knew Sam only admired her in a friendly way—so I didn’t have to murder my best mate. Mila laughed in return and shook her head, causing her glasses to slip down before she pushed them back up. “I just met Sam last night, but I’m flattered that you think I could catch a guy like him.” As I observed them exchanging conversation, I had a thought that Mila’s remark was meant to settle Lotte, but peculiarly, it did the exact opposite. She stepped just a hair away from Sam and smiled tightly at Mila. And I would’ve had to have been deaf to not hear the jealousy that seeped into her voice when she said, “Yes, well, you would be lucky.” She let out a breath and the smile returned to her face, much too bright to be authentic as she turned to me. “I’m going to run up to check on Dad.” I nodded and she left in a flash of blonde hair and red ruffles. “She okay?” Sam asked, coming ‘round to me and bracing his hands on his hips. “That seemed a little strange.” Sam could hardly be accused of being observant. Though Lotte was five years his junior, she’d pined for him since the moment she’d laid eyes on him years before. I’d never encouraged her affection for him, but I’d also never addressed it with her. Sam was shit at relationships—worse than me, in fact—so the last thing I wanted was for him to unintentionally break Lotte’s heart. Luckily, she’d mostly become immune to his ‘Lotte the Hottie’ comments. “She’s fine,” I told Sam, realizing in that moment that I actually didn’t know if she was fine. “Just been a busy couple of weeks.” Sam returned to his barstool and, because Oblivious was his middle name, asked, “She

still wants to sell the studio? Are you still being a twat about it?” I glanced meaningfully at Mila who was paying close attention to our conversation. Mila didn’t need to know about my family drama, especially not when I was actively trying to get her out of my pub. “Oh, right.” Sam gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry for the language.” He was absolutely oblivious. I sighed impatiently. “I’ll talk to you later,” I promised him, and subconsciously refilled Mila’s empty beer—kicking myself for doing so, knowing that it meant she’d be stuck up my arse on my barstool for even longer than I wanted. “Who was that?” Mila nodded in the direction Lotte had departed. “My sister-in-law. Do you want anything else?” I asked curtly before turning to Sam. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Sam grinned at me knowingly. “Dinner at Mum’s, but that’s not till later. Why? Want to come around?” “No.” “You sure?” “Absolutely.” I grabbed his beer before he’d finished it, and dumped its remnants, hoping my meaning had reached through his daft skull. “Add it to my tab?” Sam asked, slinging his coat over his shoulders. “Ah, the tab. The one you’ve yet to pay toward? Sure, happy to.” “That’s a good lad.” Sam gave me a grin and a wink before turning back to Mila. “Well, Mila. It was a pleasure. I hope we get to meet again.” He looked at me pointedly. “Ames is the best tour guide London has to offer, you would do well with him.” “Is that so?” She tilted her head as she turned to me. “Where should I go next, Ames?” I clenched my jaw, looking at Sam. What was he after? I’d been certain earlier that he’d been after Mila for himself, but with the way he was very nearly shoving her to me made me think he had other plans. Plans that I’d like to be made aware of. They both looked at me expectantly. “What are you looking to see? There are too many places in London for me to name just one.” Mila looked at Sam, and then looked thoughtful. “Are you wanting to eat, to drink, to dance, to—” “I want to be moved.” The look on her face was completely different than the one she’d worn since walking through the pub doors. Her eyes seemed wider, somehow, as if they were holding a hundred secrets. Her face was soft, her mouth not quite in a line—but not curved, either. Both Sam and I stared at her, seemingly unable to speak for a moment. Who was this woman, needling her way into my pub and affecting my best mate?

Sam looked at me. “Postman’s Park comes to mind.” But it didn’t seem right. It wasn’t enough. I wavered between offering another more suitable suggestion and taking Sam’s, but ultimately decided to not offer any alternative. “Postman’s is good.” “Postman’s Park? Where is that?” “Oh,” Sam said, pointing at me as he began to walk away. The dread that began forming in my stomach, knowing what he’d say, was enough to make me want to wring his bloody neck. “Ames will take you. Maybe tomorrow?” “That’d be nice.” Mila turned to me, and that softness was still there—but it was the slight curve of her lips, just on one side, that had me agreeing to take her. I was looking at her for far too long. I knew that, and yet I didn’t avert my gaze. Sure and steady, she held mine. And I found myself nodding, agreeing to take her, before the rational part of my brain told me to refuse. “Is it a good spot for lunch?” she asked. “Great spot. See ya later,” Sam called, just as he pushed through the door and out of my pub, leaving Mila and me doing our best to avoid eye contact. Strangely, though I’d been in a hurry to kick Sam out, his absence made Mila’s presence in my pub all the more profound. She slapped a note on the counter, but didn’t remove her hand from it until I looked at her. “Don’t try to give this one back to me.” She looked pointedly at her empty beer and gave me a smile. “It was good, by the way. Thank you.” Just before she reached the door, she turned around. For some inexplicable reason, I spoke before she did. “Meet here at noon, tomorrow. I’ll take you to the park.” She pushed open the door with one hand, still turned toward me, and for a moment I felt a knot in my stomach. Something about the way she stood there, the sun pouring in through the door, lighting her silhouette, the way it washed over her hair … it stirred something within me. Something that had been stagnant for so long. A hundred times I told myself to take it back, to change my mind, but one-hundred and one times, I told myself it would be fine. It would be fine.

CHAPTER FIVE

WHEN I SHOWED up the following afternoon, Ames was waiting against the outside wall, backpack slung over one shoulder and head bent, as he looked at his feet. His feet shuffled, and his eyes looked a thousand miles away. Without Sam there as a buffer, I felt my palms go clammy. Nerves prickled my skin. I didn’t fully realize what being around him without Sam meant. It meant alone. Just me and Ames. The wedding ring. The mention of the father-in-law. This was just a local being friendly to a tourist. That was all. Reminding myself of that fact relieved some of my anxiety. His head lifted and he took me in as I approached. “Ready?” He’s so handsome, was my first thought. And I tried to talk myself out of going with him. Handsome, married man, I told myself. Just being friendly to the tourist. That’s it. Nodding, I stuck my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Are we taking the tube?” “We could.” He pushed off the wall and didn’t wait for me to follow him. “But we’re going to take the bus.” And as if he’d summoned it, the bus stopped just a dozen yards from us, and I followed him to the second level of the double-decker before the bus pulled away from the sidewalk and moved back into traffic. “Is there somewhere near the park, to grab lunch?” I asked him as the bus jostled, sending me bumping into him. “Oh.” Ames pointed at the backpack he carried. “I had Lotte pack us something.” I thought of the woman at the bar, who looked like she’d stepped off the stage of a ballet concert. “Is she a dancer?” I asked on a whim. Ames finally looked directly at me, one eyebrow raised. “Random question…” I tucked my hair behind my ear. “I just … she moves like water.” I shook my head, realizing that probably didn’t make any sense. “She is very graceful—not in how she looks, but how she moves. And she has the best posture of anyone I’ve ever seen.” I mimicked a hunched over appearance. “A lot of people I meet walk like this, with their heads leaning forward.” I pushed up my shoulders. “And rounded shoulders. It’s noticeable.” Ames just stared at me, unblinking. I straightened and pushed my hair away, wishing I’d thought to bring a ponytail holder. “I probably sound ridiculous to you.”

“No.” There was a slight tick in his jaw as he studied me and I became increasingly aware of just how close we were to one another on the bus. He smelled clean, with an undercurrent of something that was uniquely him. He’s married, I reminded myself. The last thing I needed, three months after losing Colin was another boyfriend and, as a follow-up, a boyfriend who was already in a committed relationship. Been there, done that, hated myself for it. My palms grew sweaty and I rubbed them down the knees of my jeans as the bus hit the brakes, the high squeal penetrating my eardrums and making me wince. “Are you alright?” I waved him off, wishing to hell that the bus would stop and I could put some physical distance between Ames and me. What had possessed me to readily agree to let a married tour guide show me London? That question didn’t remain unanswered in my mind for long, though: it was because I was impulsive. Make decisions now, question them later: it was practically my life’s motto. But when you have parents who dote on your continually ill twin brother, it’s easy to be reckless with your own life. In small, little ways. I wasn’t jumping out of airplanes or eating live bugs—but I was definitely making decisions in the heat of the moment—and ill-prepared for their potential consequences. As if he knew I was thinking about him, Jude’s text buzzed on my phone. Jude: Seen anything exciting today? Quickly, I typed out my reply. Ames seemed, mentally, a million miles away, so he wasn’t paying any mind to what I’d say. Me: Not too much. Currently, I am with a group of middle-aged guys who tell me they have candy in their van. It sounds legit.

Jude: Oh, good. Candy in the UK is better than ours. Well done, Mila. Smiling, I turned my phone off and tucked it into my little backpack purse, just as the bus drew to a stop. I followed Ames out and onto the sidewalk and then across the narrow street, pulling my camera from my bag—remembering that I’d need to take the photos I’d forgotten to snap on Westminster Bridge. “This is it?” I asked him, holding the camera up and shooting a few photos of the entrance. There was a wrought iron fence, supported by brick-laden beams. It appeared to be a large garden, tucked in a busy neighborhood. Impressive stone buildings loomed on either side of the entrance and a mature tree in the garden spread its branches over the sidewalk we stood on. I looked back at Ames with a question on my face. “Come on,” he said, nodding his head and gesturing for me to go first in through the opened gate. Once I’d passed the gates, I instantly felt like I happened upon a secret. Not that the location itself was a secret—after doing research on it the night before, I’d realized this park had been in the movie Closer, so it clearly wasn’t some little off-thebeaten-path gem. But the overall ambiance of a well-kept garden, with paths circling

around little green lawns, tucked away in the heart of a big, bustling city felt like I’d driven clear outside the London limits and found myself in a garden that belonged in a book. As soon as we passed through the gates, the city noise quieted until only the sound of the breeze gently swaying the trees remained. A few people milled about, on their phones or seated on benches with paper bag lunches on their laps. Ames’ hand touched the small of my back and I started, surprised. “Come over here,” he said, and steered me off to the left, in an area that was under shadows this time of day. An awning covered a little walkway—and the way the posts supported its roof reminded me of a horse’s stable. “In Commemoration of Heroic Self Sacrifice” was written in white paint across the front. I snapped a photo, felt Ames’ eyes on me. Under the shadowed awning, painted tiles were laid into the wall, surrounded by brown brick. There were names and dates and explanations when I looked at Ames again, I found his green-blue eyes staring back, small creases in the corners that smoothed out slowly when he turned away. “You come here often?” I asked, before turning back to the wall and stepping closer for a better look, snapping a couple of the names with my camera. I didn’t look at him as I pulled my camera down and scrolled quickly through my photos. “When I need a bit of thinking space, yeah.” I didn’t reply to that, just kept snapping photos. I felt his eyes on me still, but I didn’t look back at him, not wanting a distraction just then as I read the names across the tiles, and the acts that earned them a place in this park. I lowered my camera so it hung by its strap around my neck, and decided to take a break from documenting this for the moment. The wall of names appeared in contrast to the rest of the park, which was covered in green and red and white from the grass and the trees and the flowers that bloomed in great, round circles throughout the pathways. The names were tucked in a corner, covered in shadow, and gave the impression of being the focus of the park at the same time that it felt like an afterthought. I turned around and found Ames leaning up against the post, staring me down. “Hi,” I said, to break the tension I was sure he had to have felt too. The side of his mouth lifted. “Hi.” He was just staring at me. I rubbed my suddenly sweaty palms down my jeans, gave him a nervous smile, and turned, my fingers braced on the brick wall that surrounded the decorated tablets installed across it. He braced a hand on a pillar and looked up at the names in front of him. “This place gives me hope.” His eyes met mine, but only briefly, and he almost looked embarrassed to have admitted it. Turning to the plaque, he read softly, “’Henry James Bristow. Aged eight.’” He paused, nodding, and I wonder if he too felt the pinch of heartbreak in hearing that age—a life cut short too soon. “’Saved his little sister’s life by tearing off her flaming clothes, but caught fire himself and died of burns and shock.’” I let out a heavy sigh, laden with sadness for his family, for the sister whose life he saved. “That gives you hope?”

“It does. He was an ordinary lad, young too, and thought of someone other than himself in his last moments.” He rapped his knuckles on the seat below him and looked thoughtful. “It was tragic, don’t mistake my meaning. But … he saved someone who needed saving.” He watched me carefully, eyes hooded in the shadow of the awning over us. “What do you think?” I breathed out a laugh and turned to him. “Of this?” “Of anything.” “Well.” I swallowed the nerves that gripped my tongue. “I think this is a very interesting memorial.” “Interesting how?” “It’s just not something you see. Not often, at least.” I gestured toward a tablet dedicated to a Sarah Smith. “’Died of terrible injuries received when attempting in her inflammable dress to extinguish the flames which had enveloped her companion.’” Over one hundred and fifty years earlier. Before ceiling sprinklers, and fire trucks. “I suppose ‘interesting’ is too weak a word. She was a regular person.” I glanced at Ames and wanted to look away immediately, but I found myself unable to. “She was a regular person, who died saving a friend. It happens all the time, I’m sure, but rarely is it acknowledged.” “Almost never,” he agreed. “We have memorials dedicated to war heroes and kings and queens, but what about them?” He waved a hand across the tiles. “What about the everyday heroes?” “Do you want a memorial for yourself?” “I’m not a hero. So, no,” he replied immediately. He blinked and his brow furrowed for a moment, and I found myself transported back to when I’d first seen him, on the bridge, when I’d locked eyes with him and felt something shift within me—like the center of my gravity had changed, like the ground I stood on had turned into quicksand. “Do you?” he asked, bringing me back to the present. “No.” But I thought of Colin, with his grave filled with dirt—his ashes in the wind. It didn’t feel right going to his grave—he wasn’t there. Not in body, nor in spirit. A stone in a graveyard of a thousand others made the whole thing impersonal. There was nothing in that graveyard besides his name etched into that rock that made me think of him. So I’d never gone. I didn’t want to stand at an empty grave, and look at a gray stone that bore his name but nothing else that was really him—his smile, his gregarious personality, his love for fitness and mountains and the way his hair had flown in the air when he’d stood on top of the many mountains he’d conquered in his twenty-five years on earth. Colin, a man whose death had unburdened others with the organs he was able to donate. I closed my eyes, thinking of him, and feeling no small sense of betrayal for being in such a profoundly meaningful place with a man who was not him. I wondered if it’d ever get easier living with this heartache that gripped me like a vise. “My boyfriend died,” I said, not looking at Ames. “And I didn’t … see him, before he passed.” I swallowed, the memory of seeing his face lose color still so vibrant that I could hear my sobs, feel the tremble in my hands as he collapsed into them. “He has a

gravestone, but it doesn’t feel right—he’s not even there.” Closing my eyes, I realized exactly what I was saying—and to whom. Ames was a stranger, and here I was, telling him a secret that I hadn’t even shared with my brother. I turned and met his eyes, giving him a rueful smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be a downer.” He let out a breath, and it was as if he’d lost ten pounds of burden. “Don’t be sorry.” But I just nodded and hoped my face made it clear that I was already regretting the things I’d said, and didn’t want to continue. He shifted a little, opened his mouth like he was going to say something. I’m not sure how long I waited for him to say it, and how long it took for him to decide not to say it, but we stayed in that suspended silence for a few moments longer, before I averted my eyes. He was braced on the beam, with veins roping over his forearm and his biceps pushing through the constraints of his tee. He was very fit, which surprised me for the manager of a bar. I didn’t imagine that slinging drinks had given him all of the muscles he wore, which made me all the more curious about him. He’s married, I reminded myself again and forced myself to stop staring at him. “Ready to eat?” he asked, and I just nodded, following him to a bench behind us that overlooked the tablets. “I guess I didn’t ask if you were allergic to anything—but Lotte made goujon sandwiches.” The name of the sandwich gave me the slightest pause. “I’m not sure what goujons are, but I’m game to try them. Unless they’re live bugs.” Ames held the parchment paper wrapped sandwich in hand as he looked at me, eyebrows drawn together. “Not a fan of live bugs?” When I shook my head, he sighed, defeated. “Don’t yuck my yum, Mila.” “Are you serious?” He tossed the sandwich at me and I threw my hands up in the air to keep from catching it. “Oh, you believed me?” He laughed lightly, and then handed me a bottle of water. “You laughed,” I said, feigning astonishment. “I don’t think I’ve seen your lips do anything except frown.” He looked up at me in surprise, and I felt my stomach go all light and wild again, my eyes dipping to his lips and then away. Fuck. His lips were so full, and wide, and he.was.married. I couldn’t believe I was allowing myself to find him attractive. That I was indulging in those long stares, knowing he belonged to someone else. I turned away and laughed at myself as I took the water bottle. “What’s so funny?” I went for a lie. “You run a bar—” “Pub.”

“And you brought us water. Not beer.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t want to get pissed.” “One beer gets you drunk? You’re a cheap date.” As soon as the words left my lips, I mentally slapped myself across the forehead. Married. The ring around his finger made that plain enough. I held the sandwich in my lap, my fingers picking at the sides of the wrapping. “What are goujons?” “Goujons are slices of chicken breaded in cornflakes and baked. And no, one beer doesn’t get me drunk.” “Oh, okay. So, they’re like chicken tenders.” I opened my wrapper without hesitation then, and took a big bite. Somehow, they were still a bit warm, and when combined with the crusty bread and the healthy dollop of mayo, they were absolutely perfect. “Wow. These…” I pointed at the sandwich, “are incredible.” “Lotte’s a good cook,” he agreed. “Her mum’s recipe.” We were quiet for a bit after that as we sat beside each other on the bench in the shade. People milled around us, but none went to look at the tablets which were directly in our line of sight. “Why’d you say yes?” I asked him abruptly, when my sandwich was reduced to just a few crumbs in my wrapper. “Yes to what?” “Bringing me here.” I looked sideways at him and did my nervous habit, tucking my hands under the backs of my thighs. “You don’t seem to particularly like me. I’m not sure why you’d want to go out of your way on your day off to bring me here.” “It’s not my day off. I have to work this evening.” “You know what I meant. And you avoided my question.” “Technically, you didn’t ask me a question.” “I did! I asked why you said yes.” “I’ll tell you this: I don’t regret saying yes now.” It wasn’t the answer to my question, but it made my brain hum. He stood up and crumpled his wrapper into a ball and then took mine. Silently, he walked the garbage to the can and dumped them into it before returning to where I sat. “Ready to go?” he asked, completely avoiding my question. I sighed, resigned, and brushed the crumbs off my lap. His hand entered my vision and I looked up at him as he waited for me to grab it and pull me to standing. With a thousand voices screaming in my ear, I did just that, and felt the same magnetic pull I’d felt the night we met, when he’d held me after pulling me over the railing. It was as if, in that moment, the world didn’t make sense anymore—everything was upside down and inside out. I was too close to him, breathing in the air he was exhaling, our faces just inches from one another. The shadow of a leaf crossed over his face, making his eyes look all the more bright and alluring and even as the shadow danced in the wind, I found

myself undistracted, staring into his eyes as if they were speaking when his lips weren’t. His eyes dipped to my lips and like a kick to the chest, I remembered exactly why this was a terrible idea. He’s married. I pulled my hand from his and gave him a smile I didn’t mean before I turned around. “Thanks for the tour and the lunch. I appreciate you going out of your way. Catch you later.” And then I was gone.

CHAPTER SIX

I WAS PACING my hotel room. Well, as much as I could pace in approximately ten square feet of floor space. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I saw the mess that was my current hairstyle—a result of hours of pulling on it and pushing it away from my face, and then burying my face in my hands so the hair formed a curtain over my fingers. What the hell had I been thinking? Going with Ames to that park? “Ugh,” I growled and with fast and furious hands, I pulled my hair up into a ponytail. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I had no right. I didn’t even try to pretend that images of Colin weren’t flooding through my mind. Colin, the former boyfriend of another woman—a man I’d unwittingly fallen in love with. A man who wasn’t always a good man—to his girlfriend or to the girl he was sneaking around with: me. But I loved him, even with his flaws. He wasn’t easy, we weren’t easy, but I wanted him. All the time. It was the strangest thing, to think of him in past tense. He’d been my boyfriend the last two years of his life before he’d passed away three months earlier, and we’d been in a comfortable place—past the mistakes we’d both made, adventuring and looking toward bigger things—that’s who Colin was. Always looking ahead. He didn’t live for today, he lived for tomorrow. The night Jude brought him by our apartment for the first time, there’d been something about him that made me watch him all night. He’d sneaked glances at me too, from across the room, peeking over the top of his red plastic cup. When the party had moved into the apartment’s courtyard, I’d found myself sitting on the steps beside him, trying to play it cool and failing miserably. Days later, after nights at the drive-in and days riding in the back of our friends’ pickup trucks, shoulders bumping as we went off-roading, he’d kissed me. And then I’d found out about his girlfriend. I wasn’t a perfect person. Far from it. It sounds pathetic and clichéd to say that I tried to back off, tried to distance myself from him when I’d learned about his girlfriend. But, to add to the list of clichés I’d been racking up with Colin, he was different—special. And it wasn’t until his girlfriend moved in with us that the truth came out. In the worst possible way.

All the guilt I still harbored over it didn’t make the healing part any easier. Even though Colin’s former girlfriend moved on—to my brother of all people—I knew there must have been a part of her that hated me. With good reason. Which made the situation with Ames even worse. I would not be that woman again. Colin’s death had put my own life into perspective, how reckless I’d been and how many mistakes I’d made with little regard for others. I didn’t want to make anyone a victim of my decisions again. I stopped pacing to sit on the edge of my bed and picked up my phone. The message from my parents was still unread, but I could see a preview of it—and those words alone made me sigh. But if I didn’t reply they’d tell Jude, and I didn’t need him to be our referee for the hundredth time. Mom: We got tickets to London! Did Jude tell you? We’ll be there on the twentieth. I glanced at the clock on my open laptop. Two weeks until they came. I felt guilt for the apprehension that filled me knowing I’d be seeing them soon. My parents weren’t terrible people. They had no idea what went on in my life, or why I was the way that I was, but they weren’t unkind or neglectful. If anything, my brother’s heart condition took most of their attention off of me, which was a much-needed reprieve. I texted Jude. Me: You and the parentals in two weeks, huh? Can’t wait.

Jude: It’s a shame that text can’t properly convey your sarcasm.

Me: I’m excited to see you…

Jude: But not them. I know. I flopped onto my back on the bed and stared up at my ceiling. Thoughts of Ames, how the green that surrounded us in that park had made his eyes all the more bright, were making my stomach hurt. Was I imagining the way he looked at me? Was it not what it seemed after all? I spied the coaster I’d swiped from Free Refills, laying on my nightstand and picked it up. Running my fingers over the rounded edges, I thought about going back. Not to encourage him, or even me. But because there was something about Ames that pulled me in. It could have very well been a friendly feeling, though the feelings that were stirred up in the park three days earlier weren’t just friendly. After leaving the park abruptly, I’d gone back to my hotel and had hermited for two days, starting my blog post of Postman’s Park before realizing I’d taken very inadequate mental notes. I’d returned the day before, to get better photos, and to take notes that weren’t saturated with Ames.

I’d been in London for nearly a week, but I felt like I’d seen so little of it. Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my backpack purse and left my hotel room, heading for Free Refills.

When I pushed open the door, I expected—and had prepared myself—to see Ames behind the counter, rubbing a rag over the glossy wood. But instead, I saw Lotte, his sister-in-law. “Oh, hey,” she said with a smile, pausing in drying some glasses. She pointed at me and squinted a moment. “Mila, right?” “Yes. Lotte?” It was a funny-sounding name, and echoed of something young—which she definitely looked. Her pale blonde hair framed a paler face, blue eyes wide and lips a rosy pink. “Yep. Well, my name’s Charlotte, but you can call me Lotte, if you want.” The nickname suddenly made sense. I realized I’d paused just inside the door and hadn’t made any steps toward the bar, when she beckoned me. “Have you had our sangria? I made a fresh pitcher this morning. It’s a good batch.” “Yes.” I gave her a tentative smile, remembering that this was the sister of the woman whose husband had looked at my lips when we were just a breath apart. “I’d love some, thanks.” When she turned, I surreptitiously looked around for any sight of Ames—which there was none. I pulled out a barstool and slid onto the seat, watching as she bit on her lip in concentration when she poured the sangria into a glass, and then stuck a drink stirrer that was skewered with thin slices of fruit. “There you go,” she said proudly, setting the drink on a coaster in front of me. “It looks fantastic,” I told her, and took a generous sip. “Forbidden fruit sangria, right?” “Yep.” She twirled a finger around. “Kinda goes with the whole theme here.” “The theme?” She grabbed the next glass and started polishing the water spots off of it. “Yes, the theme. It was my parents’ idea. They thought they were clever.” I was going to ask, but I was distracted by the M charm around her neck. It suited her beautifully, the charm coming to rest right in the hollow of her neck where her collarbones met. “That’s pretty,” I said, pointing at it. She wrapped two long, delicate fingers around the silver M and smiled. “Thanks. It’s

for my sister. Ames got it for me.” Was that the sister married to Ames? The sangria, while delicious, turned to lead in my belly. “He seems nice,” I said, immediately realizing how trite that sounded. “He’s a lifesaver. Hungry?” The change in subject gave me mental whiplash, but I rolled with it as best as I could. “I had a sandwich earlier, but I could snack on something.” “Hm. With sangria, you might be wanting a dessert. I’ve got some apple cheesecake in the fridge?” “That’d be wonderful.” When she went back to grab the cheesecake, a sound came from the other side of door at the back of the bar and my nerves caused me to start twisting my hands in my lap. “Here you go,” she said a second later and placed the prettiest little cheesecake on a pale green plate in front of me. There was a drizzle of what looked like caramel over slices of green and red apple alternating on the top. “It’s almost too pretty to eat,” I told her with a grateful smile. “But you have to. It’s the last slice. Don’t tell Ames—it’s his favorite.” She said that just as I put the first bite in my mouth and I worked to chew and swallow without betraying anything on my face. “Speaking of him, where is he?” “Oh, he’s clearing the leaves from the garden.” She gestured toward the door that I’d heard noise from. “It’s really quiet in here,” I commented, noticing only two filled tables and one other person at the bar. “We usually don’t get the crowd until late at night. This is usual.” She draped the rag over her shoulder and braced her hands on the bar. “Ames said he took you to Postman’s Park the other day. Did you like it?” “Yes, it was lovely.” Lovely. A word I found myself using more and more since coming to England. “Really a pretty spot in the middle of the city.” “Yes, it is. But he never mentioned where you’re from back in the States.” “Colorado. Lots of mountains, some plains, rivers and valleys.” “Oh wow. I bet it’s just beautiful there.” She rested her elbows on the bar and leaned forward, looking at me dreamily. “I’d love to go to the States.” “Anywhere in particular?” I asked before shoving another piece of cheesecake in my mouth. “I’d love to go to the desert, actually. Like the mountainous desert. I had a pen pal in Utah who told me there are places that look like the beach, right in that landlocked state. Amazing.” I tried to gauge how old she might be—because her attitude reminded me of a collegeaged young woman—someone a handful of years younger than me. She either was my age

with amazing skin or twenty-two-ish with eyes that had seen more than most her age; an old soul. “I’ve been to Utah a few times. There are definitely a lot of state parks with landscapes like you described.” She looked to be hanging on my every word, her blue eyes wide and interested. “You should go.” And just like that, the dreamy look left her eyes and she pulled back, straightening. “Oh, I’d love that. But I can’t.” I didn’t want to presume a reason why, but seeing the way everything around her had gone darker, I felt compelled to say something. “Tickets aren’t too expensive, if you keep an eye on it. I’ve found round trip from Denver, which is the next state over, for less than four-hundred American dollars.” She gave me a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Oh, it’s not money. Well, it is, but not the way you think.” She looked around, as if she was checking for anyone who could possibly overhear her. “It’s this place.” She rubbed her hand on the lip of the bar for a second before letting go. “It’s my dad. You know.” She shrugged. My eyebrows drew together. “No, I don’t know.” “Well, he doesn’t run the pub anymore. Not since…” She sniffed, and then whipped her rag off of her shoulder to rub at the spot she’d touched on the bar. “Ames runs it pretty much solo. I couldn’t leave him. And plus, with my studio—it’s just not a good time for me to disappear.” “What about your sister?” She paused her rubbing and let go of her rag, looking at me with a small frown on her face. “Ames didn’t tell you?” She fingered the M at her neck. “My sister died.” The bite of cheesecake I had in my mouth started to dissolve, because I was sure if I tried to chew and swallow it, I’d choke on it. And before I could say anything, the back door of the pub opened and Ames stepped through, stopping when he saw me. I tried to process what Lotte had said, and it was like all my thoughts had suddenly become a hundred decibels louder in my head. Ames definitely hadn’t said anything. Not a word. He had never tried to explain it to me. How had she died, I wondered. How long ago? “Look who popped by,” Lotte called over to him. He took a tentative step forward, watching me, guarded. “Hey, do you think we can go to the garden and talk?” he asked. Sweat poured off of his arms, and suddenly he seemed more dangerous than he had before. I hesitated saying yes right away and I felt Lotte looking at us both. He looked at me expectantly, waiting for an answer. It must’ve been a solid ten seconds before I carefully set my fork down and silently followed him. The garden was much more than I expected. There were a half-dozen tables set up with little solar panel lights on each one, placed on circular inlays of stone. Cobblestone paths crisscrossed throughout the garden. Interspersed in little spots in the middle of the

pathways were large copper planters, with flowers spilling over their tops. I thought Ames would lead me to one of the tables, but he stopped near the back of the garden and turned to me, the ivy-covered fence his backdrop. “Hi.” I shoved my hand into the pocket of my jacket, needing to busy my body so that I didn’t show him how clearly things had shifted for me. He wasn’t married. The realization hit me then. “Your wife.” I pointed back at the bar and paused before continuing. “Lotte told me that she … passed away.” “She died two years ago.” His jaw was tight, but he didn’t look filled with animosity the way I’d expected. Little by little, he was thawing toward me—as if he was no longer fighting whatever had been holding him an arm’s length away. “I’m so sorry.” I shook my head, and my hand was still pointed at the bar. “I thought— well, you wear a wedding ring, and you work with or for your in-laws, so I assumed you were still…” the word ‘married’ tasted like poison on my tongue. Because, “Hey, you’re no longer married because your wife passed away,” was not a thing I wanted to say. Death was final in many ways, but not in feeling. “I understand.” He gripped the back of a wrought iron chair, eyes trained on the ground beneath us. “Even though my wife—Mahlon, but we called her Mal—passed away two years ago, I still consider my sister-in-law and father-in-law family.” He pointed above my head, back at the building. “I live upstairs with them actually.” I looked at the narrow, tall windows above the ground level of the building. “Your sister-in-law and father-in-law only?” “My mother-in-law, Rayna, passed away shortly before Mal did.” He met my eyes, and gone was whatever shield he’d held up for so long. “Cancer.” “It makes sense.” I wrapped one arm around my middle and nodded my head toward the building. “Lotte. She seems so young, but not immature.” “Yeah, well, I suppose losing your mum before you’re twenty and your sister before you’re twenty-one will do that to you.” “And you take care of her.” It wasn’t a question. “Asher, my father-in-law, he’s … well, he doesn’t leave the flat much.” He paused, and then asked, “Do you want to sit?” I took the seat he pulled out for me and he took the one across from me. The sun was directly over our heads, so he unraveled the umbrella over the table to shield us. “Is he sick?” “Clinically, no. But he’s had a broken heart for the last two years—and a general fear of the world around him. When the world takes half of your family in one summer … well, it’s a miracle he’s still got a bit of good humor.” “So you stayed, after your mother-in-law and…” it felt weird saying her name, and I didn’t want to say the wrong thing by calling her something as unspecified as ‘wife.’ But I

said her name, because if there was one thing I’d learned about grief, it was that not talking about it was unproductive and ineffective in the healing process. “Mal. After they passed away, you stayed with them?” “They’re my family,” he replied simply. “But yes. Asher owns the pub. It was meant to be Mal’s inheritance, and when she passed, Asher tried to give it to Lotte.” He settled in his seat, and for the first time since we’d gone outside, I marveled that he was actually speaking with me. Revealing things that he hadn’t before, and it wasn’t taking even the least bit of prying from me to get them out. “But Lotte— you were right. She’s a dancer.” He waved vaguely behind him, toward the bar. I stuck my finger in the grates of the table, thinking. A breeze brushed past us, lifting my hair so that it whipped in front of my face. Ames was watching me all the while, as I processed what he was telling me. “Why are you telling me this? Now? A few days ago, I felt like my presence was exactly what you didn’t want.” “You’d be right in that. But.” He waited until I was looking at him again, and then his hand gently, and tentatively, covered mine. “After the park three days ago, and what you said. You know grief. You’re fresher than I am from it, but talking about it with someone who isn’t…” he paused, his jaw clenched for a moment. “Well, they don’t look at you like you’re making them uncomfortable.” He looked away for a moment, and I watched the line of his neck as he swallowed. “It’s not a feeling I relish.” “I understand.” “I know you do.” His hand was still on top of mine, warming my knuckles under the cool shade. “I don’t want to stop talking about her. That would be…” “Worse than death,” I added for him, and then covered his hand with my other. Gently, I squeezed and gave him a sad smile. “I am right there, with you. When I brought it up at the park a few days ago, the look on your face made me stop talking. Because I didn’t want to be that person, to make someone else uncomfortable.” “And that’s not how it should be, right? At least, I don’t think so. Mal doesn’t deserve to be buried in the recesses of my memory.” I could tell he wanted to talk about her—between the wistfulness in his eyes and the way his hand squeezed mine back. “Tell me about her. When did you meet her?” “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, and I could feel his hand start to slip from between mine. “I just … wanted to tell you I commiserate. I didn’t mean to burden you with my ghosts.” I held onto his hands tightly and scooted my chair on the stone closer toward him, making a loud sound that had us both cringing and then laughing. “I want to hear about her—Mahlon—Mal,” I told him earnestly. He turned to me, his eyes open and soft. My heart broke a little then, wondering if I was the first person to ask him about her in too long. He blinked, and then he took on a faraway look. “I met her in year three, in primary school, shortly after I’d transferred to school here. Truth be told, I’d ignored her through the wet months of January and February, until one day, in March, when she walked into the classroom after a long weekend, a bright pink cast on her arm.” His lips tilted up then. “And it wasn’t the god-

awful color that was so distracting, it was that people asked to sign it and she told them no. The assumption was that she wanted to leave that pink unmarred, but then one day she asked me to sign it. Handed me the thick, black marker and held up her arm expectantly. So, I signed it. Even got a glob of jam from the sandwich I was eating on it. She beamed, and when I’d wiped away most of the jam she had me draw a circle around it and then make it into a smiley face. “But then she did the strangest thing—or the strangest thing to me at the time. She then allowed everyone else to sign it. At first, whatever little pride I’d held being the only one to sign it had dissipated—because it wasn’t special anymore. And because I’m not one to shy away from confrontation, I cornered her and asked why.” His smile grew wider, lighting up his whole face. “And she told me, ‘I don’t care if everyone in the world signs it. But I wanted you to be first.” He shrugged, and almost seemed shy about it. “It just meant a lot to hear that.” “She liked you.” “She liked everyone. She lived for sunshine. She always woke up in a good mood, did everything she could for anyone who’d ask. She always had an entourage surrounding her —among which were many good men she could have chosen, but she’d picked me first, always. She was a sunshine girl, everyone’s best friend, and falling in love with her was the easiest, most sure thing I’ve ever done in my life.” The smile slipped from his lips and his eyelids lowered. “After her mum died, she didn’t have that magic in her anymore. It was as if she’d lost it somehow—well, that’s what she thought. I always saw it in her, but her mother’s death had dimmed it significantly. She…” He swallowed, exhaled. “She started drinking a lot. She was hiding it from us, stealing bits here and there when she worked at the pub, but that was alright. We could manage that, keep an eye on her. She was safe here. But then she started needing distance, and started spending time away from us, at pubs we didn’t know. She stopped seeing her friends, she slept all day long, and then one night she drank too much vodka and drove home. For reasons unknown, she swerved in the middle of a road and the car flipped, rolling down a ditch and into a shallow stream.” He pulled his hands from mine and laid back against his chair. “The accident wasn’t what directly killed her. What killed her was the car, upside down in the stream. Because she didn’t have the wherewithal to unbuckle herself, and she drowned, alone, just after midnight.” “That’s horrible,” I told him, because sorry didn’t need to be said. ‘Sorry’ always sounded so weak to me, like a kneejerk reaction to a tragedy. Ames didn’t need me to apologize for something I had no control over, and he didn’t need me to apologize for the hurt he still felt. He needed me to understand, to see his pain and not shy away from it. “It was the worst year of my life.” He brushed a hand down his face. “To lose them both, so quickly, it was too much, too soon.” He spread his palm out on the table and I watched as he flexed his fingers into it over and over, like he was holding an invisible hand. “I miss her, every bloody day. And I’m trying to do right by her, to be there for her family in their time of need. But it’ll never be enough. And that’s what I live with, every day. Knowing my presence, though it helps them out, is a constant reminder of what’s missing.”

I placed my palm on the table beside his, not quite touching him. Just a few inches away from him. “They could’ve lost you, too. You weren’t in the car with her, but you could’ve left them after she died—” “I couldn’t have done that,” he interrupted harshly. “Your character couldn’t. But, physically, you could. You’re not obligated to them. You’re here, for them, for her. And that’s more than I think a lot of people could commit to. They’re lucky to have you, Ames.” His head lifted and I watched as he absorbed that, and I grieved for him. To lose your spouse, and to feel that obligation of helping their family—but to not feel like it’s an obligation, but rather something that you’d absolutely, unequivocally do … well, it said a lot about him to me. Slowly, his pinky finger brushed mine, and somehow that felt more intimate than the way we’d held hands minutes earlier. “Do you want to talk about him, your boyfriend?” “Maybe another time.” I gave him a reassuring smile. “Thank you for telling me about her.” “Thank you for not making me feel like I was inconveniencing you.” “Never,” I breathed. “I want to hear about it. I want to know those things. It makes me feel … well, less alone. Not that this is a club I want to hand out memberships to. But it’s good, to not feel alone, don’t you think?” He gave me a thoughtful smile, and then his fingers trailed across the back of my hand to where my thumb met my forefinger. Slowly, he urged my hand to flip over, so it was palm up. And when I did, he grasped my wrist gently and brought it closer to him. For some reason, my chest felt very tight when he did that. Like I couldn’t breathe deeply enough. His fingers grazed over the length of mine, and instinctively, mine curled, clasping his tightly. I swallowed hard, feeling goosebumps raid the length of my arms. “Why did you run away three days ago?” Did I dare tell him? Did I dare say what fear had been running through my mind then, a fear that was no longer a fear—but a thing I was actually anticipating? “I thought you might kiss me.” He didn’t laugh, or even look surprised, which made my belly flip upside down. “And that scared you enough to make you run away?” “B-because I thought you were off-limits,” I stuttered. “Am I on-limits now?” The side of his mouth lifted, and I realized how freaking attractive he was like that, with the slow flirting. “I’m not sure.” My voice went lower without me realizing it, and I swallowed. “Are you?” “What are you doing Sunday evening?” The question brought me back to earth. “Nothing.”

“Come to dinner with me. At Sam’s house.” My stomach curled up in the sweetest anticipation. The invitation, from his lips, was a huge departure from the Ames who’d reluctantly agreed to take me to Postman’s Park. “I’d love to. Should I meet you here?” “I’ll come to your hotel. Where is it?” I pulled out a card from my pocket and handed it to him. “I’ve kept this on me just in case I get lost again, but now I’m pretty sure I know my way from here to there.” “Good on you.” He laughed softly. “Alright. I’ll collect you at five.” I tried to stifle the smile that stretched across my lips, but I couldn’t. “Okay.” I stood up, wanting to leave now before the moment burst, so I’d have time to replay this whole conversation a hundred times as I lay in my bed, with a stupid smile on my face. “Oh, Mila?” “Yes?” I turned around, just before I made it to the door. “I wasn’t going to kiss you then.” “Well, that’s good. Because I don’t kiss until the third date.” He stood and tucked his hands into his pockets, and he looked so handsome like that; it was all I could do not to walk back to him, to see if he could look at me the way he had at the park, like he wanted to kiss me. “Sunday’s not a date. It’s just a dinner.” “Right, it’s not a date. Just like you were not going to kiss me at the park.” “You don’t believe me? That I wasn’t going to kiss you?” Pursing my lips, I shook my head. And that’s when he walked, unhurried, across the patio, toward me. If my boots hadn’t felt so heavy, I would’ve sworn that I’d started levitating in that moment. The look in his eyes was serious and sure—focused right on me. He stopped a breath from me and brought his hand up between us, pausing just before he touched my face. Because I sensed he was waiting for an invitation, I nodded once, and then swallowed and stilled my breaths as much as I could. His fingers came to rest on my cheekbone, before they glided across my skin. He leaned in and my eyelids felt heavy. He tucked my hair behind my ear, and then touched his forehead to mine. “Mila, when I kiss you, I promise you—you won’t be thinking that I might. I’ll just do it. When you’re least expecting it.” His hand fell from my ear to my shoulder and he squeezed before backing up. “Sunday. Five.” I didn’t trust my voice then, so I just dumbly nodded and left.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MORE THAN ONCE OVER the last few days, I’d tried to talk myself out of the dinner I’d agreed to. When I’d walked in on Mila and Lotte talking, I’d felt something deep within me shift —like it was making room, allowing feelings to bloom in the dead space inside of my chest. And then I’d brought her out onto the patio, and she’d looked ethereal, the sun pouring over her like it followed her wherever she traveled. Never had the sun seemed brighter than when she was standing under it. Which was partly why I’d poured all of myself out to her the way I had, telling her all the things I didn’t tell anyone—not even Sam. And it wasn’t that I trusted Mila more than him, but it was that Mila knew what I’d gone through, and she was going through it herself. She’d been so willing to listen to me, so inviting—and telling her all the things I’d been wanting to talk about for so long had felt like an unburdening of weight I’d unknowingly carried. I rubbed my thumb over my ring as I waited outside of her hotel. Ultimately, I’d decided not to cancel for the pure fact that the excitement I was allowing myself to feel around Mila was addicting. Touching her face had branded longing on my bones, another thing I’d missed. I heard laughter and knew it to be hers, just as the door to the hotel opened and she stepped out. Stepped didn’t accurately describe the way she left though—it was musical, like she danced out of the door. Her dress was long, with fluttery sleeves and colored dark brown with large, pale blue flowers all over it. Its sides were open in the front, revealing tanned, smooth skin to her knees. I had to remind myself to stop staring at her legs. She hadn’t noticed me yet, too focused on smiling at the person who was still talking to her as she left. I couldn’t even look at them though, not with her standing there, the sunlight backlighting her. She had an energy that I couldn’t explain, something that warmed me even from a dozen feet away. When she turned her head, her long hair spilled over her shoulder, and she saw me just as she pushed the hair from her face and revealed the long column of her throat.

I had to remind myself not to swallow my tongue. “Ames,” she said, the smile still brilliant on her face. I remembered the moment she’d tumbled in my pub, and the thought I’d had. That someone that happy, that bright, could never have touched sadness in her life. But here she was, grieving, but still happy. It perplexed and intrigued me. “Mila.” I swallowed. “Ready to go?” I hoped my voice didn’t betray how fucking tongue-tied she was making me feel. “Yes.” She waved bye to the person holding the door and then started down the street toward me, with that same skip in her step. “Are you dancing?” I asked her. Her eyes were bright—so damn bright. She grinned. “Yes. I haven’t been dancing in a while—I mostly do solo dance. But I’m tickled you noticed.” It was hard not to notice. “You should go to Lotte’s studio. I mean, if you wanted to. She’d like that. You could practice there, or whatever it is you do.” She laughed and shook her hair from her face. “’Whatever it is you do’? I dance. Obviously, Lotte does too. And thanks. I’ll check it out.” She looked at me expectantly, and I was still so mesmerized by the image of her in a dress, all highlighted by the sun, that I hadn’t moved from my spot. “Oh, come on Ames. It’s just a dress.” But it wasn’t the dress. It was her. Nevertheless, I led the way to Sam’s house and asked myself what I was doing.

The taxi dropped us off a few streets away, at Sam’s family home. It was one in a row of homes, stacked one after the other, identical in exterior. “Sam lives here?” she asked, looking up at its three stories as she held onto the railing. “His family does, so he does too.” I rang the bell, but I didn’t need to. Sam’s mum had long insisted I was family, had ushered me in when it’d been just me, following Sam home like a lost puppy. And then later, in secondary school, with Mal on my arm. And then after, she’d been the one on my doorstep, forcing me to take food so that Lotte wouldn’t have to cook again as everyone around her grieved the same losses she grieved with more fortitude than Asher and I had. The door flew open and Sam stood on the threshold, his hair slicked back and his clothing pressed. “Who are you?” I asked him good-naturedly as he stood back and

ushered us in. “Mum wanted me to look nice for guests.” He closed the door behind us and Mila looked all around, taking in the narrow corridor and the frames that filled the walls. “Not sure who she thinks the guests are—certainly not you. And since we saved Mila,” he winked at her, “from falling over the bridge, I wouldn’t call her merely a guest either.” “Oh, because you’re my hero?” she smiled at him, but the smile was different than the one she’d given me. And that made me feel a little bit better about just how wide that smile was. “Exactly. Glad we’re on the same page.” He led us through the door into the kitchen, where his mum was. She’d secured her dark, blonde hair into a bun, but a hundred tendrils had escaped it, framing her face in tight ringlets. “The kettle isn’t working, Samson. Please go and have a look at it?” When I stepped from behind Sam, she pushed past him toward me. “Oh, Ames! So good to see you!” She wrapped me in a hug that I gladly returned, and then she stepped back and looked at Mila. “Oh, my, aren’t you a pretty thing?” “Oh. That’s so nice of you to say.” Pink tinged Mila’s cheeks and she put her hand out. “Hi. I’m Mila.” Sam’s mum clasped her hand. “I’m Bronwen. Lovely to meet you.” She looked at me. “You did good on this one.” “Oh,” Mila said. “We’re just friends.” She looked sideways at me, a glint in her eye. “He’s promised me that this is not a date.” Bronwen’s eyes narrowed on me and she shook her head. “Did he? Unfortunate that such good looks were wasted on a lad so daft, isn’t it?” Mila laughed, and I felt my neck grow warm with the way they both were looking at me. “He is rather nice to look at,” Mila agreed, tilting her head to the side. “Want a lager, Ames?” “Absolutely,” I said, grateful for the reprieve. “Mila, some wine?” Sam asked her. Looking at me, she said, “I’ll take a lager.” There was a slight twitch to her lips, and I had to tear my eyes away from her to follow Sam. “Surprised you brought her,” Sam said as he popped the tops on our beers and looked at me over the top of his. “You were all but shoving her into my lap at the pub the last time you were there.” “Because I can tell—she gets under your skin. Got to get that out.” I gave him a look. “Unlike you, I’m not keen on shagging my way through everyone who walks into the pub.” “Of course not. But she’s not just everyone.” He leaned on the counter and pointed at me with the beer in his hand. “And you know I’m right.”

I looked to the hall, where Bronwen was introducing Mila to Sam’s many siblings. “I told her about Mal.” “Oh?” Sam brought the bottle to his lips and looked to the hallway. “I told her about how she died.” Sam paused with the bottle halfway to his mouth. “That’s interesting.” “I know.” I sighed and rubbed a hand over my mouth. “She gets it. She knows what it’s like. That’s the bugger of it. It’s not like I’m talking to just anyone about it.” “Mm-hm.” He took a large glug of his lager and then set it down. “You like her, then?” “What’s not to like? She’s pretty.” “Don’t fuck around, Ames. You’re not one to chase pretty things.” “Well, I’m not chasing her.” “No. You’re bringing her to my family dinners. Which is no insignificant thing.” “You’re a real pain in the arse, sometimes. You know that?” Sam shrugged. “It’s good to see you, and with her no less. Even if it’s nothing, it’s good to see you out of that pub for a change. I can’t remember the last time that’s happened.” “Boys, set the table please,” Bronwen said, poking her head around the corner just as a tiny thing, with blonde corkscrew curls ran into the kitchen and launched herself at Sam. He snapped her up just before she ran headfirst into the cabinet and propped her up on his hip. “Uncle Sam, look at my new tattoo,” she said, yanking up her sleeve and revealing the misshapen heart she’d drawn on the inside of her elbow. “Oh, that’s lovely.” Sam traced it with his finger and then tilted his head toward me. “Do it yourself?” She nodded. “No surprise there. You remember Ames, don’t you, Jodie?” “Hi!” she said with her two front teeth missing. I realized then how long it’d been since I’d last had dinner with Sam’s family. The Jodie I remembered had played with scissors and cut off nearly all of her hair. Now, it was halfway down her back. “Hey, Jodie. You’ve gotten big.” She rolled her eyes in a dramatic way. “That’s what everyone says.” She wiggled out of Sam’s arms and ran toward the dining room. “Here,” Sam said, pushing plates into my hands. “She’s grown up a lot,” I said, looking at Jodie who was playing hide and seek in the dining room. “Yeah, that’s what happens, mate. People keep growing.” He clapped me on the back and pushed me toward the dining room to set the table. Mila was already seated, talking animatedly with Lotte and Sam’s sister, Eliza, who

was nodding and practically vibrating in her seat. “Hey, Lots.” Sam rubbed a hand over her hair, tousling it in all directions as she gave him a scowl. “Glad you could join us for dinner.” “Thanks for the non-invite,” she shot back at Sam. “Eliza, I thought we agreed not to let twits into our home.” Bronwen came up behind him and slapped him across the back with her towel. “Don’t be a git, Samson. We’re always happy to have you, Lotte dear.” She gave her a warm smile and then turned to Sam with an eyebrow raised. “Besides, if we stopped inviting twits, that would mean you were out then, wouldn’t it?” Sam laughed and set down the last glass on the long table. “Touché, Mum.” But Lotte looked more than a little offended by the remark, and internally, I sighed. I knew Lotte had a crush on Sam, but I’d hoped she’d mostly outgrown it. “Lotte was telling me about her studio,” Mila said, and looked over her shoulder at me. “Ames said I might like to go.” “Yes! She’s coming on Tuesday morning. You should come, Eliza.” Eliza, who looked like a female version of Sam, shook her head and laughed. “Oh, no, I’m afraid I’d be terrible at it. Remember my wedding?” She looked sheepishly around the room as everyone laughed and nodded, remembering how she’d broken her own brandnew husband’s toe during one particularly memorable dance. “I’ll stick to what I know best.” She leaned back in her chair and patted her rounded belly. “Eating your weight in fish and chips?” Sam teased, and narrowly dodged another swat from his mum. Sam gave his mother a smile that I imagine charmed her, or at least at some point had charmed many girls. But his mother appeared to be immune. “That’s your job. If I even get a whiff of fish, I spew, everywhere.” She made a disgusted face and looked at Lotte. “It’s a good thing babies are so cute, because they’re a bitch to make.” “Poor Richard. Best not tell him he’s so miserable in the sack.” Eliza narrowed her eyes at her brother. “Keep it up, Sam. I’ll break your nose like I did seven years ago. And then you’ll have to actually have a personality in order to catch a date.” “I’ve got personality in spades. Right Mila?” He winked at her, and something about it set my teeth. All of us turned to Mila, who looked uncomfortable by the attention. Even Lotte looked at her more intensely than she initially had. “Um…” I stepped up behind her and placed my hand on Mila’s shoulder. “If you did, she’d be here as your date then, wouldn’t she?” “Ooooh,” Eliza said gleefully, rubbing her hands together. “He’s got a point, Sammiewhammy.”

Sam didn’t look like his pride suffered even a little, which appeased me for the moment. Because if he had, I’d have known that he was interested in Mila. And though I wasn’t staking my claim to her like some caveman, I didn’t want him to stake his. “Dinner’s ready, everyone!” Bronwen called. The thunder of a half dozen feet on the stairs made the frames on the walls shake, just as a handful of kids—Eliza’s little army— burst into the room. Even the youngest had graduated from hammy thighs to toddler legs in my absence. It made me feel a little bit ashamed to have missed so much, especially because Sam’s house had been as much—if not more so—of a fixture in my life than my own.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I WAS QUIET AT FIRST, on the way back to my hotel. I’d insisted Ames and I walk instead of taking a taxi, mostly because I knew it was close but also because I wanted a little bit more time with him to myself. “You called me your date.” Ames looked at me surprised. “I did?” Nodding, I rubbed my hands together to warm them. “Well, you didn’t say that exactly. But you said that if Sam had a better personality, I would’ve been there as his date. Which implies I was there as yours, right?” He tried not to smile, so I gave him a knowing look and shrugged. “Remember. I don’t kiss until the third date.” “I never said I was going to kiss you.” Giving him a smile, I said, “You don’t have to say it, but I think you want to.” He stopped walking, so I did too. We were three feet apart, neither of us moving toward or away from each other. “What makes you think that I want to?” he asked, his eyes sliding over my mouth. “Because you keep looking at my lips,” I replied as quietly as I could. And just to make my point clear I looked directly at his lips before lifting my eyes to his. “All through the dinner, you stared at my lips. But the first time I noticed was at Postman’s Park.” “Which was why you ran away.” I nodded. “And you were afraid of being kissed by a married man.” It wasn’t a question, but I answered it anyway. “I don’t want to be that girl again. I don’t want to hurt someone, and I don’t want to be hurt myself.” “What girl is that?” “A girl that steals someone else’s man. Been there, done that, and I don’t want to travel down that path again.” “Was that your boyfriend that died?”

“Yes.” I rubbed my hands together, realizing that a simple statement that had thrown him off, had turned into a conversation that was now throwing me off. “When I met him, I didn’t know he had a girlfriend at first. And he didn’t make it clear to me that he was taken, and by the time I realized the strength of my feelings for him, I found out the truth and still, I continued.” I waited for him to look at me with judgment in his eyes, or maybe even a little fear, realizing that I wasn’t the person he probably thought I was. But he just looked at me thoughtfully and took one step closer. “Are you haunted by that decision?” “I don’t know how I can’t be.” He nodded slowly and looked at the ground. “That’s very interesting. Because it appears that you are the one who hurt the most.” “I don’t think so.” “What happened to the other girl? Was she upset at realizing what you’d done? Because do you think she’d have preferred to be with a man who could do that to her?” I rubbed my hand across my forehead. “I haven’t really thought to ask,” I said. “She’s dating my brother and she seems happy.” He took another step closer to me. “And what about you? Are you happy?” “I am always happy.” I licked my lips as I thought of how to explain it. “And am I grieving the loss of my boyfriend? Of course I am. But, I don’t have to be sad all of the time. He left me, not willingly. So, if I was sad about that then I feel like that would be rather selfish. I have made a lot of selfish decisions, and that’s not who I want to be.” He seemed to digest what I was saying. His head was bent toward the ground and he was nodding slowly. He raised his head looked at me and said, “I envy you.” I almost had asked him why but at the last minute I chickened out. And then I felt the first drop of rain on my shoulder. It was dark now, with streetlamps lighting up, and headlights passing us by, so the only light between us was artificial, with harsh shadows. But I could make out faint droplets of rain that were increasing in speed along the ground between us. I looked up at him with a smile on my face. “Does it always rain here?” “Yes, unfortunately.” “Unfortunately? I love the rain.” I tilted my head back to the sky, letting the rain wash over me. My hair was going to look insane and I was sure that my makeup would smear all over the place. But that was okay with me. It was raining, and it felt so good to be on a dark street in London with the rain washing over me. A window above us opened and music poured out. I recognized the song as being something from the sixties, only because it was the record my parents played the most when I was a toddler learning to walk along to the beat of the song. “Isn’t this lovely?” I asked. I didn’t look at him though, my face was still turned up toward the sky. And the music got louder, as if the owner of the stereo knew I needed to

hear the beat of a song from my childhood while on the street with a man I didn’t know well, but a man I was learning to like. “This is a perfect moment. It’s just everything I didn’t know I needed.” The rain came harder but it didn’t hurt when it hit my skin. It was almost as if the rain here was softer than it was back home, which I knew sounded crazy. But it felt real to me. I opened my eyes and saw that he was watching me carefully. “What are you thinking?” I asked him. “I’m thinking you are a little bit mad, just like I predicted when we met.” “Ah. You just need to stop and soak in the moment that you’re in. You’re breathing, you’re living, you just had dinner with the loveliest family, and now you’re walking down the street, free as can be. What a beautiful time to be alive, you know? How lucky are we?” I didn’t wait for his response to that because my body started moving on its own accord, my hips doing circular motions to the rhythm of the beat. “I love this song.” “I think you love a great many things.” I laughed. “You say that with such a sour tone. As if I’m personally offending you, by enjoying this moment.” I heard rather than saw him take another step closer. “You know what I thought the morning you came into my pub, the night after we met?” I shook my head and held my breath, wondering exactly how he saw me. “When I saw you come into my pub, the sun just exploded around you, and you had this smile on your lips; it seemed as if you were a mirage. And I thought to myself, this woman has never touched any sadness in her life.” I let that sink in as my heart tumbled just a bit in my chest. “Well, that’s not true. I’ve touched sadness. But I refuse to let it consume who I am.” “And that’s why I was an arse to you. I resented you—before I knew, about your boyfriend. That you could live happily when so many of us couldn’t.” He paused, which gave me a second to catch my breath from what he was saying. “And that’s why I envy you. Because I don’t know how to wake up and feel happy. I don’t know what it’s like to not carry around this,” he pressed his fist to his chest, “weight. This heaviness.” He stepped closer still, the rain becoming louder, but his voice booming over it. “I can’t let it go. I won’t let go.” My arms dropped to my sides and I just stared at him. It was probably the most honest anyone had been with me in so long that my brain absorbed it like gospel, and I wanted more. “You don’t have to. You just have to learn to carry it.” “I’d like to try.” I nodded, and swallowed. “Okay.” And then I did something that surprised us both. I

leaned forward and wrapped him in my arms, just holding him as the rain poured over us. It took a second before his arms came around me, and when they did they squeezed, like he’d been starving for it. I let go of the breath I’d been holding tight in my chest and just let him hold me the way he needed. And, if I was being honest, it was the way I needed, too. Giving in to the moment, I buried my face into his shoulder, my lips right next to his neck. He was so warm, so … solid. He was as grounding as gravity, and my heart hammered so hard in my chest that I was sure it was hammering into his, too. When he let go, he didn’t let me go all the way. His hand slid down my arm until it clasped mine and we continued on our walk. We were silent most of the way, and the rain lightened up enough that I wasn’t nearly as cold as I’d once been. I kept peeking glances at him, wondering if he felt the same way that I did—wondering where we’d go from here, from this moment. Just as we neared the entrance to my hotel, he looked at me. “This is you.” I looked up at the old brick building. “It is. Thanks for walking with me.” “Thanks for … well, everything.” He took my other hand with his and stared right into my eyes. And I thought, he’s going to kiss me. He stepped closer, and his thumbs on both hands rubbed into my palm. “Mila,” he said, his voice dark and gruff. “Yeah?” He focused on something over my shoulder and pulled me toward him harshly, so much so that we both tumbled back a few steps but didn’t fall. My hands gripped the sides of his jacket, and I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. Startled, I looked at what passed us—a truck with support beams hanging out the sides, that would’ve clipped me across my head if I’d stayed where I’d been, beside the road. “Wow,” I said breathlessly, and looked at Ames, who was less than an inch from my face. My pulse was racing, and my arms were shaky and his lips were right there, and his eyes were boring into mine and my hands were holding onto his sides. I tightened my grip as we stood there together on the sidewalk, and again, I thought, he’s going to kiss me, and I nearly leaned in myself before he pulled away. “Goodnight, Mila,” he said in that gruff voice, and I felt all the adrenaline leave my body and felt that surge of disappointment that he hadn’t kissed me take its place. Nodding, I let him unwind himself from me until the only thing that linked us were the tips of our fingers clasped together. “Goodnight.” Then our fingers slipped away and I turned toward the entrance of my hotel. I didn’t make it more than two feet, however, before his arm wrapped around my waist and he turned me to him in a rush. The breath was knocked out of me once again, just as his mouth lowered and closed over mine. I barely had a second to react, but then I did— hands in his hair as his own wrapped around my waist just as my legs went weak.

He tasted like heartbreak and hope, and my skin lit up with a thousand heat spots. I couldn’t get close enough, his mouth couldn’t kiss me long enough. I wanted more, more, more. His mouth shifted, slanting over mine as his tongue lashed at mine. I could melt in his arms, I knew. All my atoms were fusing, warming, and I felt like falling completely apart, knowing he’d be there to hold me. Then, just as quickly as he’d kissed me, his lips left mine. He pulled away just far enough to look me in the eyes. It was so quiet between us, just our breathing and my pulse pounding in my ears. His fingers touched my chin and gently, he lifted my face just an inch higher. His lips pressed again, gentler this time, and when he pulled away, it felt like he could have kept going. His hands cradled my face, and with our bottom lips still touching, he whispered into my mouth, “I’m sorry for breaking your rule.” His hair was a wild mess, and I knew that was my doing. Pleased with myself, I just smiled. “I’m not.”

CHAPTER NINE

LOTTE’S STUDIO was a few blocks from Free Refills—on the second floor of an old building that Lotte said had been around since before the last great war. “So glad you made it, Mila!” she exclaimed as she held open the door, which still had a closed sign flipped over it. “Oh, you didn’t have to open it just for me—if this is your day off, or something.” Lotte laughed and took my coat, hanging it up on the curved spoons by the door. “I don’t exactly keep regular, consistent business hours. Come on in.” We walked from the little foyer into a grand, open space. Wide planked wood floors gleamed, stretching across the room to an exposed brick wall with half-circle windows that overlooked a dozen other buildings. “Wow,” I said, and it echoed in the sparselydecorated room. “This is a great spot.” “Thanks.” She followed me to the center window, which overlooked the street below us. Just beyond the building in front of us was a view of the river. I turned to her, and instantly realized just how young she really looked with the window light reflecting on her face. “This used to be a yoga studio, but the owner got so busy she had to move to a bigger space.” She turned and walked to the east side of the room toward the wall of mirrors. A ballet barre was mounted on the wall, and Lotte immediately started stretching with it. “This is a great setup. Do you have a lot of students?” I rested my ankle on the barre, kept my hips square and bent forward, legs turned out. She raised from her bend and changed positions. “A few after school kids, two regular students on weekends. It’s not much.” “It’s a good start,” I said reassuringly. “Yeah,” she replied, but she didn’t sound like she completely agreed with me. “So, what kind of dance do you do?” I switched legs and breathed through the stretch. “Lyrical hip-hop, mostly. But I did ballet a few years, just to help my coordination and balance.” “I loved ballet.” She moved to the floor to do some deep leg stretches. “I went through a solid ten years of an awkward phase, all gangly limbs and bad posture. Ballet did wonders for me. Do you work with a metronome or just straight to music?”

“I start the moves to the metronome, but then I use music to make sense of the moves.” I moved to the floor and stretched with her. “I’m nowhere near professional; I just like that I can get a great workout in without going to a gym.” She nodded. “Sounds good. Did you bring music?” I held up my phone. “I was working on choreography to this one song.” I scrolled to my playlist and put River by Bishop Briggs on repeat. As the song started, the beat was punctuated with claps and stomps. Lotte slid up to her feet and grabbed my phone. “Great choice. I’m just going to hook it up to the speakers.” She moved to the stereo near the entrance and a second later, music poured from the speakers above and beside us. It was truly a surround-sound experience, and I had to pause just to take it in. “This is really amazing,” I said, looking at the speakers mounted along the beams above us. “It’s like being in church.” “Thanks. I’m sure it doesn’t come to any surprise that Ames helped me with it.” I kept my face controlled and still stared up at the beams, which were wrapped in white Christmas lights. “That’s nice of him.” I hadn’t talked to him since the kiss, mostly because I’d been too chicken to go back to Free Refills. I didn’t know quite how to feel about it. Though I found him impossibly attractive, and intensely alluring, I wasn’t sure exactly what it was that we were doing. Lotte laughed and rolled her shoulders. “Okay, show me what you’ve got so far.” The chorus had kicked on at that point, which was good because that was the only part I thought I had down pat. I bent at the knees and placed my hands on my hips, alternating stomping my feet to the beat, and rotated my upper body, locking and popping my joints to the beat. When the chorus was over, I collapsed onto my ass. “I’ve got the chorus, but I was working on the rest of it.” Lotte paused the music and held her hand to her chin as she considered, propping her elbow in her palm. “How flexible are you?” “Pretty flexible.” I tilted my head back and my hands followed until I was doing a backbend. “Okay good. Let’s try this.” She stood beside me and showed me a couple moves. Thirty minutes later, I was feeling a lot more solid about the song and was pouring sweat down the front of my shirt. “Let’s get some water and take a quick break.” Lotte grabbed two bottles from the mini fridge under the stereo and tossed me one. “Thanks.” I took one long pull and then wiped my hand across my mouth. “It’s been a few weeks since I danced. I’m a little rusty.” “Well, you’re really good.” She sat on the floor, legs bent and stretched in between taking sips. “It’ll come back. Just got to stay religious with it.”

I rubbed the tightness in my calf. “You hardly broke a sweat. How often are you here?” “Daily, if sometimes for only a couple hours.” She laid on her back and stretched her arms above her head. “I love those big windows, but it gets really dusty in here. I have to mop every single day I have people here.” “If you got more students, could you spend less time at Free Refills and work here more?” Her eyes closed and a small smile tilted her lips. “I don’t know if I want more students.” “Really?” I took one more pull from my water before capping it. “Don’t you enjoy it?” She shook her head. “No, I do. But it’s just not what I expected at twenty-three.” She sat up again and then waved her hand about the room. “I was gifted this place when I turned twenty-one. There aren’t many young twenty-somethings that have their career already in place, you know?” She looked at me sideways. “I’m sure that makes me sound ungrateful.” “Not at all.” I pulled my knees to my chest and bent my head forward, stretching my neck. “It’s a lot of responsibility, so young.” “I envy you, Mila.” It was the second time in as many days that someone from this family said it to me, but it made it no less surprising. “Why?” “Because you’re not from here, but you’re here anyway. How old are you?” “Twenty-seven.” “And what were you doing at twenty-one?” I had to think about it before answering. “I was in Madagascar with my brother for part of the summer. And then we spent a couple weeks in Florida before heading back to Colorado.” “And at twenty-three?” “I was in Canada for a good chunk of it. And Iceland, too.” She sighed and looked almost pained by my answer. “And if someone had gifted you a business at that age, would you have been grateful? A business that kept you grounded. Stuck?” I tried to imagine it, tried to imagine being tied down to one place. But I couldn’t. “No. I don’t think I would have.” “Exactly.” She pulled her hair into a messy bun on top of her head. “I’ve lived in the same flat my whole life. I haven’t even traveled to Scotland, and we share this island with it.” Her gaze moved to the window and she looked out wistfully. “I can’t tell you how badly I want to see the world. I love dance, but I’m not ready to make it my life right now.”

“So, travel. See the world. What’s stopping you?” She raised an eyebrow when she looked back at me. “Ames. My dad. The pub. And the overwhelming guilt I feel.” “Guilt?” She laughed and rubbed her fingers along the grooves of wood between us. “When I told Ames and my dad about my desire to see the world, they both had this look of stricken panic on their faces. My dad had a hard enough time when I went to university, and I still came home every day. Crossing the sea and being out of reach? He’d have a coronary.” “That’s tough.” I tried to imagine if my parents had tried to dissuade me from doing anything, but I couldn’t. Jude was the one wrapped in bubble wrap; I was the one running with scissors. They voiced their displeasure with me more than once, but they’d never actually told me I couldn’t do what I wanted. “Maybe if you include them in your plans, they’d be more open to it?” She shook her head sadly. “It’s not just me being far.” She looked around us at the large, sunlit room. “I’d need to sell this place.” “Ah.” I stretched my legs back out and nodded. “I would have a hard time letting go of a place this nice, too.” “Oh, I could let it go. My grandparents acquired it for me, it was my gift. After my sister died, they bestowed this place upon me years before they’d planned to. I guess they thought I needed a distraction, but I didn’t. I didn’t need a distraction—I needed an adventure. And I’m stuck. Ames, believe it or not, is more adamantly against me selling this place than my father is.” “Why is he against it?” “Because he knows if I sell this place, the majority of the proceeds would go to him, which would be funneled into Free Refills and then into his restaurant.” “Ames has a restaurant?” I furrowed my brow, trying to recall if he’d ever talked about it with me. “Exactly. He doesn’t talk about it, because the reality is hitting that he’s going to have to let it go soon—unless something drastically changes.” She sat cross-legged and turned to face me. “My grandparents bought the building Free Refills is in. And when Mal and Ames married, her gift was the restaurant. They scrimped and saved their earnings from working at Free Refills to purchase things, little by little, for the restaurant.” Lotte smiled wistfully, and looked off, out the windows. “Mahlon loved that little place. I don’t think I’d ever seen her happier. That was their dream, you know?” I nodded. I understood. No one had ever inhibited what I’d wanted to do. Sure, my parents had blatantly expressed displeasure with some of my ideas, but never had they told me to change my plans to suit them. “So, Ames doesn’t want you to sell.” She nodded and grabbed our now empty water bottles. “I love Ames. When Mahlon

died, my father fell apart. I thought I’d seen him hit the bottom when my mum died. But I was wrong. Mahlon was his first born, his mini-me. She had a love for the things he loves —building a legacy.” She tossed the water bottles in the recycle and then wrapped her arms around her middle. I stood and continued my stretches. “Ames wasn’t allowed to fall apart. Free Refills is our only real income stream.” She waved her hands around and laughed sardonically. “I love this place, but it’s not exactly paying for the food on our table.” “So you want to sell it and use the money to travel.” “I want to sell it and give most of it to my dad, who will give a solid chunk to Ames to finish the restaurant.” “And Ames doesn’t want the money.” “He sees it as me selling my dream to fund his. Which he refuses. He’d rather see my sister’s restaurant, her baby—his baby—go under than see me sell.” “Oh. I can see the dilemma.” “It’s asinine to me. But it’s not exactly unexpected.” She drummed her fingers on the table that held the stereo. “My whole life, everyone has been telling me what is best for me. I did it all—went to university, studied things I didn’t care about. I didn’t date.” She stopped abruptly and I thought about the way she had looked at Sam at his family’s dinner. She had something there, deeper than just friendly affection. “I was a good girl. And then —boom, boom. My mum died and my sister died, and my dad fell apart and Ames was there, holding us all together. And then my grandparents dropped this place on me.” She spun around, her hands held up. “And I love this studio—I love the sound it makes when I dance, and I love my students. But this—this isn’t my dream. This is the dream everyone else has for me.” She bent over at her waist and expelled a breath before pulling herself up straight again. “Sorry, I don’t mean to dump this all on you. But because you travel, I feel like you understand. You know what I’m after.” I did know. But I also knew, from experience, that convincing other people to see your dreams the way you did was nearly an impossible feat. While I ruminated, we continued to work on the choreography for the song, but I couldn’t shake what Lotte had said, and on some level I wanted to help her. I just wasn’t sure how I could. Yet.

CHAPTER TEN

Mila: You owe me three dates, you know. Don’t think you’re off the hook just yet.

Ames: I believe, if my math holds true, that I owe you two dates.

Mila: I thought you said Sam’s family dinner wasn’t a date.

Ames: I thought you said it was. THE PLAYFUL FLIRTING over texting with Ames wasn’t getting old yet. We hadn’t seen each other since the kiss, and I hadn’t been sure that he would reciprocate any kind of text flirting, initially. But he did, and so that’s what we did for three days after the kiss. Mila: For future reference, dates only count if you actually, explicitly, say they are dates.

Ames: So, Postman’s Park doesn’t count then, I gather.

Mila: I thought you were married, so that’s a no.

Ames: Touché. Will you come to Free Refills tonight?

Mila: Is it a date?

Ames: I’m working. In the eloquent words of you, ‘so that’s a no’.

Mila: So, you want me to come anyway? Just to keep you company.

Ames: I haven’t seen your face in a few days. And I’d very much like to see it tonight. I chewed on my thumbnail and rolled over in my bed, feeling that addictive high that I’d felt back in high school, when flirting via text had been the best form of communication in all of my relationships. Ames intrigued me on a level that was unlike any other man I’d met and talked to. He was hot and cold, but then he had this layer that was so deep, I felt drawn to it despite the danger it echoed. It was the last thing I needed, with just three weeks until I left the country, bound for home again. I sighed, remembering my parents and Jude would be in London in less than a week. That didn’t give me a lot of time to spend with Ames before their intrusion would surely give me a desire to chug an entire bottle of antacids. Which reminded me that I still had to do my write-up of Postman’s Park for Jude, who was waiting for me to send him actual work for his site. I plugged the memory card reader into the computer and started importing the photos while I tidied my little hotel room. I’d have just a few more days in this room before I moved to another hotel, one with connected rooms so that my parents could incessantly knock on the door that separated us, and harass me at their every whim. The thought made me shudder with displeasure. I filled a glass with water and took one big sip just as my computer beeped, alerting me that all the photos were uploaded, I plopped into my computer chair and double-clicked on the first photo—taking little notice of the date it displayed. And that was when the water I was sipping turned into rocks in my throat, because across my screen was Colin. It was amazing how quickly the emotions could rush back in—just like the last time I’d looked into his eyes was yesterday. In the photo, he was looking off into the distance, his lips stretched in his lazy smile. The wind was doing something spectacular with his hair, and behind him was the most incredible sunrise. My hand went to my mouth and I barely resisted biting down on my knuckles. He looked so beautiful. He wasn’t looking at the camera, but at the view beyond us. I didn’t realize I was touching the screen, fingers tracing every curve of his face, until the screen shocked me and I pulled away. He’d been mine once. Looking at him, seeing that smile, I knew that when I’d snapped the photo, he’d been mine. And now, he was no one’s. Just another hole in the ground, in an expensive box topped with an expensive piece of rock. But he still felt like mine, and realizing that now had acid churning in my stomach. Warring images of his serene face in this photo clashed with the images in my mind of when he’d been in my arms the last time, holding my triceps as he’d shown me how to hold the set of weights in my hands. And then something had changed in his eyes, and he’d stumbled. I could still feel the shift of weight in my arms, remembered dropping the free weights as they’d clacked on the floor, and catching him before he fell beside them. He was heavier than me, and I’d struggled to hold him. But I wouldn’t let go of him, because the

one thing running through my mind in that moment had been don’t let him fall, don’t let him drop. Hold onto him. And just as distinctively as I remembered the weight of him in my arms, I remembered the feel of hands pressed on me, pushing me away. And even more profoundly was the feel of my scream ripping through my throat as he was taken from me, as foreign hands held me back and whispered useless things in my ears—words I couldn’t process—not when Colin was being wheeled away from me, disappearing from my sight forever. But worse than those were the words he’d made me promise one night, as we lay in bed. Months, weeks before—I wasn’t sure. But looking back now, it was as if he’d known his time was limited. I’d tried to brush off his words, but he’d made me swear it—to repeat the words he’d said in our dark bedroom, before dawn lit our room. His head on my belly, eyes holding mine. Promise me, please, if something happens, don’t go to the hospital. I don’t want that to be your last memory of me. I’d kept my promise, despite nearly breaking it a hundred times. I wanted to break it, to show up at his hospital bed and scream at him. Because now, the last image in my head was Colin’s face paling, his lips going blue, and his eyes rolling back in his head. That was my last memory. My chest split and I pressed my fists to it, trying to keep the heat that suddenly burned behind my rib cage from spreading. But it was useless, because the heat climbed into my face and hot tears poured from my eyes. They dripped from my chin to my fingers, which were on the keyboard, holding completely still. I pushed away from my computer and stood, turning and facing the wall. Closing my fingers into fists, I brought them up and stared at the wall with all the contempt, all the anger I felt. And when my hands met the wall, they weren’t hard—they were soft. My fists turned into palms pressed against the pale blue paint, and my head came forward until my forehead was resting just above my palms. I missed him so much. Never more acutely than when I saw his face again, especially in a surprise moment like this one. The wall was a poor substitute for him, but it felt good to be touching something so solid and whole. As he’d been for me. My phone buzzed and pulled me from my thoughts. Ames. He was waiting for me to show up at Free Refills, as I’d promised. But the last thing on my mind was dressing up to see a man at a bar. I thought of Ames and the way he made me feel. Was I seeking a replacement for Colin? Was I unknowingly using Ames in order to feel a man’s touch again? The thoughts penetrated my subconscious and I couldn’t let them go. They consumed me so much that even as I curled up in a ball on the bed, pillow pulled tight to my chest, I told myself I’d go. I’d let him hold me, and see if it was like when Colin held me.

When I awoke, I realized I’d been asleep for three hours and was an hour past the time I told Ames I’d be at Free Refills. My eyes felt tight, and my face was sore. After peeking in the mirror, I realized how badly I needed a whole lot of makeup to hide my swollen, red face from Ames. I needed to go to Free Refills, to see if I was imagining things. To see if Ames was a replacement for Colin. Because if so, I was no better than I was when I’d stolen another woman’s boyfriend. I spent a great deal of time on my makeup, making sure my skin looked clear of any anguish. It took a dozen eye drops to erase the redness from my eyes, but in the end, I knew I looked a hell of a lot better than I had hours earlier. Free Refills was slammed when I arrived. So busy, in fact, that I could barely squeeze between people at the bar in order to flag down Jennie—who was the only bartender currently on duty. “Wine?” she hollered over the loud music. I shook my head and pointed at a bottle of tequila behind her. “A shot?” she mouthed and I nodded. She didn’t question me, just poured it and slid it in front of me. Without even a blink, I tossed it back and held up two fingers for more. That time she did pause to look me over. “Ames is on break,” she hollered as she poured the shots. I nodded like I knew. Because I did. He’d texted me, asking where I was. I hadn’t replied but had just shown up. I wasn’t sure how I heard it over the impromptu and unofficial karaoke session happening in the corner of the bar, but the creak of the back door caused me to turn, just as Ames stepped through and immediately looked at me. This time, unlike the last time he’d walked through that door, he smiled. And it caught me so completely off guard that all I could do was stare at him as he made his way through the crowd. Looking at him was like waking up. Eyes opening slowly, finding my bearings, and reminding myself that I was safe. I shook my head to clear my thoughts just as he reached me. “Hey,” he said, leaning on the bar and facing me. His hand was palm down on the counter, inches from mine and I wanted him to touch me—to prove or disprove my worries. But he stayed there, taunting me, just as Jennie took that most opportune time to deposit my two shot glasses down. “Big night, huh?” she asked.

Ames eyed the drinks and looked at me. “You okay?” I tore my gaze away, tossed back the shots, and looked at the tiny dance floor. “Yup.” Sam was dancing with a raven-haired woman, spinning her in circles so fast that her hair spun like a tornado around her head. “Great. Jennie,” I called, waving a hand. “Two more.” Jennie approached me, her eyes darting between Ames and me. She grabbed my shot glasses and Ames put a hand on hers, to halt her. “How much did you put away before coming here?” he asked. I thought of the bottle of wine I’d consumed from the hotel bar, and shook my head. “If you don’t want to give me any more, that’s fine.” I licked my lips because the room was starting to spin a little, and my lips felt like sandpaper. I mimicked holding a pen as I scribbled nothing into the surface of the table top. “This place has good beer but the service is lacking.” I narrowed my eyes at her and then immediately stopped and pushed myself upright. “Sorry, that was mean. You’re great, Jennie.” I rubbed my forehead, willing my vision to focus, but shockingly, it wouldn’t. “It’s all right, Mila, but all the same to you, I’d rather you sober up a bit before I let Jennie serve you anymore.” “Let?” I asked, leveling Ames with a look. I swallowed to keep from slurring my words like I worried I would. “You’re not her boss.” “Well, oddly enough, I am.” “Yeah, well, this is a free country,” I said indignantly. But was it? That was an American saying, wasn’t it? “Is this a free country?” Ames waved at Jennie and she moved down the bar as he came closer. “What’s going on?” he asked me, and the softness of his voice, the concern I could distinctly hear, was enough for me to wish I hadn’t come at all. “She’s really good, Ames.” I gestured toward Jennie. “She can pour those shots without even watching the glasses and never spills. I’m not good at stuff like she’s good at that. I’m not good at stuff.” I wouldn’t look at him. I squeezed my eyes tight for a moment, because it was my instinct to curl into him, to wrap my arms around his middle, to press my face against his chest, to hear his heartbeat. But I didn’t want to be searching for a replacement in Ames. That wasn’t fair to him. “I’m going to dance,” I said, moving past him to the dance floor. I told myself not to turn around, not to look at him, but just as I stepped toward the speaker, I peeked over my shoulder and saw him watching me by my seat at the bar, and I knew he was worried for me. I needed to push him from my mind, at least for the moment. If he was merely a replacement for Colin, I’d need to figure that out by being in the arms of another guy first. I stepped up to Sam and tapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, hey Mila,” he said with a grin. The raven-haired beauty he was dancing with moved away from us, so it was just me

and him. Leaning forward and bracing my hands on his forearms, I whisper-yelled, “Dance with me.” His forehead crinkled and I watched as he lifted his head, presumably to look for Ames. So I spun him around, his back to Ames, which put my face at Ames’ line of sight. Under normal circumstances, this would’ve been a terrible thing, but my vision was blurred enough that all I could make out was his dark hair and a blurry, tanned face. “Put your arm around my waist,” I told Sam, not just so he could lead, but also so he could keep me from falling over. “Got you.” His arm came around my waist and my head came to his shoulder, so I leaned against it as we swayed along to the beat that had slowed with the change of the song. I waited to feel the way I’d felt in Ames’ arms, but when I didn’t, I waited to feel the way I’d felt in Colin’s arms. But I felt nothing. Maybe the alcohol was acting like an anesthetic. I moved closer, until there wasn’t even a breath of space between us. “You know, Mila,” Sam said, his mouth at my ear. “I think if I lit a lighter between us right now, we’d go up in flames.” I squinted and peered up at him. “I don’t understand your British sayings. What does that mean?” Sam laughed, his smile wide, and while I could register that he was an attractive man, with many good qualities, he just didn’t stir my blood the way Ames had. So I stared up at him like he was a friend. Nothing more than that. “It’s not a British saying. I’m trying to tell you that you smell like you’ve rolled around in tequila.” “You’re a romantic one,” I told him sourly. “Thanks for that.” He laughed. “I don’t think you’re looking for romance from me.” His head lifted and there was a look of surprise on his face a second before a hand came into my vision, pushing Sam away. “Calm down, A.” Sam held his hands up and I turned to Ames who was glaring at him before he turned to me. “What’s going on, Mila?” Without Sam holding me, I felt my body sway back and forth, and then an arm came around my waist. “Come on, let’s get you some fresh air.” I hardly registered the door to the back garden being opened, but the cool rush of air from it washed my face enough that I sobered up, at least for that moment. “Here,” he said gruffly, and dragged a chair from a table before leading me to sit in it. The metal of the chair was cold, but not in an unwelcome way. I ran my hands around the roundness of the table. “I’m sorry,” I said without looking at him. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Ames sat in the chair beside me, and then scooted his seat as close as he could to me. His knees bumped against mine, but he kept moving until my knees were between his. He took my hands and placed them palms up before covering them with his. “I’m glad you came.” I opened my mouth to say something, but just sitting here, with my legs between his and his hands gently touching mine, was rendering me speechless. This was different than Sam—leagues different and miles deeper. And it was different than Colin too. I lifted my eyes to his. “I had a bad day.” “I’d guessed as much.” His fingers flexed against mine and I curled into his touch. “This is better.” I gave him a weak smile and after spending most of the evening trying not to look at him, I suddenly couldn’t not look at him. “Want to talk about it?” I shook my head, not needing to talk about it. Just this moment had erased all doubts, had soothed whatever fears had crept up. “I know you have work to do. I’m sorry for creating a scene in there.” I lifted my shoulder, but didn’t look back toward the bar— because I just couldn’t stop looking at him. “I do have to get back inside. It’s too busy for me to leave Jen for so long, but I don’t want you to leave.” He leaned in and his hands slid from mine, up my arms and cupped my elbows. “Stick around, okay?” Nodding, I let him pull me back to standing. He tilted his head as he regarded me, and then he reached for my face, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Come sit at the bar, I’ll get you some food.” He held his hand there, his finger just grazing the outside of my ear and I shivered. “Let’s get you inside, where it’s warm.” I let him lead me back inside, but he didn’t know that just being there, on the patio with him, was the warmest I’d been all night.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BY THE TIME our last patron—Sam, no surprise—was out the door, Mila was doing some kind of wave dance in her seat. Her entire upper body wiggled back and forth in her seat, her eyes all heavy-lidded, and there was something undeniably attractive about that, that sleepy kind of sexiness. But she wasn’t the least bit sober, which negated any sexual thoughts I’d been having about her. “You’re cut off,” I told her, after she pushed the empty glass toward me. She pouted, which did nothing to diminish her attractiveness. In fact, all it did was remind me of when I’d kissed her. How those lips had tasted under mine. But she was in a much different mood now, three days later, than she’d been then. If anything, seeing her with her guard down appealed to me on a level that was deeper than I wanted to entertain. “But Aaaaames,” she said, drawing my name out like it stretched the length of the bar. “I needs it.” “Needs? Are you a plural person? And besides, I don’t think alcohol is a ‘need’ for anyone.” “It is for alcoholics.” “That’s debatable. Are you an alcoholic?” She sighed and dropped her head onto her arms, which were crossed on top of the bar. Her dark hair splayed all over, and I picked up a strand to move it from the drain. I may have held onto it a second longer than necessary, running my thumb over its silky strands. “I’m going to have to pour you into a taxi tonight, aren’t I?” She lifted her head, inadvertently pulling the strand from my fingers, and her eyes were watery and almost angry. “I’m not a liquid—you can’t pour me.” I wanted to laugh, but I bit it back and held up a hand in surrender. Her eyes slid to the other end of the bar where Jennie was working, before they lazily slid back to mine. She looked dazed and if she hadn’t commanded my attention for most of the night, I’d have thought that she was on something besides alcohol. “What’s got you so upset tonight, love?” “Love?” she asked, and then made a face like someone had just kicked her cat. I regretted saying it. I was finding that being around Mila made me regret a lot of things I said. “It’s just a thing we say. It doesn’t mean anything.” I probably sounded more

defensive than necessary, but the fact that I’d let it slip from my lips disturbed me. I picked up the wine glass and held it up to Jennie, who caught my eye. I drew a finger across my throat and nodded at Mila, sending a very clear CUT HER OFF message, which Jennie nodded to and came down to my end. “I thought I made it clear not to continue serving her earlier.” Jennie looked up innocently at me, but since I knew her better than I knew even my sister-in-law, I didn’t waver, didn’t let up. She dropped the act and handed me the rag. “Come on, Ames. She’s had a shit day. It was just wine.” “Don’t be daft. She was already pissed when she came in.” Jennie shrugged and turned toward the sink, placing empty glasses inside of it. “She was thirsty.” I stepped over to her and snapped on the water faucet. “Ever heard of water?” “Nope, sure haven’t. Thanks for enlightening me.” She turned to move away, but I stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “I think she needs a friend or something,” I told her, turning my back to Mila as I dipped the wine glass into the soapy water. I didn’t think I could be the friend she needed in that moment. “Well, I’m not her friend.” “Come on, Jen. Don’t be difficult.” Jennie shoved against me. “That’s all you are is difficult, Ames. I’m not her friend.” “You can pretend to be. Just like you pretend with everybody else here,” I waved a hand to all the patrons she’d served. “Just…” I closed my eyes briefly before looking at her again. “Talk to her, okay? For me? Girl talk isn’t my forte.” Jennie looked at me peculiarly, a new light coming into her eyes. I moved away before she could interrogate me too much, and started grabbing the stray glasses still on the tables. Lotte hit the bell by the warming lamp. “That’s it, right?” Her blonde hair was a mess and her face was bright red. I nodded at her. “I’ll be up in a few. I can close up.” She leaned across the pass through. “Thank you,” she said in the most grateful voice before disappearing. By the time I rounded the bar again, Jennie was capping the bottles that didn’t have pour caps. And Mila? Well, Mila was currently draining what looked to be another glass of sangria. When Jennie started untying her apron, I grabbed her elbow and spun her to face me. “Are you fucking mad, Jennie?” I hissed. She shook me loose and glared up at me. “She’s already drunk, Ames. You let her drink to get drunk.”

“I didn’t let her get drunk. She came in that way.” Jennie flicked her gaze to Mila and then waved at her nonchalantly. “Well, she was drunk enough that anything else was basically just a bandage.” “That’s not how alcohol works.” She rolled her eyes and handed me her apron. “She’s had a rough day. Be nice,” she said in a low, warning voice. Why did I suddenly feel like I was in the wrong here? “I am nice,” I said. “I didn’t charge her for anything after the shots you served her.” Jennie raised one blonde brow. “A free refill, huh? Funny how she seems to get a lot of those from you.” “Fuck off,” I muttered, turning around just as Mila was leaning clear across the bar, pushing the wine glass all the way to the edge. I made it to her before the glass tipped over and crashed to the floor. “You’re cut off,” I told her, in my nice voice, and ran the rag over the drops she’d spilled. Mila frowned and sat back. She looked on the edge of sleep in that moment, her eyes closing and opening and closing and opening repeatedly. “Mila,” I snapped, trying to wake her up. “Yes?” she asked softly. This was such a different woman than the one I’d slowly come to know. She was quieter, darker, and I found myself missing the brighter way she had about her—but still compelled to understand this facet of her perplexing personality. “Don’t go to sleep in my pub,” I said and winced, knowing it sounded mean. Not nice. “What’s your hotel this week called?” “Oh. You’ll call me a taxi?” “Yeah.” “Four something. I think.” She grabbed her backpack purse and opened it, reaching blindly in. A clatter of things hit the floor and rolled behind her, but she seemed completely oblivious. She paused and looked at me with her head cocked sideways. “What am I doing again?” “I don’t know.” I sighed, watching her trying to shove things back into her bag with gummy hands before I gave up and came around the bar, picking up tubes of lipstick and other makeup I couldn’t identify. I took the bag from her hands and she laid her head down, looking at me as I put everything back into it. “Ames?” She was looking at me, her face blank but her eyes full. “Yes?” With the softest of whispers, she asked, “When your wife died, did you ever wish you had died with her?” It was as if she’d swung a bowling ball right at my chest. I gripped more steadily onto the barstool beside her, because her question had rocked the very earth beneath my feet.

Instead of answering I swallowed and said, “You don’t remember the name of your hotel, do you?” Slowly, she shook her head and closed her eyes, seemingly already forgetting her question. Within seconds, I saw her entire body settle, indicating she’d fallen asleep. I ran a hand through my hair and sighed, hoping to bring more air back into my lungs after that catapult she’d launched into my chest. And then I caught Jennie’s attention and mouthed, “Lock the door on your way out,” with a meaningful nod toward the door before I slung Mila’s backpack over my shoulder and then eased her out of the stool and into my arms. I caught Lotte in the kitchen on my way back, whose eyes grew larger upon seeing Mila in my arms and asked her to help Jennie in my brief absence. “I’ll still clean up,” I promised her as I unlocked the door to our flat. Carrying Mila up the steep steps proved more challenging than I’d expected, but I’d managed without making too much noise. Asher’s room appeared to be completely dark, and after pausing on the landing, I determined that my noise in going up the stairs hadn’t awoken him. I momentarily debated laying her on the couch, but didn’t want her to wake up in such a public space as our communal room so, as gently as I could, I eased open the door to my bedroom and laid her on the bed after I peeled back the covers. Immediately, she curled up and rubbed her head into the pillow. Moonlight seared through my window, slashing across her on the bed. Her head was turned toward the wall, away from the light, so it didn’t disturb her from her soundless sleep. Seeing the sunglasses still on top of her head, I sat on the edge of the bed and slid them off. They got caught in her hair, so as gently as I could, I plucked all those annoying strands out of the bend in her glasses before setting them on my nightstand and then going back downstairs to finish out the night. Lotte looked at me oddly, but I just waved her off. I checked that Jennie had locked the door and then finished the rest of the kitchen. When I returned to the bedroom two hours later, Mila was still asleep, and appeared not to have moved even an inch on the bed. Seeing her dark hair spread across my white pillow in the exact same position as I’d left her in made me feel a little sad for her. A feeling I never thought I’d feel for her, because she radiated so much happiness and energy all the time. Even in sleep, her face was scrunched up, but she made no noise of discontent. I sighed and sat at the foot of the bed, glancing between her and my hands, wondering what had caused the mood she had been in when she arrived at the pub earlier tonight. The fact that I wondered about this bothered me, because—as I continually had to remind myself—she was such a new presence in my life. I didn’t have any right to worry about her; she wasn’t someone I needed to worry about, and yet, for some inexplicable reason, I did. What had made her sad? What had caused her to drink to the point that she did? I thought of what she’d asked me right before she’d fallen asleep.

“When your wife died, did you ever wish you had died with her?” Because it was safe, because no one sober could hear me, I whispered my answer to her in the dark of the room. “No. My only wish was always that I’d have died instead of her.” And then I grabbed the extra pillow she wasn’t using, a blanket from my wardrobe, and bedded down on the floor at the foot of my bed. I could sleep on the couch, I knew, but for reasons I didn’t want to examine too closely, I didn’t want her to be alone.

CHAPTER TWELVE

WHEN I’D DRUMMED up enough courage to open my eyes against the splitting headache I was currently dying from, the first thing I saw was a wall of dark gray. It looked completely unfamiliar to me, and I tried to remember where the hell I was. Looking down at the blankets that covered me, I took in the plaid black, gray, and white pattern. I blinked several times, trying to orientate myself to my surroundings. A muffled sound caused me to sit up suddenly, at a speed that was entirely too fast and caused me to mumble a swear word. “Fuck what?” I turned my head, took in Ames, who was sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed I laid in. It was all too much to process: the unfamiliar room, the fact that Ames was mere feet from me, and the headache that felt like a marching band was trampling across my skull. “Um…” I pressed a hand to my forehead, and swallowed the bile that climbed up my throat. “Did I puke?” “Not as far as I’m aware,” Ames replied. “How are you feeling?” Great question. How did I feel? “Like I drank all the alcohol in your bar.” “Pub. And you’re likely not far off.” I made a face of stretching my lips over my teeth that I was sure was entirely unattractive. “That bad?” “Horrid, actually. Hungry?” My stomach felt full of boiling acid and I knew I’d need to get something in there to soak up some of the alcohol I’d been unwise in consuming. “God, I could go for biscuits and gravy.” He looked at me with a funny look on his face. “Really?” I shook my head at him. “Not your kinds of biscuits. Those are crackers, or cookies, or whatever. Um,” I pushed my hair behind my ear as I tried to think of how to explain it better, “like, scones? That you split in half and butter? And then pour white, peppery gravy over.” He looked at me like I was speaking gibberish, which—though we both spoke English

—I knew my American sayings were probably a lot like hearing another language to him. “Or toast? Some eggs?” He nodded and pushed to standing, towering over me as I sat on the bed. “Is this your bed?” “Yes.” “Did you sleep…” I moved my hand across the bed, over the empty and undisturbed side. “No, I slept on the floor.” He motioned to a folded blanket on the chair beside the bed. “Oh.” I swallowed as I stared up at him, feeling the buzz of being so close to him again, remembering how he’d placed his hand under my chin and had lifted my mouth just so. The last time we’d spoken, before I’d started drinking, had been the moment right before he’d kissed me. And we hadn’t talked since. If I thought too much about why I started drinking, I’d think about Colin and the memory card full of my last photos of him, and then I’d be sad all over again, and I didn’t imagine being sad and hungover would be all that delightful. “Thanks,” I said, pulling his blanket up to my chest, even though I was fully clothed. “I imagine I was kind of a pain in the ass last night.” “Just a bit,” he said, his face stoic but not unfriendly. He stared at me a moment longer, not saying anything, and I could feel my cheeks burning. Then he walked abruptly toward the door before stopping just short of it and looking over at me. “Do you…” he shoved a hand in his hair before shoving it in the pocket of his fleece sweats. “I…” He looked at me briefly, his face contorted as he struggled to find his words. And then he opened the door and stepped out, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Ames had kindly put my backpack on his desk, so I was able to dig through and find my mini brush and run it through the tornado that was my hair. I cringed a bit, imagining what Ames had seen when he’d looked at me. My compact mirror proved what I feared— mascara was smeared at least a half inch under my eyelids, and I had what looked like twin black eyes with how my makeup had settled in my sleep. I rubbed a tissue over it, trying to salvage what little of my makeup I could, and braided my hair into one long plait that I hung over my shoulder. There was nothing to be done about my clothes, wrinkled as they were. But I plastered a brave smile on regardless and opened the door a crack, peeking out into a hallway that was empty, but not silent. Music spilled from a room at the end of the hallway, and light spilled across the glossy wood floors. I waited a second before I heard Ames’ distinctive voice, and made my way as quietly as possible down the hallway. Just outside the doorway, I heard Lotte laugh, and steeled myself. I mentally kicked myself, for about the fifteenth time that morning, for looking as unkempt as I did. But I sucked it up and stepped around the opening, seeing Ames, first, who was at the stove, his back to me. At the table was Lotte, reading a newspaper, wearing gray leggings and an oversized pink sweater, bouncing her bare feet on the tile along to the beat as she pored over a newspaper. I wondered if she’d seen my antics the night before.

Ames turned then, and stopped short upon seeing me. His gaze darted between me and Lotte before he said, “Good morning,” as if he hadn’t just seen me minutes before. But his eyes were warm, and he gave me a small, encouraging smile. Lotte turned, and her smile filled her face. “Oh, hey Mila.” Then she blinked and looked between Ames and me before returning her attention to her newspaper. “Sleep well?” I couldn’t remember the night before—just slices of things here and there. Lotte wasn’t, not surprising, in whatever vestiges of my memory I still had. I didn’t know if she knew why I was there—or what assumptions she made from that fact. Looking toward Ames for reassurance, I waited for him to explain. But he didn’t rescue me, didn’t offer any explanation for my disheveled appearance in his house. He just watched me, waiting for me to explain myself. “I’m afraid you have me at a loss, Lotte.” Lotte mirrored her brother-in-law’s look toward me. “I’m not sure if you know why I slept over.” I gestured a hand over my unkempt clothes, looking one last desperate moment at Ames. “Oh, right.” She nodded and gave me a smile that I was sure was meant to reassure me, but the words out of her mouth did the exact opposite. “You shagged.” She waggled her finger between us. Ames coughed, and I was sure my face paled to an unnatural color. I opened my mouth, but Ames stepped beside me, and his hand came to my lower back. “Come on, Lotte. Don’t torture her any further.” I found it shocking, the way the heat from his gentle touch spread across my back. I turned to face him just as he turned to face me, and his hand lifted and brushed the hair that had fallen across my face. That was one of my favorite things he did, touching me like that. “Oh, gross.” Lotte made a face and dropped her newspaper. “Did you shag her, in that state, Ames? I thought you had more respect than that.” She stuck her tongue out like she’d just tasted something disgusting. “Knock it off, Lots.” Ames hadn’t stopped looking at me. “How are you feeling?” “Hungry.” I gave him a smile, and he smiled back, all soft, and for a moment I questioned whether or not I was in a dream. “Have a seat. It’ll be ready in a minute.” Sitting beside Lotte, it was like I realized for the first time that she was the sister of Ames’ wife. I’d always thought Lotte beautiful, but a thought pushed its way to the forefront of my mind—if she was this beautiful, how beautiful had Ames’ wife been? “Ames is cooking us breakfast.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Such a nice thing, he doesn’t normally do.” She squared her sights on me. “So, I suppose I have you to thank for that.” Ames stiffened a little, but cracked another egg in a bowl and didn’t look at us at all. Lotte folded up the newspaper and pushed it away. “Tea?”

I shook my head. “Still acclimating to tea,” I said. “It always helps my hangover.” I pushed my hair from my face, feeling very much like a slob in her presence. “Well, luckily for me, I don’t have the kind of headache I’m sure I deserve.” “Oh, that kind of night?” She propped her chin on her hand. “I’d love to hear about it, but I’m afraid you can’t indulge my curiosity if you can’t actually remember it.” “I can.” Ames finally spoke. He handed me a plate of scrambled eggs and salt and pepper shakers. “Seeing as you racked up one hell of a bar tab, I think I’m qualified to talk about how you behaved.” Wincing, I wrung my hands over and over in my lap. “I’m afraid to ask just how high it got.” “Well, since I now know you can hold your booze, you can imagine how much was enough to knock you down.” I took the first bite of eggs and my stomach growled impatiently. “Did I give you my credit card?” I hated that I’d been so drunk to not remember any of this. But, on the same token, I found myself completely at ease, eating breakfast with Ames and Lotte. “No. You actually dumped your purse—two times, in fact—and gave us all the dosh you had.” I tried to remember how much cash I’d pulled out of the last ATM I’d visited, but I couldn’t recall how much I’d had left. “Well, I hope it was enough.” Lotte took a big sip of her tea. “I heard Jennie accuse you of giving her free refills. Like, all of them.” She waggled her eyebrows as she looked at Ames. Out of my periphery, Ames turned and gave Lotte a look that had absolutely no effect on her. “Jennie has no room to talk. She’s the one who kept giving Mila alcohol.” I held up my hand. “I’m a big girl, and I’m responsible for my decisions—terrible as they were last night. Don’t blame Jennie.” Ames carried two plates to the table and handed one to Lotte as he sat. “That’s well and good, but Jennie should know better than to keep serving a person as pissed as you were last night.” I winced, and was so embarrassed once again. “I don’t usually get that drunk.” “It’s not like you’re the first person to get trashed at the pub this year, not even this week.” Ames pointed at Lotte with his fork. “You’re right. I believe that honor belongs to you, love.” Love. That word summoned a memory—Ames calling me it. I knew it was a casual term of endearment, but the word made me feel all tingly and warm—like when he’d touched my lower back.

“These are great eggs,” I said, and shoveled another forkful into my mouth. Ames didn’t reply, just chewed as one side of his mouth lifted. I loved the look in his eyes, like he was laughing with me at the exchange. He was so serious all the time, so intensely quiet. To see him like this, in his home, joking with Lotte was refreshing. So refreshing that I wasn’t eager to leave this moment. “Ames.” All three of our heads swiveled to the man in the doorway, who took up the entire frame. He was dark, with several days’ scruff over his chin. “There’s a delivery downstairs.” Without a word, Ames stood and pushed his chair back. His hand grazed over my shoulder as he left the room and Lotte stood, gesturing to the seat beside me. “Sit, Dad. This is Mila.” The man paused, peering at me from where he stood in the doorway. “Mila.” I nodded and took his outstretched hand, which swallowed mine entirely. He had to have been six-foot-five, and seemed like at some point he’d been muscular. But there was a sense of sadness about him, a wallowing in the way he shifted into his seat, more slowly than a man of his age should move. “I’m Asher.” He sighed as he adjusted himself in the chair and Lotte handed him a plate she’d loaded up with food. “Lotte’s father.” “So nice to meet you,” I said, and twisted the napkin in my lap as nerves worked their way through my fingers. I’d figured out that Lotte was fine with her brother-in-law seeing someone else—if you could even call it that, but I didn’t know what the father of Ames’ deceased wife would think. “You’re American?” “Yep.” I exchanged glances with Lotte, who seemed terribly interested in what I had to say. “I’m here another three weeks.” “For work, or for a bit of fun?” His voice was deep and gruff, and it made me think of a drill sergeant in how he commanded attention by just the tone of his voice. “A bit of the former and a lot of the latter.” His expression softened and his lips spread. “That’s good. Seen anything you fancy?” I thought of Ames, but decided it best that I not specify that. “Well, I’ve gotten lost a few times. Some of those times were somewhat on purpose, though.” I chewed on the toast as I thought. “I’ve danced at Lotte’s beautiful studio.” She smiled proudly at me, but didn’t add anything. “Oh! I saw Big Ben. Actually, I tried to.” “Mila got knocked over on Westminster Bridge.” His brown eyes went wide and he tilted his head to look at me. “Oh?” “Yes. Luckily, Ames was there to save me. He and Sam pulled me over the railing.” He closed his eyes and then coughed. “Ames didn’t say anything about that. How

peculiar.” “It’s not like Ames to brag about anything, much less possibly saving someone’s life,” Lotte said gently. “But they did. And then they brought her here.” “And I haven’t left since.” I grinned at Lotte who grinned back. “It’s a lovely pub,” I told him. “The name is so unique.” Asher chewed thoughtfully. “But it’s really not. It was my wife’s idea, actually.” Lotte handed him a cup of tea, which he sipped and then sighed. “Are you a God-fearing Christian, Mila?” I wasn’t sure if my answering gulp was audible, but it seemed like it could’ve been heard from miles away. “Aw, Dad. No need to send her running for the hills.” Asher held up a hand toward Lotte. “Charlotte, I’m not giving her a sermon here. I’m simply asking a question.” “Sorry. He’s kind of intense.” Lotte laughed. “I hardly leave the flat, Charlotte. I like to talk to interesting people.” I took a deep breath, feeling like I was under the firing squad despite what Asher had told Lotte. “I think faith is complicated, and deeply personal.” The answer didn’t seem to satisfy them, because they both waited for me to continue. “I don’t go to a church and I don’t tithe, but I believe that there’s a reason for everything, even if I don’t always agree with it.” It was hard to say, without hesitation, that I believed in a God who could give my brother a potentially-fatal condition, the same God who pulled the rug out from under my boyfriend for that same condition. “Why’s that, if you don’t mind my asking?” I had to be careful about my wording. “My brother has a condition.” I pointed to my chest. “With his heart. He’s been in and out of hospitals all his life.” I decided that was all I wanted to explain today—there was no need to get into Colin’s own experience with the same condition. “And I’ve watched him struggle our entire twenty-seven years on earth with it.” “If you think I don’t understand, you’re wrong.” He looked fondly at Lotte, who reached her hand across the worn table and clasped his wrist. “I lost the love of my life and my firstborn over the course of just a few months. And I am still struggling with understanding the why of it all.” “Ames has told me a bit about your losses. I’m so sorry.” I set my fork down, my stomach churning from the turn in conversation. “I understand loss too.” “Tell me, has your brother’s condition changed anything for you? Caused you to look at things differently, perhaps?” His condition was the very reason I was who I was—a woman my parents didn’t understand, a woman who did things to the beat of her own drum, things my brother couldn’t do. “Yes.”

“The greatest thing death has taught me is the value of life.” Then he chuckled, but he didn’t sound particularly amused. “I’m still struggling with that.” “You’re doing great, Dad.” Lotte squeezed his arm again before pulling away. Then she looked pointedly at me, and it was as if I could hear her thoughts. Remember what I told you in the studio? “Anyway, Free Refills was born from my wife’s faith. Where I faltered, Rayna was steadfast.” He coughed again and Lotte nudged his teacup closer to him. “Every time she felt her spirit being emptied, she had trust it would be filled again. And it always was.” His smile was sad, soft, and Lotte seemed lost in the contents of her teacup. “Her faith was limitless, and she believed that if you were in need, your need would be met.” He leaned on the table, facing me. “There’s a passage in the Bible about a widow providing bread for Elijah, despite her low stock of flour and oil. Somehow, the jar of flour and jug of oil refilled themselves until the famine plaguing them receded.” He waved his hand. “Free Refills.” Things were starting to click after I heard that explanation. “Your wife sounds like she was an inspirational woman.” “She was.” He brought his toast to his mouth but paused before biting it. “Despite not sharing a cell of DNA, Ames is like her. Good, in a way that’s deeper than the surface—in a way that no one else can see. And he doesn’t need or even want acknowledgement for the acts of service he does, but by God does he deserve it.” I felt like I’d seen glimpses of it myself, under his quiet and calm exterior. But he still kept so much of himself hidden, that hearing all of this from his in-laws made me want to dig in deeper, to figure out more about him. I had a yearning for knowledge that I’d never had before. “He is good.” I looked at Lotte for a moment, before sucking up the courage I needed to say what I wanted to say. “I have to admit, I drank way too much in your pub last night. I was probably a huge hassle, but Ames let me sleep in his bed and took the floor.” I wasn’t sure why I felt compelled to explain my presence, but after hearing what Asher had said about Ames, I felt like assuring him that Ames hadn’t brought some random hookup into his house. “Really?” Asher sat back and then put a hand to his chin as he rubbed it thoughtfully. “He slept on the floor?” I nodded. “No funny business?” I shook my head. He pursed his lips. “Well, then. That explains why he seems so worn out today.” He winked, and then he laughed, a sound so loud that it startled me. Lotte joined his laughing, and by the time Ames had reappeared, he was staring at all of us like we were all crazy. Which, I wasn’t entirely sure we weren’t. And as the laughing subsided, something about the expression on Ames face made me suddenly feel like I was intruding.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SHE MOVED TO RISE, but Asher covered her hand with his. “I hope you visit again, Mila.” She looked at me guiltily before turning back to Asher. “I’d love to.” He let go of her hand and she turned around, tucking one loose chunk of hair behind her ear as she avoided my gaze. I stood in my spot for a moment, before Asher waved a hand at me, and then I chased after Mila who was already outside of the pub before I’d made it to her. “Mila.” She stopped her brisk walk and turned, biting her lip and nervously running her hands through her hair. “Sorry.” She laughed and waved a wild hand toward the building. “We were just talking, and he was asking me all these questions, and then I felt like I had to tell him why this disheveled woman was sitting at his breakfast table, and then—” I did something that surprised both of us. I stepped up to her and placed three fingers over her mouth. “Shh. I’m not mad. Is that what you think?” She wrapped her hand around my wrist and pulled my fingers from where they covered her mouth. “I don’t know. You’re not easy for me to read. The way you looked at me made me think you realized just how stupid it was for you to invite me into your apartment.” “To be fair, I didn’t exactly invite you in. I had to carry you in.” “Ames,” she pleaded, an embarrassed kind of humor in her voice. “You know what I mean.” I dropped my hand so she lost her grip on my wrist. “It’s fine.” “He just wanted to know about my faith—hello, awkward question—and then he told me about Free Refills and then he was talking about you and I didn’t want him to think you brought some hussy around the apartment.” “Mila,” I repeated, louder this time to halt her rambling. I stepped forward and placed my hands on her shoulders, which were blessedly bare thanks to her sleeveless tank. I gently squeezed, grateful for the access to the soft skin of her arms. Even though I’d been mentally thinking about what to say the entire thirty seconds since she’d left Asher, I found myself so distracted by the feel of her warm skin and the smell of lemons that

breezed around her, that I completely forgot what I’d prepared myself to say. “Don’t— don’t be sorry,” I began, meeting her eyes. Hers were so big, so open, the green so mesmerizing that once again, I found myself stumbling over my words. I had to stop touching her, stop feeling that perfect skin under mine. So I dropped my hands and then held them in front of me, awkwardly trying to figure out what the hell to do with them now that I wasn’t touching her. “Asher … he hasn’t laughed like that in so long. It was good to hear him just now. I…” I shoved my hands in my pockets just to keep them from being close to touching her again, but that made me feel clunky and standoffish. Which is what Mila was used to, coming from me, but I didn’t want her to misinterpret my meaning now. “I just … thank you. Thanks for giving him that today.” It took a long moment, but finally I saw the whisper of a smile curling the sides of her lips. She stepped closer to me, bringing me into that cloud of lemon and her. “You don’t need to thank me.” As if testing me, she gently placed her hands on my shoulders— mirroring me—as she stared up at my face. She was so close. I was going to lose my composure once again. It was only a matter of breaths, of seconds, before her lips were under mine once again. “He scared me a little bit at first, like I was taking a pop quiz and I didn’t know any of the answers. But I liked talking to him.” Her pink lips lifted up and I realized then what she’d said about knowing I was about to kiss her was right. Because when I looked at her lips, I could scarcely turn my sights away. Her hands slid down my chest slowly, and I got the distinct impression they were about to leave me, so I did something again that surprised us both, I covered her hands with mine and pressed them against my chest. Her breath hitched, and startled eyes looked to mine, so I let her go. Immediately, her arms wrapped around herself. “Are you cold?” She shook her head almost violently fast. “Then why are you holding yourself like you are?” She released a breath on a laugh. “Because you make me so fucking nervous, Ames. You’re all silent, and then when you speak you ask me things that force me to process my thoughts, and my thoughts are a jumbled mess, you wouldn’t believe the shit I have up here.” She pointed at the side of her head and I couldn’t help but laugh. “What’s so funny?” she asked, and her fingers found their way into her hair, tangling with the ends. I was beginning to see that this was one of her nervous tics. “I’m literally just standing here in front of you, not touching you, and you’re all chaos and words. It’s endearing, really.” And it was. She looked like a tamed tornado—which was an oxymoron of epic proportions. “It’s not endearing. I can’t hide my emotions around you. It’s like,” she circled her hand over her head, “there’s this lasso that’s spinning around me, threatening to capture

me. And I’ll just be helpless and trapped then. So, I’m just spilling out everything I can, to keep from being strangled.” She let go of her hair and made a move with her hands like she was karate chopping the air. She was nervous—an understatement, but she was also afraid of something. I couldn’t let her stand in fear in front of me. “It’s okay.” I took her hands and held them between mine. It seemed to immediately calm her, and it had the opposite effect on me. I just wanted to keep pulling her in, touching more of her skin, looking deeper into her eyes. Holding her ignited a long-buried yearning in me, and I couldn’t help but look at her lips again. “It’s okay, Mila.” Her voice was calmer, softer, when she spoke. “Is it? I don’t know.” “What don’t you know?” “I got drunk in your bar—” “Pub.” “Pub last night. I was a mess. And you had no obligation to help me, and you did. And I’m so sorry you had to play babysitter.” “You were a mess last night.” When she looked at me with exasperation, I continued, “But we’re all a little bit messy sometimes, aren’t we? I think that’s literally the human existence. But I still don’t know why you were so upset.” She shifted her feet and I could tell she was deciding how much to say. “You thought, when you met me, that no sadness could have ever touched me. But it has, and last night it was,” she swallowed. “Profound. That loss.” I felt the movement of her fingers trapped behind mine, felt the way my ring dug into my skin. “Trust me, I know.” She stared up into my face, eyes searching. “What are you thinking?” I asked her. “That I’m glad you’re not promising me it’ll get easier.” I squeezed her hands, but still didn’t let go. “I only make promises I know I can keep.” A new light came over her. “On the bridge. You promised you wouldn’t let go of me.” I nodded and hoped she saw the sincerity in my eyes. “I don’t promise things that I don’t know, with absolute sincerity, I can fulfill.” “But you weren’t able to pull me over the railing. Eventually, you would’ve had to let me go.” I shook my head, and turned more fully toward her. I tightened my grip on her, not painfully so, but to emphasize how serious my next words were. “I meant it. I would’ve fallen in with you before I would’ve let go of you.” “Oh.” Her voice had taken on a whisper of air—like she was suddenly weightless. She didn’t stop looking at me. It was if my words had suddenly taken on weight, making me feel completely grounded, stilled to stone. And then, she blurted, “Why?”

I blinked. “Because I didn’t want you to be alone.” I swore I could track the emotions flitting in and out of her irises. It was mesmerizing, the way she could switch gears so quickly. I was beginning to understand why she could stand to be so happy when I felt so filled with dread all the time. She changed the subject. “We haven’t really talked since you kissed me. Not sober at least.” “That’s true. So, talk. What’s on your mind?” It was all I could manage to say under the circumstances. Her skin was so soft, so warm. I worried, irrationally, that she’d melt in my hold. “What are we doing, Ames?” She let out a sigh. “Standing on a street.” I looked at our hands and ran a thumb over her knuckles. “Touching.” She stepped closer to me, and I wanted her to keep stepping forward until there was no space between us. “Ames,” she whispered. “What are we doing?” “What a question.” This wasn’t easily definable. “I’m not sure.” “I’m only here for three weeks.” “Okay.” “Okay?” she asked. “What’s okay?” I shook my head. “I don’t know. Truth be told, I lose what little bit of rational thought I have around you.” The worry came back into her face and I let go of her just so I could touch her shoulders again. “Hey,” I whispered, my hands gliding to her neck. I stroked the line of her throat with my thumbs. “I don’t know what we’re doing. I don’t have any answers. I’m not looking for a relationship, especially not one with an expiration date.” Her bottom lip jutted out and I glided my thumbs along her jaw. “But there’s one thing I do know, without a shred of doubt, and that’s when I touch you, I go a little stupid.” I felt her throat jump under my caressing. “You have an effect on me that I don’t want—but now that I know it exists, I don’t want to let go of it.” “Promise?” I held her eyes as long as I could. “I promise.” She wrapped her arms around me and it took me seconds longer than it should’ve to reciprocate. But I did, pulling my hands from her face and wrapping my arms around her, holding her securely to me. My fingers played with the ends of her hair as I just breathed her in, all the uniquely Mila pieces that had found their way into my life. She was like a museum of priceless qualities, and I found myself understanding just how easily anyone could be taken with her. She felt good in my arms, I realized. A welcome weight. Her light breaths warmed the

center of my chest and it felt as if we’d hugged for an eternity, but then she pulled away and it felt like it had lasted only a second.

“So, what’s the deal with you and Mila?” Sam asked as he tossed popcorn up in the air. It missed his mouth completely on its descent and fell to the floor. I picked up the piece and tossed it back in the bowl. “There is no deal.” “No, see, you can pull that shit with Lotte or Asher or Jennie, but you can’t with me.” He picked up our bottles of beer on the coffee table and pushed mine into my hands. “I know you better, mate. And, besides, I thought you were going to murder me over her, so I ought to know the why.” “I’m not sure why I invited you over,” I told him when he dropped another kernel on the floor. “Yeah, me either. So, what’s the deal with her?” “What’s the deal with you and what’s-her-name?” Sam smiled lasciviously. “You’re going to have to be more specific.” “That black-haired girl you danced with before I all but pulled you off of Mila.” Sam stretched out. “Oh, her. Well she was a fun five minutes.” I tossed the kernels he kept losing back at him. “That’s all it took you? Five minutes? Maybe it’s time to retire your dick.” “Oh, piss off.” Sam threw a whole handful of popcorn at me before settling back into his seat. “And quit changing the subject.” I took a long pull from my beer. “Do you really want to do this? Talk about our feelings and shit? Because I could start us off with some talk about Della.” At the mere sound of his ex-girlfriend, Sam gave me a glare to end all glares. “I’m afraid if we merely talk about her, she’ll figure out my location and kick down my door.” Della was Sam’s ex, a woman who had lured him in with silky promises and then, once his gravity had centered around her, she’d hollowed him of the man he’d been before, sending him hurtling through a path paved with random women who didn’t want commitment. Just like him. He wasn’t afraid of commitment, and he didn’t feel the need to dissuade anyone else from taking it up, but he was done with it. “Didn’t she do that once before?” Sam took a long pull from his beer, long enough that I reached over the back of the sofa for another bottle from the case and handed it to him. He popped the top off of it,

sending it spinning on the hardwoods. “Yep. Well, she tried. Got her heel stuck in the wood of the door, actually.” It would be amusing if it’d been anyone but Della we were talking about. Della was of a different variety than the average girl. When Sam had first brought her around us, I’d had a feeling things wouldn’t end easily for him. But that was how I knew she hadn’t been right—because I’d already been seeing their end as an inevitable fact, and not just a possibility. It hadn’t been her bubblegum-colored lips or her waist-length shampoo-commercial hair. It’d been the look in her eyes, that wild, but barely tamed, look that had me averting my gaze and resisting any chance of eye contact. She looked at everyone like they were something to devour— leaving only their bones in her wake. It was a miracle that Sam had escaped from her clutches by the skin of his teeth, and kept them too. “Mate, you gotta get this fixed.” Sam stood and tapped on top of the television with his beer. “I’m sure hitting the TV with a glass bottle will do the trick,” I replied sarcastically. There wasn’t anything on anyway, but I’d invited Sam over because apart from the dinner at his family’s house, I hadn’t spent time with him in weeks. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I also wanted a little insight into Mila. Not that you’d know it by the way I changed the subject every time he brought her up. “Sorry for being rough with you.” Sam looked over at me in answer. “Why were you?” Here it was, the moment where I had to fumble through my thoughts, through my feelings for this alien creature named Mila. “Mila, she’s just … she’s not just another girl for you to plow through.” Sam scoffed. “Really, Ames. It’s like you hardly know me. You really think I’d be going after the girl my best friend is pursuing?” Shrugging, I grabbed a new beer for myself. “You lure girls in without even trying. I just didn’t want you to think Mila was another one you could, you know.” I needed more beer for this kind of talk. “Well, I don’t believe it. You’re not just interested in her. You’re really interested in her.” I sat back against the couch cushions. “Great distinction between those two.” “I’m not a wordsmith. That’s your job.” Sam tapped his fingers over the stack of books by the window and looked back at me. “She’s special, isn’t she?” “Isn’t that obvious?” “No need for hostility.” He held his palms up. “I just haven’t seen you like this over a girl in, well, a long time.” Two years. It hung in the air between us without either of us needing to say it. “Yes, well, she’s only here for three weeks, so we’re not exactly running off together.” “But it’s a start. When are you seeing her again?”

I looked back at the clock that hung on the wall. “In about three hours.” “Please don’t tell me she’s coming to the pub again. That poor girl is going to think this is your lair and you only venture out at night, when it’s safe.” “I took her to Postman’s in broad daylight.” “An anomaly.” “I’m taking her to the restaurant. I’m just going to show her around. Before…” A voice interrupted me. “Hey, Sam.” We both turned to Lotte, who stood in the doorway, her hands held in front of her. “Lots. How are you?” Lotte moved a bit further into the room, but not closer to Sam, who stood by the windows. “Fine.” “Studio keeping you busy?” She smiled, and I silently sipped my beer. Though I’d never addressed it with Lotte— because I didn’t feel the need—her unrequited crush on my best friend hung obviously around her neck, like a bloody neon sign. She lived for the attention Sam gave her, but I knew he only saw her in a strictly little-sister fashion. “A little. Not too much. Been thinking of selling.” Her eyes darted to mine, and I sat up straighter, preparing myself. “Oh?” I sighed. “Lotte wants to sell the studio and give the proceeds of the sale to Free Refills and the restaurant, to go to America on an adventure.” Even though I didn’t hear her intake of breath, the way her chest stretched as she looked expectantly at Sam made me immediately aware that she was waiting for some kind of reaction from him. “Is that so?” He sipped his beer, and looked out the window. “You should go. Who knows, maybe you could find yourself an American boy to keep you occupied, as Ames has with Mila.” It was if he’d been aiming for the most vulnerable spot of her heart, based on her reaction. Her breath hitched, and she pressed a hand flat to her stomach. I felt a little bad for her, not because I wanted Sam to return her affections, but to see her hurt from his rejection was just another pain she shouldn’t have had to bear. “Maybe I will.” I watched as she swallowed hard and turned to me. “Dinner will be ready at half-past.” When she’d left the room, Sam turned from the window to face me. “Let me guess. You’re against it.” “Of course I am.” “You’re a bloody idiot.” He pointed two fingers directly at me, while keeping the rest of them wrapped around his bottle. “What are you going to do, six months from now,

without that money?” “Close the restaurant, of course.” “It hasn’t even opened.” “I’ll sell it, then.” “See? Idiot.” Anger licked through me, hot and fast. “She’s not selling her studio to fund my silly solo project, Sam. And she’s not going to the States by herself.” “Are you her father?” I glared at him. “Don’t be an arse. We’re talking about Lotte, right? You really think she can traipse off to the States and not get taken advantage of in some horrific way?” “Mila managed to cross over the pond to the UK by herself and live to tell the tale. Why can’t Lotte?” “Mila is years older, and her eyes are wide open.” I pointed back at the kitchen, where Lotte had gone. “Lotte is still so young. This grand plan of her going to the States is just in response to all the things she’s had to deal with for the last couple of years. I’m not willing to let her run away and get hurt even more.” “Get off your high-horse, Ames. You’ve no right to tell her she can’t. I get that you’ve been her protector since Mal died, but have you ever considered that maybe she needs to have some space to herself, to spread her wings? She’s not Mal. She’s not you.” “Fuck off,” I said, my voice flat. “If she sells her studio, what will she have to come home to?” “Besides Asher? Besides you?” Sam set his beer down. “Who says she will come home? Maybe she’ll like it so much, she’ll stay over there.” “If you’re trying to convince me to encourage her, you’re doing a piss poor job.” “I’m not trying to convince you to do anything, because ultimately, it’s not your decision. It’s hers. And you need to give her the space to make it.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

WHEN I SHOWED UP AT AMES’ flat that night, I followed him into the kitchen where he finished filling a small tote with a few things. Mood-wise, he seemed a little darker tonight than he had been when I’d last left him, just outside of the pub. When he zipped the top of the tote closed, I came up behind him and wrapped my arms around him, hoping to banish the cloud that seemed to have settled over him. He stilled for a moment before his hands covered mine. “Mila.” I loved the way he said my name. I loved it more that I could feel it, with my face pressed against his back, as it vibrated through his body. “Ames.” He turned and smiled, that dimple dipping into his cheek. “Can I take you somewhere?” He had the innocence of someone younger, with less heartache, and in the smallest way, I felt a shift between us. Nothing deep and profound, but still noteworthy. Like a chapter break in a novel. It was as if we were toeing the line of something significant, but something I didn’t know about just yet. He held his hand to me and I took it as he led me down the narrow stairwell and toward the door. I noticed a slight pep to his step as he slid my coat off the hook beside his and held it out for me. I smiled to myself as I slipped my arms through the coat, grateful that his mood seemed lifted. “We’re going outside?” “Not far.” He gave me a shy smile, something secretive. I couldn’t resist this secretive Ames, his eyes sparkling and his smile open and unguarded. So when he extended his hand for mine again, I took it without hesitation and laced my fingers with his. The September weather was beginning to cool, and with the sun long set, the breeze outside was just enough that if you kept a brisk pace, you could stay just warm enough. But I wasn’t in a rush, wanting to savor this affectionate Ames, so we took our time walking down the street. “It’s not far to walk,” he repeated. “But we can get a taxi, if you want.” I shook my head and took a step closer to him. His arm came around my shoulders, pulling me in and I looked up at him under the light that just barely illuminated his face. “I like walking. With you.”

He pulled me tighter still and my hand went around his back, digging into the warmth of his side. I felt impossibly warm then. Either that, or merely being in his presence was giving me that effect anyway. That was even more obvious when he tilted his head down, shadowing our faces from any passersby. His lips hovered above mine for three full heartbeats before he pulled back. But I wanted this, to kiss this man on a darkened sidewalk, feeling as warm as I’d felt in a long time. So, I wrapped my hand around his neck and pulled his head down until his mouth touched mine. It was different this time. He didn’t move to deepen the kiss, nor to pull away. But his lips moved over mine, tugging my bottom lip in between his and heat pierced right through my bones with each soft, savoring kiss. When he finally, regrettably, pulled back, his eyes were heavy-lidded, and massively hot. “That’s two,” he said. Apparently when he’d kissed me, he’d also taken away all coherent thought. “What?” He smiled, and my hands tightened on his. “I’ve kissed you twice now and still have yet to give you a proper date.” I closed my eyes as I smiled, feeling a little bit drunk on him, on this. “Is that what this is?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date, but I don’t think what I’m about to show you counts. At least not in the way it ought to.” With that small smile, he tilted his head. “Come on.” Just a few blocks down, tucked into an alley, we stopped outside of a shadowed building. The door was black, with a stained-glass window in a kaleidoscope of color. The beading on the door looked old, and I found myself tracing its lines as Ames dipped into his pocket for a handful of keys. “What’s this?” I asked, my hand on the glass as I turned to look at him. “A-ha,” he said, producing the correct key and slipping it into the lock. I heard the click of the turn in the lock and then he paused. “This is my baby.” His eyes were alight in the dark shadowy alleyway, and there was something so entirely charming about him then, that I knew I’d be stunned by whatever he was about to show me—because I was stunned by him. He pushed the door, which creaked as it slid across the floor, opening up into complete darkness. He looked in for a moment, but I couldn’t discern what exactly he was looking at because the inside was even darker than outside. Holding an arm out in invitation, he said, “Come in.” I stepped past him and bumped into something immediately. “Oops,” I said, and Ames laughed. “Sorry about that. Hold there, please, for just a moment. I’ll get the lights working.” Clasping my hands together, I did as he asked and stood still until a few moments later, when the lights flipped on from the back of the room, gradually, to the front, illuminating

parts of the room slowly, like unwrapping a present. In the back of the room was a wall of wooden slats, all lightly painted enough that you could still see the wood’s texture through their colors. The next strip of light lit up a section of tables and chairs, some set up as if waiting for guests and others scrambled, with chairs on tops of tables and tables with missing legs, leaning against other tables. The third strip of light illuminated a fish tank that separated the front, where I stood, from the rest of the restaurant. There must have been three dozen tables, red-washed wood with bright white chairs. The wood floors I stood on had been refinished to a gleaming dark wood. “Wow.” I touched a table top, and pulled away a layer of dust. He took my hand, and blew the dust off the tip of my finger. “Sorry. I haven’t been here in a while.” “Is this your restaurant?” He nodded and backed away from me just a few steps. I stood by the table I’d touched and watched him take me in as I stood under one particularly bright can light. I wondered what he could be thinking, seeing me here, in the space that had belonged to him and his late wife. But none of that seemed to plague him, because he just leaned against a table and watched me. I took the opportunity to touch everything I could, from the smooth surface across the finished white chairs, to the tables that still needed to be sanded and refinished. I danced around him a little, flitting about the room. The table he leaned against was bigger, meant for a larger party than most of the others. And I avoided it entirely as I took in the room. There was a light dust stirred up from our presence that lent a romantic feel to the room. Like we’d stepped back into time, and had disturbed a place long untouched. Over and over, I walked past him, but never close enough to touch him. The fish tank was half-way finished. A layer of blue and green rock was poured into the bottom, and some bright, artificial green plants were slightly buried into the rock. But without water, it looked eerie—like a ghost town in a fish tank. “When I was younger, I had a fish tank like this one.” My fingers curled over the lip and I squeezed. “I didn’t have a lot of pets growing up. But I had fish, because they didn’t need a lot of tending to. I had one fish in particular—a Cory Cat. Nothing special to look at, but it was the only fish that thrived in my tank. Even when I neglected it.” I smiled, thinking of the memory. “When my parents moved, we had to transfer the fish to a temporary tank, and my father kept saying, ‘It’s going to die. Might as well flush it.’” I sobered up a little then, thinking how funny it was that my father, a man with a son whose life was often just one delicate slip from ending, could be so callous about the life of a harmless fish. “But it lived. I moved it to the new tank and added fish to keep it company, but eventually they all

died off except for that Cory Cat fish. I didn’t understand how it could keep living. I was horrible at remembering to clean the tank, and I often bought those long-term feeders for it, because I was just terrible at remembering to feed the poor thing.” I looked over my shoulder at Ames, who still leaned against the table. “I went away, to spend a month with a girlfriend. My brother, Jude, promised me he’d take care of the fish. When I came home, the fish was dead—through no fault of Jude’s. The tank was probably cleaner than when I’d first purchased it. But it was still dead. It was the first time I’d lost anything of value, and it was just this fish that couldn’t have cost more than a buck, a fish I could’ve replaced with one quick trip to the pet store. But I couldn’t.” I trailed my hand over the fake green plant. “It was just a stupid fish.” “But it was yours.” “It was.” I hadn’t had a lot of things that were just mine growing up, and remembering the fish now only illuminated that fact. “You should get Cory Cats when you fill this.” His face went a little sad and he looked away. “I would, but I’m afraid that that tank will soon be gone.” He waved his hand around. “Along with the rest of this.” I found myself gravitating toward him. “Why?” “Taxes, for one. We’ve had this for far too long and I just haven’t had the time to put into restoring it.” I remembered what Lotte had talked about in her studio. “But Lotte told me how she wants to—” He looked at me. “I know, and I can only imagine what she told you. But I can’t—I won’t let her let go of that building to save mine.” Because I was close enough, I placed my hand on his chest. With him leaning against the table, we were nearly eye level. “It’s just sad to me, that you have to walk away.” “That’s what we have to do sometimes.” He put a tentative hand on my waist and rubbed gently with his thumb. “But it’ll be alright.” Alright wasn’t enough to me, but I didn’t press it when it was obviously a sore subject for him. I stepped closer until I was standing between his legs. His other arm came around my back, holding me securely to him. He searched my eyes for a moment. “You’re beautiful, Mila.” I couldn’t remember if it was the first compliment he’d given me, but it was definitely the first time I felt it melt right into me. “Ames.” “Come on, I have more to show you.” I backed up, but he put a hand around my waist before I could move too far. Ames slipped his fingers into mine and pulled me toward the door in the back. The heavy door swung open to another dark room. Without letting go of my hand, he searched for another switch on the wall. A few lights sputtered on before illuminating a completely renovated kitchen. This area was so much different than the restaurant that still sat with wear and tear.

“It’s so different back here,” I commented, touching the stainless steel island that ran from the wall halfway across the room. “It’s not much, but it’s a start. It was a start.” There were no appliances yet, but plenty of open, gleaming counters. I loosened my hold and let my fingers slip from his and walked toward the white stone across from the stainless steel island. It was cold to the touch, but so smooth and shiny under the lights. Flecks of silver in the counter glittered. “It’s so clean.” Ames hand moved to my waist and he turned me to face him. “I admit, I did clean this part.” His smile was playful, and he leaned toward me. “I’m proud of this space back here. It took a lot of work.” I leaned back, and spread my arms across the granite. “You did a good job.” I was stretched back; my body open to his. I wasn’t exactly subtle. The hand on my waist tightened before his other hand mirrored it, squeezing my waist from both sides. When he lifted me to the counter, I couldn’t help the squeal that escaped my lips. I dropped my head to his shoulder and laughed, and judging from the way his shoulders bounced, he was laughing too. I turned my head just an inch, but it was enough to bring my lips to the side of his neck, where I pressed a kiss. His steady breathing had a slight hitch, and he gripped either side of my thighs so gently that had it not been for the thin material of my skirt, I wouldn’t have felt it. I pressed another kiss to his neck, this time an open-mouthed one. And it lasted longer than the last one. He cleared his throat and turned his head toward me, effectively trapping me in. “What are you doing to me?” My lips moved up his neck to his jaw and I whispered against his skin, “Probably, hopefully, the very same thing you’re doing to me.” He pulled back, and held my face in his hands, forcing me to look him in the eyes. I wrapped my arms around his back, pulling him in between my legs from where I sat on the counter. His fingers moved into my hair. His eyes were heated, his lips slightly parted. I could feel the unsteadiness in his pulse, the way it began beating faster and faster. “Kiss me,” I whispered, feeling completely wanton. He gripped my chin in his hold, and then moved his lips to the hollow of my cheek. My eyelids fluttered closed as he continued along the line to my ear, dropping warm, solid kisses on my skin. It was like slowly being buried by wave after wave. This wasn’t instantaneous—this was the most exquisite torture. I was feeling every single second of my arousal building, every single hitch of breath, and the tightening of each of his fingers as he gripped tighter and tighter. I’d always thought passion was hot and heavy and fast—but this slow rhythm and the way he paced himself as his fingers moved over my body, made me realize I knew

nothing at all about sex. This was more than a hurried chance between two bodies—this was an exploration. My fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, pulling and pulling, even though he was already as close as he could be. His lips met mine, and it was lazy and wonderful and agonizingly slow. I was being savored, and he was taking every single second to taste, to tease, to thrill. When his hand covered my knee, I barely suppressed a full body shudder. The slow sips of kisses had primed me in a way I hadn’t expected, so having him touch me—skin to skin—was barely more than I could endure without exploding from the sheer anticipation of it. He moved higher up, higher and higher, until his hand reached the hem of my skirt. He paused and I met his eyes, which were already looking for mine. Then, as our eyes held, his hand slipped up the skirt, his thumb brushing over the most sensitive part of my body. It was insanely intimate, having him watch me for my reaction to that kind of touch. In the quiet of his kitchen, all I could hear was the hum of the lights above us and our quick breaths, and then the sound of fabric rustling as his finger touched the elastic of my panties. I held my breath, my entire body on edge. My nails were digging in more and more into his back, and I was sure I would be leaving marks on his skin. His thumb didn’t breach the elastic, but instead just rubbed back and forth along it, driving me crazier and crazier, until my hands bunched up and pulled on his shirt. “Take it off,” I half-whispered, half-growled. I nearly cried in sadness when his hand came out from under my skirt, but then he bent his arms over his head, grabbing the back of his sweater, and pulled it up and over his head. It was a move I’d only seen in movies, and it was absurdly hot watching him yank it off, leaving his hair a mess that I was itching to make messier. But I halted from touching it once I looked at his chest. Twin-inked sparrows were suspended just under his collarbone on either side of his chest, their long wings crossing over the top line of his pec. I traced one of the sparrows, and felt his heart thump hard under my fingers. I met his heavy-lidded eyes and felt my stomach bottom out between us. There was an anchor on his bicep, and I was so surprised by the amount of ink on his skin that I’d been completely unaware of that I nearly forgot what we’d been doing before I’d been distracted. His hand moved to where my shirt was tucked into the waist band of my skirt and with his other hand, he gently pushed me until my arms were spread behind me, bracing myself on the counter top. With unhurried and steady hands, he pulled my shirt from the waistband, allowing the cool air of the unheated room to flash over my stomach. He gripped the hem of my shirt and kept his eyes on mine as he lifted it, higher and higher, until he was able to slip my head through the neck hole. He was leaning over me, our chests touching. He pulled the shirt fully over my head and behind me, caging my

arms while they were still trapped in the holes. His hands glided over my chest, over my breasts, toying with the lace that enveloped them. He traced the curve down to where the cups met, hooking his finger in the center and pulling me up so that his mouth could close over mine. The combination of the cool air against my skin and his hot hands, and hotter mouth, was sensory overload. I pressed as much as I could against him, but he still trapped my arms behind me with my shirt. His mouth left mine to trail down the side of my face, pressing warm kisses to the underside of my jaw, to the place where neck met shoulder, and across my collarbone. I knew I was writhing, anxious to release my hands so I could torture him the way he was torturing me. But his lips kept going, down and down, over the cups of my bra, and his hand pulled the strap down on one side before he tucked his fingers into the cup and tugged it from its hold on me. I didn’t have giant breasts, but seeing his hand close over one of them, they felt exactly the perfect size. My nipple pebbled in the cool air, but his warmth made me understand the pleasures of hot and cold, and how they worked together. His mouth replaced his hand, and when he looked up at me, my nipple in his mouth, I felt I could have dissolved right then. Change my body from solid to liquid in his hands. I tugged against the hand he held at my back. “Let me go,” I whispered, desperate to touch him, to get closer, until I couldn’t tell where he began and I ended. “So impatient.” He let go and placed a hand at my back to support me while I tugged the shirt the rest of the way off, and when I was free I slipped my hands between his skin and the top of his jeans, my nails grazing over the happy trail that disappeared into his pants. My chest was heaving, my breasts rising and falling with each quick breath I took. I wrapped my hand around his neck and yanked him to me, planting my lips fully on his— taking control the way he’d taken control of me. His fingers weaved through my hair, tugging and bunching, making me aware of every little pleasure point on my body. He pulled on it hard enough to look me in the eyes. “Are you sure?” I couldn’t help it: I laughed. My whole body shook, and tears bunched up at the corner of my eyes. I dropped my head to his shoulder. “Are you kidding me right now?” His touch gentled, and he pushed the hair that had fallen over my shoulders away. He pressed his palm flat to my chest, right in the center of my breasts. “God, Mila. I find you…” he swallowed, and I saw how his chest was heaving too. “Fucking irresistible. But I don’t want to rush you—” I closed my mouth over his in a hot kiss before pulling away. “Shut up, Ames. Don’t stop touching me unless you want me to destroy this kitchen.” He laughed, and I loved the way it reverberated through his chest and against mine. “Let’s do it anyway.” Before I could say another word, he yanked me off the counter and hooked his arm

under me. My legs wrapped around his waist as he carried me, and I giggled as he moved me across the room. Things rustled across the floor, newspaper and empty paint cans that rolled away from us. He set me on the stainless island in the midst of a mess and pressed his mouth hot to mine. “Lean back.” His voice was so commanding, so sure, that I became instantly compliant and laid back, gasping when my skin hit the cool steel, my legs hanging over the edge. His hands slid under my skirt, wrapping around the waistband of my panties and pulling them swiftly off, tossing them across the room. The determination, the heat, in his eyes made me forget all about the cold counter beneath me. How could I be cold, when he was looking at me like this? His hand swept over either side of me, knocking things off the counter so that they rolled to the floor, providing the music of this moment. A paint can clattered and his pants unzipped. A bag of tools banged on its fall to the floor and his pants dropped. “This island is on wheels,” he said, as a loud click sounded in the air. Oh shit. My heart was thundering as he grabbed me by the ankles and gently pushed so that the table I laid on slid feet away from him. He spread my legs and then pressed his mouth to my calf. In all my years of sexual activity, I couldn’t recall ever being kissed there—and judging by the way my body squirmed, I knew I’d remember being kissed right there. His lips moved up my leg, and with each inch, he pulled the table ever so slowly back toward him. I was burning, my body on the edge of combustion, when his lips moved over my knee and up my thigh. With a wicked glint in his eye, he flipped my skirt up and his mouth grazed over my center. I went cross-eyed, and nearly bucked clear off the table. But, just as his mouth touched me there, he pushed the island away, and started the process again on my other leg. “Aaames,” I moaned, more impatient than I had ever been in my whole life. But he said nothing, just pulled the table slowly and slowly closer to him as he had before. When his mouth hit the top of my thigh, I pushed myself up and threw myself at him. The island loudly slid away as we fell to the ground. I reached behind me and unsnapped my bra, before he ripped it off of me and threw it across the room. When I leaned down to kiss him, he flipped me to my back and sat back to pull a condom out of the pocket of the jeans he’d discarded. I didn’t care that I was laying on dusty newspaper. I didn’t care that we were surrounded by painting supplies. I couldn’t find it in myself to care about anything except the moment when Ames leaned over and checked to see that I was ready. A smile curved my lips. “You really think I’m not ready?” He laughed, leaned over and kissed me. His mouth pulled away just long enough for

him to whisper, “Shut up,” against my lips before he slid into me. Pleasure speared through me, making my body desperate. Arms and legs wrapped around him before releasing and then repeating it again. It was as if I had no control over my body, over how it responded to him. I was a slave to my own submission for him, a facet of myself I didn’t know existed until that moment. Over and over, he rocked into me. As he drove me higher and higher, my back arched sharper and sharper, and I thought I’d split in half from the sheer intensity of it. He gripped my hips and lifted them as he moved to his knees and increased his pace. The difference in angle sent me reeling, twisting my body left and right, seeking the release I was so needy for. When it finally exploded into me, my voice sounded foreign to my own ears. Incoherent sounds came from my lips but I was so overwhelmed by the sensations bursting along my skin that I couldn’t focus on anything—not a single thing. He buried his head into my neck and huffed out heavy breaths before he slowed and collapsed on top of me. After several seconds, he rolled off me, but pulled me so that I covered him. His breathing was evening out, but mine still felt so shallow, and my warmed body started realizing that I was naked except for a skirt. The rustling to my left had me lifting my head to look at Ames. “What are you doing?” He smiled, and my heart fell over in my chest at the warm look in his eyes, the sweat that curled one tendril of hair across his forehead. “I don’t suppose newspaper is a suitable blanket.” What was it about him, that made me find every little thing he said or did so fascinating? I propped my chin on his chest. “No, I don’t think so.” “I have plastic sheets.” He tilted his head back and looked at the sheets that hung from the kitchen to the restaurant. “That’s only necessary if you plan to Dexter me.” He laughed, and his fingers grazed up my arm. “I don’t have a boat.” I laughed, and felt the urge to wrap my arms around him and squeeze. When he was playful like this, I was amazed by just how much it affected me. He touched my shoulder. “You have goosebumps. I didn’t think this through.” “I don’t think either of us were thinking too much.” His smile softened and his touch moved to my face. “I can’t seem to sort my thoughts when I’m around you.” I covered his hand with mine. “Likewise, babe.” His eyes closed for a moment and when he opened them, he seemed different.

“What’s wrong?” I watched the tick in his jaw. “I’m glad I could say goodbye to this place with a bang.” “Nice pun.” But I was sad for him. “I don’t want you freezing,” he said, and sat up, holding me with him. His head swung around the room. “I have no clue where I threw your clothes.” I stood up and walked in the direction I’d seen him throw at least one of my undergarments. I spied the black lace halfway under an open cabinet space. “Is this where the stove is going to go?” I asked as I slid the straps over my shoulders and fastened it behind my back. Ames pulled up his jeans and zipped them. “Was. And yes, it was going to be a wall of them there.” He bent over and grabbed his shirt. I found my panties draped over the top of an empty paint can and pulled them on. “I’m not sure where my shirt is,” I said on a laugh, picking up newspapers and seeing nothing. Ames tossed his tee to me. “Put this on until we find it.” I didn’t protest, just shoved my face into the warm cotton, breathed in his scent. He even smelled warm. When I looked up, Ames was looking at me. “You’ve gotta see this.” I walked across the room, to where the island lay haphazardly, pushed against some cabinets. I was expecting to see my shirt in some funny position, but instead what greeted me was an amalgamation of blues and reds from spilled paint cans, splashed across an unfinished white cabinet. “Oh, shit.” I put a hand to my mouth. “I don’t suppose you were going to paint those tie-dye, were you?” He laughed and put an arm around me, guiding me around the mess of cans and newspaper. “No. But it doesn’t matter anyway.” He pointed to the spot on the ground, where the paint was already spreading across the gray concrete. “That’ll probably stain.” “Oops.” He shrugged. “I like it. If I was keeping the place, I’d probably keep that stain.” Like the way the red seeped across the concrete, red spread in my face, and down my neck. If Ames could keep the restaurant, he could keep this. A small piece of us.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE MOMENT I opened my hotel room door, anxiety hit me faster than my mother’s perfume. “Mila!” she exclaimed, wrapping her bony arms around me in a brisk hug. “Have you even brushed your hair today?” I sucked in the eye roll and ignored her, facing my father. “Hey, Dad.” His arm was wrapped around Jude’s shoulders, and he gave me enough attention to rub the top of my head before he pushed past me into the room that was theirs for their stay. Jude didn’t wait, just stepped forward and gave me the hug I’d needed from him. He was my only buffer between our parents, though I didn’t like putting him in that position. But because he was also my best friend, he stepped up to the plate time and time again. “Her hair looks great, Mom. It’s the style,” he called over my shoulder, and I squeezed him harder. When he pulled back, my anxiety had lessened a bit. “You look good, Mila-moo.” I leaned into him after closing the door. “Didn’t we discuss losing them in the airport on your way here?” “Yeah, well, they practically have me on GPS—hard to lose them.” He squeezed my shoulder reassuringly. “It’ll be fine. It’ll be great. Don’t worry.” But I couldn’t not worry. “I thought we were getting a garden view,” my mom said by the windows, frowning as she pulled off her gloves. My father was already hitting the liquor I’d purchased and placed on the cabinet by the television. “Sorry—this was all they had with two rooms next to each other. Like I told you on the phone, I could’ve stayed on this side and you on the garden side if you didn’t want adjoining rooms.” “Don’t be silly, Mila. We didn’t come all this way to spend time apart.” Her voice was cutting, and I felt immediately like I was a small child, being told to wait in the waiting room, being pushed aside so easily. I exhaled a deep breath and nodded, remembering my lines. “Of course, Mom.” I exchanged a look with Jude, whose face radiated apology. “Where’s Trista?”

Jude looked pointedly at our parents, explaining without words that the reason he didn’t bring his girlfriend along was for this very reason. I tried not to be disappointed, because I genuinely liked Trista, but the fact that I’d stolen Colin from her still weighed heavily on me—which meant her absence was probably for the best. My father sighed as he sat with his glass of whiskey and turned on the television. My mother pulled out her phone and started tapping on the screen with her fake nails. If I could be consoled by anything, it was that nothing had changed, for better or worse. I sunk onto the bed nearest the door. “How was the flight?” “Ugh, long.” My mother tossed her gloves onto the stand by the television. “Already, George?” she asked my father, one auburn eyebrow raised. He ignored her—his special brand of love—and flipped to a channel that had sports on it. “Your father spent nearly thirty dollars on liquor just on the flight over,” she said, the disgust neatly tucked in the sides of her mouth, which were turned down. Despite my anxiety, I found a strange kind of comfort in how consistent my parents were toward each other. Nothing had changed there—which meant that this trip would be entirely predictable. “The flight was good,” Jude said, standing by the window with one hand holding the curtains back. “I slept most of it.” “Doesn’t surprise me.” I gave him a wry smile. “Well, I didn’t sleep.” My mother’s hand was over her throat, and she acted as if she was personally offended by the fact that Jude had dared fall asleep instead of listening to her manifesto on the seven-hour flight across the Atlantic. “You must be tired.” I waved a hand at the bed I sat on, and stood up, already ready to make my exit. “I could use a nap. I’m sure your father will be snoring after his second one of those.” She pointed at the drink in his hand, and he ignored her, just as she had ignored him in speaking of him in third person. “But I want to go out tonight.” I’d prepared a list of restaurants, knowing how my mother was the exact opposite of “easy to please.” But before I could list them, Jude turned to me. “Let’s go to Free Refills.” My mother turned to me with a question in her eyes and I turned to Jude with murder in mine. “No, it’s super casual. I’m sure Mom and Dad would be happier elsewhere.” Mentally, I kicked myself for keeping Jude apprised of my goings-on while I’d been in London. And mentally I kicked him too, for having a big mouth. She sat on the bed and released a sigh. “I don’t think I have the energy to get dressed up for a dinner anywhere upscale tonight.” She leaned back against the pillows, and I tried not to laugh at the picture she made, which contrasted completely with what she claimed. “What is this Free Refills?” “It’s a pub,” I said, smiling to myself for using Ames’ preferred term. “But really, you

don’t want to go there, there’s—” “If it has food and drinks, I’m sure it’ll suit your father and I just fine,” she interrupted. She closed her eyes and her face relaxed, making her look years younger than usual. “I’ll just take a short nap and we’ll go.” Jude walked me out of the hotel room and once we were in the hallway, I turned to him. “Seriously, Jude? I don’t want to take Mom and Dad there!” I tried to remember if Ames was working. He knew my parents were coming to town, but we’d never made actual plans for me to bring them by. That felt too … official for whatever it was that Ames and I had. “I want to meet this guy you’re blowing off work to spend time with.” Even though he hadn’t chastised me, it still felt like it. I gave him an awkward smile and walked down the hallway a ways, so I wasn’t right outside our parents’ door. “Sorry. I’ll work on that.” I rubbed my eyebrows. “And I’m fine with you meeting Ames, but I don’t want them to meet him.” “GPS, remember? They’re not going to let me go traipsing around the city without them on an invisible leash, being tugged along.” At my forlorn look, he put his hands on my shoulders. “It’ll be fine. It’ll be great. We’ll go for a couple drinks—Dad will get drunk enough that Mom will have to babysit him back to the hotel. I won’t make them suspicious about Ames at all.” I shrugged away from him. “Fine. But make sure Dad has a few here before we go. Shorten his time there, you know.” Jude promised and went back to our parents’ room. My own room was blessedly quiet, even with the low hum of Dad’s television show against the wall. I turned on my television for background noise, locked the door that adjoined the two rooms, and collapsed onto my bed with my phone in my hand. Me: Are you working tonight? I waited a very long time for Ames’ reply—an entire thirty minutes. It was long enough for me to know the answer before his Yes flashed across my screen. Me: Can you save me four seats around nine? Summoning Jude’s promise, I tried to agree with what he’d said. It would be fine. It’d be quick, painless, and my parents wouldn’t know about my little romance with a London bartender. I knew they wouldn’t object to my having a romance, but having a romance with someone on the opposite side of the world was more than they could actually endure. And while it didn’t matter to me what they thought, I didn’t want to listen to more badgering than necessary.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE PUB WAS SLAMMED, and Jennie was my only help up front for the night. My part-time employee was sick, and Lotte was alone in the kitchen with Sam, who was serving as her slave for the night—chopping vegetables, seasoning chicken, and washing the multitude of dirty cups that were stacked along the counter. But despite the noise, the bodies swarming what little available space existed around the dance floor, the moment she walked in the door, I knew immediately. It was after nine, so it was already dark outside—but it was that crazy kind of light that followed her like shadows followed everyone else that drew my attention to the entrance. Unlike all the other times she walked into my pub, the expression on her face was less than jubilant. And in seeing who followed her, I understood. A man much taller than her followed her, his eyes scanning the crowd, and based on how much they resembled one another with their coloring, I knew this was her twin brother, Jude. And judging by the older couple that followed them, I knew she’d brought the whole gang with her. Which explained her mood. They took the four seats I’d had Jennie save at the end of the bar, and I nearly laughed at Mila’s face—she looked like she was facing an executioner. Her eyebrows were furrowed, her eyes wide, and she mouthed, “Send Jennie,” to me. I shut down the disappointment I felt, and sent Jennie to their end to take orders while I filled an order for a hen party happening across the room. Jennie brushed past me to fill two glasses with lager. “We’re not going to survive this crowd.” Jennie was one of the most confident women I knew—often annoyingly so—so to hear that she was afraid of what the night would bring gave me pause. Tonight’s crowd was so unlike anything we’d previously had, so Jennie wasn’t wrong—we were wholly unprepared. “We’ll be fine.” I turned around, and accidentally bumped into her. “Shit!” she exclaimed as cold beer poured down her shirt. She looked at me with death in her eyes. “Ames!” She whipped off her apron to see the damage of her shirt. “I’m so sorry,” I said, and handed her a rag. “See if Lotte has a shirt you can borrow.” She held the wet shirt away from her body and muttered a hundred obscenities. “I know you didn’t mean to, but it’s taking everything in my power not to destroy you right now.”

I believed her, especially because the look in her eyes scared me enough that I couldn’t look too long. “Go on. I’ll hold down the fort.” “No you won’t. It’s mad in here.” She stepped through the door to the kitchen and I took a steadying breath and grabbed the beers she’d been pouring. “Hey,” I said softly when I got to the end of the bar where Mila and her family were. She smiled instantly and the fog lifted from her eyes. “Two lagers?” “Mine and his.” Mila pointed at the older man, whose beer I set down first. When I set hers down, I let my finger graze over her pinky before I pulled away. The woman I assumed to be Mila’s mother wasn’t talking to Mila at all—her attention completely focused on Jude. She seemed pushy in her affection for him, brushing his hair away from his forehead even as he resisted her touch. “Sorry, what did you order?” I asked Jude and the woman. Jude was eyeing me, but not in an intimidating way. It was the first time I’d ever met the brother of a girl I was interested in, and I wasn’t exactly sure how to play it, with her parents here. Mila had told me that she’d told Jude a little bit about me, about us, but I was at a disadvantage with knowing how much talk was appropriate at the moment. “Water for me.” “Mom, the sangria is really good.” Mila’s eyes flashed over to mine, her smile a little secretive. “Sangria? In a pub?” Mila’s mum made a face and peered up at the menu above my head. “Just give me a martini, please.” I nodded and moved down the bar, but not before poking my head into the kitchen. Sam was fending for himself, unloading the dishwasher and drying the wet dishes. I ran a hand over my head, realizing that Jennie was absolutely right. We were in trouble for the night. When I returned to Mila’s end of the bar with the drinks for Jude and her mum, Mila gripped my wrist, halting me from moving. “Mom, Dad, Jude, this is Ames.” Her eyes were unsure, worried. I turned my wrist enough so that I could curl my fingers with hers. “Ames, this is Jude—my brother. And George and Emma—my parents.” “How do you do?” I nodded at each of them. “Ames manages this bar,” Mila said without taking her eyes off of me. “Do you own it?” Emma asked. The answer seemed important to her. “No, my father-in-law does.” “Father-in-law?” She flicked her gaze to my ring and then sighed. “Mila…” Mila’s face went red. “Mom, it’s … never mind.” She wouldn’t look at me. “My wife passed away two years ago,” I butted in, surprising both me and Mila, judging by her expression. “I stayed on with my in-laws after that.” I laughed and looked

around. “I’m doing a terrible job of it right now. We’re short-staffed.” “Where’s Jennie?” Mila asked. Mila’s father seemed oblivious, eyes focused on the television mounted on the wall above the bar. But Mila’s mother was watching our exchange with a singular focus that made me nervous. “Ah, well, when she was pouring the lager, I accidentally stepped into her.” I hooked a thumb toward the back of the pub, beyond the kitchen. “She’s getting a shirt from Lotte.” “Need help?” “Mila.” Emma’s tone held warning and I wondered at it. “What, Mom?” “We came all the way here to visit you.” She raised an eyebrow that I expected was meant for Mila to cower to it. “I know, Mom. I won’t be long.” She turned to me. “Ames is a friend.” A friend. Was that what we were? We hadn’t really defined it. But it seemed to be an inadequate word for what we were. “Ames, need help?” She said it so earnestly, and under any other circumstance, I would have refused her help in order to keep her on the stool. So I could keep looking at her. But I sensed that she was seeking a reprieve, so I nodded. “Can you take orders?” She nodded and jumped off the stool so swiftly that it was almost funny how keen she was on escaping. I lifted the bar top and she walked through it. “Where are the aprons?” With my hand on the small of her back, I led her into the kitchen, toward the utility closet. Once inside, I grabbed a black apron with our logo across it and turned to her. “Are you sure you want to do this?” “One billion percent,” she said as I looped it over her neck. When her hands were behind her back, tying the strings, I leaned in and dropped a kiss to her lips. It’d been so long since I had the last time—since I’d taken her to the restaurant a handful of days earlier. Seeing her tonight had lifted my soul a little bit, and having her alone for the space of a minute in the back meant I needed to do whatever I could to make the moment last. She stopped tying to grip my shirt. When I pulled away, she smiled. “Hi,” she whispered. “I’m glad you’re here.” I tugged on the apron. “And not just for the help.” “I’m glad I’m here too.” She tugged on my apron, mimicking me. “Sorry, I had to bring them along.” “Don’t apologize.” I stuffed a pad and a paper into the pocket of her apron. “All you need to do is take orders from the tables and the bar. I’ll fill them. If it gets to be too much, I’ll have you do simple refills—like water and soda.”

“Okay.” She looked determined. “I think I can manage that.” “I know you can.” I rubbed her chin. “Jennie will be down in a few and she’ll line you out on the register, logging the drink orders. For now, just write them down.” She nodded and pulled the pad out, pen poised and ready. She looked adorable like that, all official and excited, that I couldn’t help but steal another kiss from her. So I did, making it last long enough that I heard Lotte’s heavy steps trotting down the staircase before I finally pulled away. For the next three hours, Mila was a workhorse. She took drink order after drink order, smiling and being social the entire time. The patrons seemed to enjoy her presence— which I only took notice of because I couldn’t stop looking at her. I wasn’t checking on her—I didn’t doubt she could do what I’d asked of her. But whenever there was brief lull in the volume of drink orders, I sought her out. Her parents left after the first couple hours, without even giving her a goodbye. Jude stuck around though, nursing his water. I tried to chat with him a few times, but the visitors to the pub didn’t start reducing until close to midnight, so it was steady enough that I couldn’t chat for longer than a moment. When Mila stepped behind the bar to refill a soda, I took the opportunity to place my hand at her lower back. Just that slightest bit of physical connection was what I had been craving for hours, but now that I had touched her, I wanted more. “You’re doing great, Mila.” She bloomed under the praise, her warm cheeks turning the lightest shade of pink. She’d pulled her hair back into a high ponytail, leaving her neck free. I hadn’t seen the curve of her neck often, not with her pile of hair always spilling over her shoulders. Seeing it like this made me want to touch. “I love it.” She beamed. “I like talking to people.” I raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s a surprise.” She pressed a hand to my chest to push me playfully, but I captured it and held it still. “These people. They’re just so interesting.” She moved closer and pointed with the hand I wasn’t holding. “The couple in the corner near the fireplace? They’re writers, backpacking through Europe. How fun is that?” Her eyes were so honest, her smile so welcoming, that I couldn’t help myself—I smiled with her, and brought her hand to my lips, kissing it gently. The pink in her cheeks deepened and I vowed then to do whatever I could to make that happen again. To be the cause for color to bloom in her face, to be the reason she smiled. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked. “Like what?” “Well, you’re smiling at me.” I hadn’t realized I’d been smiling at her. It had just formed on my lips effortlessly, thanks to her. “You say that like I don’t know how to smile.” The hand on her back pulled her closer

to me. “Like I haven’t smiled at you before.” “You have,” she said, her voice soft. “But never like that.” What a shame, I thought. I should smile at her all the time, for all the ways her presence alone brought light into my life. “Hey lovebirds,” Jennie said, bumping into us from behind. “We’re not closed yet, and this isn’t a hotel.” We separated and she moved back to the other side of the bar, depositing drinks on tables with a pep in her step that was solely her. “What’s going on with you?” Jennie asked, pushing an empty bottle into my hands. I shook my head and dropped it in the bin with the other glass. “Nothing.” “You’ve never been a good liar, Ames. Not even an adequate one.” “Shut up, Jennie,” I said with no heat. “It’s cute,” she added when I handed her a fresh bottle. “It’s nothing.” “No—not nothing. But keep it up. It’s good to see you smiling. Even if it does make me gag a little.” She twirled away, to join Mila out on the floor.

Just after midnight, Mila handed me her apron. “I have to take Jude back to the hotel.” “Okay.” I glanced at the clock and wrote it down. “Come by tomorrow, I’ll give you your pay and share of the tips.” She shook her head and framed my face in her hands as she smiled at me. “I don’t want to be paid, Ames. I just wanted to help you.” She brushed a lock of hair away from my forehead, and having her this close, her heartbeat under my skin, was driving me crazy. “Be right back, Jennie,” I called as I tugged Mila from the front of the bar to the back and past a bewildered Lotte and Sam. When we reached the closet, I yanked the door open and pushed Mila inside as she laughed and laughed. I propped her up on the desk and pressed my lips to hers, needing to taste her skin again. She wrapped her arms around my neck and I stepped between her legs, pulling her close—the closest I could. When my lips left hers to press into her hair, she squeezed me tighter. “Embarrassed to kiss me in public, Ames?”

My brow furrowed and I pulled back to make sure she could look directly into my eyes. “Absolutely not. But I am selfish enough to want to kiss you with no one looking on —especially not your brother, when I’ve said hardly three sentences to him.” The tiny closet was dark except for the monitor screen that awoke from the movement. All I saw were the shadows that surrounded her, reflecting off the glint in her eye as she watched me. She sighed and pressed her forehead to mine. “I don’t want to go back to my hotel.” “I understand why you have to, Cinderella.” She tilted her head to the side. “Cinderella? I’m not sure that’s the correct fairy tale.” “Hm.” I pressed a kiss to the underside of her jaw. “Well, it’s after midnight. And you have to get back.” My lips moved along the line of her jaw, to just behind her earlobe. Her head fell back, knocking gently against the cupboard behind her. “Mhm. But in this case, it’s more like Romeo and Juliet, isn’t it?” “Why? Because your mum doesn’t approve?” I didn’t stall my kissing, wanting to explore her whole face, to make this last as long as I could. “I’m not sure that’s the correct phrasing, but yes—it’s probably more accurate.” “Yeah, well,” I kissed her lips and pulled away and then kissed them again before I continued, “Romeo and Juliet isn’t a fairy tale, is it?” I felt rather than saw her swallow hard. She let out a breath just by my ear as I kissed the shell of hers. “Right.” Her voice was fragile, breathy. “This isn’t a fairy tale either, is it?” That time I did pause. She wasn’t wrong, but I didn’t know what to say in that moment to assure her. So I kissed her once more, softer, and then helped her down from the desk. “I wish you could stay,” I told her as I took her hand in mine and led her out of the office. She smiled at me, but it seemed forced, sad. “Me too. I’ll come by tomorrow, I promise.” “It’s already tomorrow.” I pointed at my watch. Her smile appeared more genuine then and she let go of my hand as she said, “I’ll see you today.” “Can’t wait.” And then she walked through the door to the pub and I turned to Lotte and Sam who were staring at me. “You’ve got it bad, mate.” Sam started laughing and I threw Mila’s apron at him. I didn’t say anything to that, knowing that Mila’s time here was so short. I wanted to make it special for her, to hold onto her as long as I could, before I’d have to let go.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WHEN I CRAWLED into my bed, my mind wouldn’t shut the hell off. My body had aged a solid ten years from being on my feet in heels all night, but the energy I felt just from being around everyone had lit me up from the inside out, at war with the fatigue in my muscles. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that the kisses Ames had given me in the closet were part of it, too. I curled my arms around my middle as I lay awake in my big bed, thinking of how my whole body had hummed alive as he’d dropped kiss after kiss across my skin. A light out of the corner of my eye pulled my attention away from the ceiling. My phone was lit up on the desk across the room. I turned my head to the alarm clock, reading two-forty-five in the morning. Confused, I climbed out of bed, wondering if Jude was texting me. But I saw Ames face lit up on my screen and quickly swiped to unlock it. Ames: Awake? Sitting on the edge of the bed, I typed out my reply. Me: What do you think? I bit my lip as I waited for his reply. Ames: Go to your window. I couldn’t move across the room fast enough. The street was dark at this hour, but there was one street lamp still lit across the street, where a shadow stepped out of the darkness and smiled up at me. Holy. Shit. My whole chest ached, and I was sure the smile that crossed my lips was wide enough to crack my face in half. I waved, and then realized I was wearing only an oversized tee. I wasn’t sure how much Ames could see, since I was on the second floor and it was dark out, but he must have realized the moment I did, because his smile grew wider and my phone buzzed in my hand. Ames: Nice legs. I refused to be embarrassed, but color stained my cheeks anyway. Me: What are you doing here? He looked at his phone and then back up at me as his reply came through.

Ames: I was hoping there was a trellis or something of the sort for me to climb. Romeo and Juliet, right?

Me: You were going to climb up to my room?

Ames: Yeah. But not in a creepy way. In a very suave, Romeo way. And hopefully I wouldn’t be arrested or break something on my person. I found myself stupidly charmed by that, and gripped my phone in my hand when his next reply came through. Ames: I figured I’d give you the whole effect. It was the least I could do. I tried to open the window, but it was completely sealed shut. Me: You wouldn’t have gotten far. My window won’t open.

Ames: Pity. Tell you what, why don’t you come down and I take you somewhere?

Me: At two-forty-five in the morning? Instead of replying, he looked up at me and nodded. I ran my hand through my hair, thinking, Me: I’ll need a couple minutes. To get dressed.

Ames: Just put some trousers on and grab a jacket.

Me: I’d like to brush my hair. And apply a little makeup, I added to myself. Ames: You have one minute and then I’m coming up to get you. Shit. I put the phone down and grabbed the closest pair of jeans, shoving my legs through them as my mind raced. I wasn’t wearing a bra, but he’d said to wear a jacket. I had to choose between the bra and running a brush through my hair, and I chose the latter, hoping my jacket would make the lack of a bra not too obvious. It turned out that I didn’t have enough time to slick any makeup on. By the time I checked my phone, it’d been two minutes, so I grabbed it and slipped my feet into my sandals before running out into the hallway. There was something undeniably exciting about sneaking out in the middle of the night, not letting my parents—who were in the next room—know I was even leaving. I ran as softly as I could down the hall to the bank of elevators and hurriedly pressed the button

to go down. Almost instantly, the doors slid open and Ames stood there, a smile on his face as he pulled me in with him. When the doors closed, he picked me up and pressed me against the elevator wall, kissing me. My heart was beating a million beats a minute, from the rush of running out of my room and running right into his arms. I was out of breath when he pulled away. “I think modern day Romeo would’ve taken the lift.” His lips quirked up and my chest ached again. “I think you’re right.” “Also, hi.” “Hi.” I could barely contain the laugh in my throat. “Where are we going?” “You’ll see.” He stepped back and looked me over. “Nice outfit.” “Yeah, well you didn’t give me a lot of time to prepare.” He played with the hem of my jacket. “All you needed were trousers.” “That’s debatable.” The elevator doors opened and Ames took my hand, leading me out and onto the sidewalk. “Great hotel choice, by the way. This makes it easier for me to take you to the place I want to take you.” I had to speed up my steps to catch up with his long stride. “Is this a date?” I teased him, squeezing his hand tighter when we crossed a street. He stopped for a second and looked down at me. “I still owe you one of those, don’t I?” I shrugged. “Well, no. You don’t owe it to me.” “I’ll take you on a date before…” He looked away for a moment. “I’ll take you on a date.” I swallowed the sadness that always arose when we talked about my leaving. “I’m going to hold you to it.” We walked for a couple more minutes before I realized where we were going. Up ahead was Westminster Bridge, much less crowded than it’d been the night we’d met. On the other side of the river, the Elizabeth Tower stood proudly in the dark, its minute hand on the fifty-three. “I remember you saying you came here to see it.” He pulled me closer and switched to hold my hand with his other so he could wrap his arm around my shoulders. “But the bell was ringing when you fell over.” I pressed against him. “I didn’t really fall, I was sort of pushed.” His smile was teasing. “Same outcome, right?” “You remember the bell chiming when I went over?”

We began walking across the bridge and stopped feet from the spot we’d first met. “I remember everything from that moment.” He unwrapped his arm to pull me back against his chest and wrapped his arms in front of me, holding me securely to him. “This time, you’re with a local, so you’re less likely to fall off the bridge.” I dropped my head back against his chest and laughed. “So gentlemanly of you.” The bridge was so much darker than it’d been the night we’d met. Cars passed us, and few people were actually crossing it by foot. I rubbed the hands that were tightly wrapped around me, my finger brushing over his wedding ring. Part of me expected to feel bothered by the fact that he still wore it, but a much larger part of me understood it. So I ran my finger over the design carved into it— some chevron-style pattern. Ames pulled his hand from me and I momentarily felt bad for touching it, but then he put his hand in front of my face. “Go on, take it off.” I turned my head to look at him questioningly. “Take it off?” He nodded. “It has a story.” “A story? It’s a wedding ring.” “Not really.” Confused, I stared at it before I began to cautiously twist it until it was loose enough to slide off his hand. It was heavier than I expected, much heavier than any ring I’d ever worn. Heavier than I thought most men’s wedding rings were. My nail traced over the pattern. “It’s an ‘M’ repeated.” “It’s heavy.” I held it in my palm and lifted my hand up and down to mimic a scale. “It is. Twenty-one grams, in fact.” It seemed odd that he’d know its exact weight. “Is that significant?” “It is.” He took the ring from me and held it up between us. “Over a hundred years ago, there was this physician named Duncan MacDougall. He made it his mission to see if he could determine the weight of a soul.” “How can you weigh a soul?” “By measuring the mass lost at the moment when a person dies.” “That doesn’t sound like it’d be easy to do.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t suppose it was. But he was determined. He had six patients who were in the process of dying from tuberculosis, so it was easy to tell when death was knocking at the door. When they were in the final stages, he placed their bed on a giant industrial scale and measured the weights of his subjects at the moment of their deaths.” “And?”

“Well, when his first patient passed, the scale dropped twenty-one grams. His other patients lost varying degrees of weight, but he stuck with the theory that when the soul departed the body at the moment of death, it weighed twenty-one grams.” “And your ring weighs twenty-one grams.” “When Mahlon died, I had our rings fused together. There was a little bit of metal left from her ring once it’d hit twenty-one grams, so I had it made into a charm for Lotte.” “So, you believe the weight of a soul is twenty-one grams?” He wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “Not necessarily. But it’s a notion that fascinated Mahlon. She wrote a paper on MacDougall’s studies, defended him and questioned his practices—even going so far as to explain the twenty-one-gram loss. She found it romantic, the belief in the weight of life. And when she died, I wanted to honor her presence, her life, in some way.” He slid the ring back on his finger. “So now, I carry her with me.” I couldn’t blame Mahlon for romanticizing the ethically questionable practices of the doctor and his subsequent hypothesis. The idea that life wasn’t weightless wasn’t something I’d ever considered, but it made me feel a little more whole—thinking that a soul was something that could be measured. I leaned against Ames and his arms wrapped around me again. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “Don’t be sorry.” His lips pressed into my hair. “I was lucky. I am lucky.” The melody from the bell began, silencing anything else we would’ve said. I listened to its song and waited for its three chimes, and closed my eyes, imagining that this— whatever this was—didn’t have an expiration date. That in two weeks, I wouldn’t be going home. My chest heaved a deep sigh and I relaxed more fully into him. When the bell had rung its last chime, I turned to face Ames. “Thanks for bringing me here.” “Better experience this time? Standing on the bridge rather than hanging over it?” I playfully punched his chest. “Slightly better—despite the company.” “Yes,” he put his hands in his pockets. “The company is a disappointment. Good on you for enduring it anyway.” Laughing, I pressed my face against his chest and his arms came around me again. “I’m used to it.” I thought of my family. “Of disappointing company. So, on the scale of disappointing company, yours hardly measures.” “Lucky me.” He rubbed my back, warming me against the chill in the air. “I’m guessing your parents are the base for this scale.” “You’re right.” My hands made circles over his back and I settled more and more against him, feeling comforted for the first time in a long, long time. There was something so supremely serene about just touching another human, feeling their heart beat against yours, the rise and fall of their chests in time with your breaths. “Sorry my mom wasn’t on

her best behavior. I’d blame it on the long flight, but she’s just always like that.” “It’s okay. You haven’t met my parents—and I hate to compete against you, but let’s just say I’d totally win the sourest parent award.” “You sound so confident.” “I haven’t spoken to my mum in five years. She lives in the south of France with whichever old guy she’s suckered into taking care of her.” “You don’t get along?” “We don’t have anything in common—so we’re hardly in the same place long enough to not get along.” “And your dad?” “Passed away when I was young.” “Now I really feel awful. At least I have parents who travel halfway around the world to see me.” He squeezed me tightly and then pulled back, holding his hand out to take mine. “Is that why they came?” He was astute, I had to give him that. “Actually, they came because Jude was coming.” “Right. And have they gone out of their way to spend any meaningful time with you.” “It’s only been one day,” I reminded him, but I knew he was right. They already had plans to do some sightseeing tomorrow—had even purchased tickets—and I hadn’t been invited. “My relationship with them is complicated.” “All relationships are. I think that ‘complicated’ is in the very definition of relationship. But tell me what’s different about yours.” “The walk isn’t long enough to get into it,” I joked. “I’m good with bullet points.” Sighing, I said, “Okay. Well, I was the healthy child—meaning I didn’t ‘need’ them like Jude did. And before you say anything—I do not begrudge him for his heart condition. I don’t blame him for taking up our parents’ attention. They had a choice in how they raised us and they chose to put Jude on a pedestal to measure my faults against. I was too risky, too selfish, too … too much of everything that didn’t suit them. And the fact that I could never narrow my focus on any particular thing: a career, a hobby, a goal, a place to live … well, that was horror personified. They wanted me to be really good at just one thing—the way Jude is really good at so many things—and I think I subconsciously defied them by taking on so many things and being relatively mediocre at them all.” Realizing I was just verbally vomiting my feelings, I gave him an embarrassed smile. “I don’t think that was bullet points.” “I followed it just fine.” He didn’t make me feel bad for spewing my thoughts, and he didn’t try to reassure me with absolutes that I didn’t need. “But I disagree with you.” “Why?”

“I could use many words to describe you, but mediocre wouldn’t make the list.” I shrugged, secretly interested in what words he would use, but too embarrassed to ask. “I don’t think I’m mediocre.” “Well, now you’re just lying.” I looked up at him, but it was harder to see his face with it in the shadows now that we were far from the bridge. “I’m not lying.” “The night you came to Free Refills, when you were already drunk? Maybe you don’t remember the things you said, but I do.” I groaned. “I’m scared to think about the things I said.” “One of the more interesting things was what you said about Jennie. You complimented her talent with pouring drinks. And then you flipped the compliment and compared yourself to it. If I remember correctly, you said, ‘I’m not good at anything.’” “How embarrassing.” I cringed and wished I could erase that night from his memory like it’d been erased from mine. “But she is—she flips bottles and cups and manages to hold a conversation as she’s pouring without even looking. And she never spills.” “Don’t tell her this, you’ll inflate her ego to a size where it’ll be impossible to work with her. But you’re plenty good at a lot of things, Mila. Like accents.” I huffed. “Fat lot of good that’s doing me. I haven’t had a voice gig in a while.” “You’re good at being a people-person.” I pulled away to look at him. “Are you being serious?” “Completely. Look—what you did tonight at the Free Refills? That’s not easy. People liked you and more than that, they wanted to keep talking to you. I don’t have that. Jennie doesn’t even have that. I think she scares people, to be honest, which is half the reason I keep her employed. But you—people look forward to talking to you. That’s not something that can be learned.” “Anything can be learned.” I kicked a pebble out of my path. “And dancing—you’re a good dancer.” I laughed and shoved at him. “You’ve never even seen me dance. You’re listing these things on my verbal resume without really knowing them.” “Lotte says you’re good.” That gave me pause. “Lotte is really good. Great, actually.” It surprised me that she’d call me good at dancing, given her level of skill and my very rudimentary knowledge of dance. “And okay, I don’t mean to sound all doom and gloom—but I’m just illustrating one of my many conflicts with my parents.” “And I’m just explaining why they’re wrong.” When we reached the hotel, I kept pulling on his hand, leading him to the elevator and up in it, and didn’t let go until I reached my hotel room door.

Part of me expected him to grab for me the second we were inside the door, but he didn’t. He walked around the room, taking in the various things I had laid about for work. He picked up a piece of paper and chuckled. “What?” I peered over his shoulder. He was holding the paper I’d written on during my first phone call with Jude about Free Refills. “‘Free Refills in Camden. Good Sangria.’” He raised an eyebrow. “Best damn TripAdvisor review I’ve ever read.” I took the paper from his hand and swatted him gently with it. “Shut up,” I said on a laugh. “I wrote that down so I wouldn’t forget the name and place.” “Because you wanted to go back?” I nodded, and looped my arm around his as he looked at the rest of my notes. It was oddly intimate, but not uncomfortable, to have him looking over my notes, reading things I’d written. “You’ve been busy the last few days.” I’d hit up a bunch of tourist spots and off-the-beaten path places on the days Ames and I didn’t spend together. “I’ve slacked off a bit recently.” I squeezed his arm. “Been distracted.” “Hm.” He kissed the top of my head and turned to the bed. “Tired?” As much as the cold air had roused me, being back in my warm hotel room, my muscles tired and my mind at rest, I knew I could fall asleep in a heartbeat if I laid down. I looked longingly at my bed for a moment, before looking back at Ames. In the darkened room, with just the light of the moon coming in the window, I had the most overwhelming desire just to hold him. So I did. In the second before I was in his arms, he opened his—expecting me. When his arms wrapped around me, I sank even more into that cozy feeling. He rocked us back and forth. “Lie down. You’re tired.” I gripped onto his forearms. “Lie with me?” I felt his nod against my head, so I peeled back the comforter and shrugged out of my jacket. I briefly debated leaving my jeans on, but knew I’d sleep horribly with them, so I dropped them too and then climbed into the covers, curled up on my side with my back to him. After a moment, the bed dipped behind me and he scooted in and curled his arm over my stomach. Gently, he pulled me back so I was flush to his chest. He dropped a kiss on my neck and made a sound of contentment in the back of his throat as he curled against me. Even though he was wrapped around me, it felt like he wasn’t close enough. I took his hand on my chest and guided it under my shirt, over my stomach and breasts until it was pressed against the skin just below my neck. My heart thumped and Ames kissed my neck again and within seconds, I was asleep.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

WHEN I AWOKE, it was nearly ten in the morning. I came out of sleep like a car slamming into a wall, realizing my parents were next door and Ames was still in bed with me. “Shit!” I whispered, climbing out of bed and pulling my phone from my jacket. I had three missed calls and four texts. Mom: Get dressed. We’re going to breakfast at nine. That had been sent at eight. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” I whispered. Mom: Are you really still sleeping?

Mom: Are you even in your hotel room? It was almost comical, the way I could actually hear my mom’s trill through these messages. Jude: Mom’s hangry. She’s about to demand access to your room from the front desk. Ames shifted, pulling my attention from my phone momentarily. “Good morning,” he said, all sleepy and sexy. His hair was in a hundred directions, his eyes still opening slowly. “Good morning,” I repeated, wanting to climb back into the bed with him. But my phone buzzed in my hand and I laughed in a way that probably sounded maniacal. “My mom has been texting me for two hours. She gets really cranky if she doesn’t eat first thing in the morning.” Ames looked at the clock and then started. “Christ. I didn’t realize we’d slept so late.” I laughed again, and turned to the mirror, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Yes. So, I have to go.” I grabbed my jeans from the floor and shoved them on, before stepping into the bathroom and throwing my bra on. I grabbed a few bobby pins from the counter and stuck them between my teeth as I pulled my hair into a high bun. I came out of the bathroom with just my bra on and two bobby pins sticking out of my mouth as I secured my bun with one.

Ames pulled his pants on, and then slid his arms through the sleeves of his shirt. “Guess I’ll see you later?” I put the last two bobby pins in my hair and yanked a sweater hanging in my closet. “Yes. I’ll try to sneak away,” I promised. I glanced back at the bed. “But, if I can’t, you can always come back and have an adult sleepover with me.” He raised an eyebrow, looking far too devilishly sexy for this early in the morning. “An adult sleepover? How does that differ from a regular sleepover?” I didn’t know what it was about him that made me feel shy, but I nibbled on my lip as I turned to the mirror and swiped mascara over my lashes. “The difference is that clothes are optional.” His smile spread and my limbs went a little jelly. I pretended to be very interested in my concealer, even though I could see him walking toward me out of my periphery. He pressed up against me, hugging me from behind, and dropped a kiss to my shoulder. “It’s a date.” Giggling, I dropped my concealer and turned around, so that we were facing one another. He caged me to the bureau with his arms braced on its surface as he leaned into me. “A clothing-optional sleepover is a date? Our first date?” I hoped my face showed just how ridiculous the notion was. “Okay. Maybe that’s not a date.” He tugged on the neck of my sweater. “I’ll think of something.” He leaned in, and I felt my chest go tight in anticipation. Just as his lips hovered over mine, my mom’s banging on the door that adjoined our rooms stopped us. He pointed at the door to the hallway. “I’ll just go out that one. See you later.” As soon as he was clear, I unlocked the door adjoining our rooms and my mom breezed in. “Honestly, Mila. Must you sleep all day?” I brushed the front of my sweater, smoothing out the wrinkles. “I had a late night.” I picked up my phone to put it in my pocket when a text from Ames came through. Ames: Passed your brother in the hallway. I tried to give him a bro wave, but then I realized what it must have looked like … me sneaking out of your room in the morning. “Shit.” My mom spun around. “What?” “Nothing.” I tucked the phone in my purse and slung it over my shoulder. “Let’s go.” Jude and my dad were in the hallway, waiting for us. Jude watched me, and I studiously avoided making eye contact until our parents were ahead of us, walking down toward the elevators. “It’s not what you think,” I whispered to Jude. “You don’t know what I could be thinking.” He put his arm on my shoulders. “You’re happy, and smiling, and that’s good. So, no comment.” And when the elevator opened, Jude called to our parents, “We’re going to take the stairs. Get a little cardio in.”

“It’s one whole flight of stairs,” I said on a laugh as he pushed open the door to the stairwell. “Then we’ll take it really slow.” When the door closed behind us, he stood at the top step, unmoving. “Is this good?” “I thought you said ‘no comment.’” He nodded. “I did, but that was before I realized I could talk to you away from Mom and Dad for a second. I just want to make sure that whatever it is you’re doing—that it’s not too soon for you.” He meant Colin. I took in a deep, clarifying breath and released it. “I miss him, Jude. So, so much. I can’t go an hour without thinking about him.” I wrapped my fingers around the cool metal of the bannister. “The loss—the sadness I feel—lives in me, of course it does, but it’s contained.” I worked out how to explain it, feeling completely bereft of coherent thought. “For me, grief isn’t a disease that spreads. It lives in the hollow part of my heart, but it’s not my whole heart.” Jude was looking at the ground between us, and I recognized it as his pensive pose. “You’re stronger than I think even you know.” “That’s where you’re wrong.” I took the first step down the stairs and waited for him to follow me. “It’s a choice—to wallow in despair or to acknowledge what can still bring happiness to my life. And I’m choosing to live despite the heartache. That doesn’t make me strong.” He let out a deep sigh and followed me down the stairs. “It makes you a survivor instead of a victim—and Mila-moo? That’s something to be proud of. I’m proud of you.” Moments like this were exactly the reason I loved my brother so much. Where my parents faltered, Jude was steady—my crutch. At the bottom step, I turned and wrapped my arms around him. “Thank you,” I told him, hoping he knew just how much it meant to me.

That night, my parents forced Jude and I to participate in family time, which meant lying on the extra bed in their room while we watched the movies of their choice and listened to them argue about the characters in them. I went through a whole bottle of wine by myself and when my phone buzzed around midnight and we were only halfway through Stand By Me, I knew I’d have to tell Ames we’d meet up another night. Ames: No problem. The pub is hopping tonight. Lots of people. I suspect it’ll be another late night.

Mila: I wish I was there to help you.

Ames: I wish you were here, end of. I did my best to bite down on the smile that spread across my lips, but Jude caught it and raised his eyebrows. “How long do you think this’ll last?” I whispered to him, shielding my face from our parents with one of the fluffy pillows. Jude craned his neck. “Probably another hour or two.” A loud snore sounded from my father and Jude added, “Maybe less.” I sighed and uncovered my face. The movie was good, but being forced into family time—when all we did was sit there together, silent except for the occasional bickering from Mom and Dad—was the last thing I wanted to be doing that night. “Who are you texting, Mila?” Briefly, I debated lying to her. But the forced family time had pushed me over the edge. “Ames.” She wrinkled up her forehead. “Who?” “The bartender I introduced you to.” I waited for it—almost craving the reaction I knew I’d get from her. I watched the realization come into her eyes, watched her nod and then took in the way her lips turned downward. “Really?” “Yes, really. I could show you, if you don’t believe me.” My voice was cool, but firm. She hugged a pillow to her chest. “Oh, I believe you. This is just the kind of thing you would do.” “What is that supposed to mean?” But I knew what it meant. My mother was as predictable as the sunrise. That’s where her safety net lay—and having a daughter that was wholly unpredictable really cramped her style. “It’s been three months. Honestly, Mila.” She made a sound akin to a ‘tsk’ and shook her head. “Is there an acceptable time in which you’d prefer me to adhere?” “Colin—your boyfriend—died three months ago, Mila. You think having a romance with a man halfway around the world is a good idea?” “Thanks for reminding me how long ago Colin died, Mom, because you’d think I’d have forgotten that horrible, horrific day.” Before I could continue, she jumped in with, “It does seem like you have forgotten.” “I’m sorry I don’t grieve the way you’d like me to. Just because I’m not sad all the time, just because I’m talking to a man,” I waved at my phone, “doesn’t mean I’m heartless.” Jude put a hand on my arm but I shook it off. “I loved Colin.” I pressed a fist to

the mattress. “I loved him. But I’m more than my heartache. I’m more than you think I am.” My voice broke, and I swallowed down the emotion that filled my throat. “Don’t make his death insignificant just to further your agenda.” “What agenda?” “You’re using his death as another way to pick at me—to tell me what I’ve done wrong with my life, all the things I’ve done you don’t agree with. Don’t,” I pointed a finger at her and stood up from the bed, “tell me how to love, how to heal, how to breathe. Because you don’t even know me.” “Mila,” Jude said calmly and I shook my head, turning to him. “No, Jude. I’m sick of it—I’m sick of every decision I make being the wrong one. I’m not sleeping with random men, I’m not destructive, I’m not an alcoholic, a drug user—but you know what?” I turned to face my mother. “If I was doing any of those things, if I was any of those things—it’d still be none of your Goddamned business.” With that, I left the room for the vacancy of the hallway. Before the door could close all the way, Jude had followed me. “Hey,” he said, and pulled me against him for a hug. I angrily swiped at the tears on my face. “I’m sorry—I know you’re going to have to deal with the fallout from that.” “It’s fine,” he assured me. “I’m sorry. I know that it’s not easy being my sister.” “Are you kidding me?” I rubbed my fists over my still watering eyes. “You’re the best part of my life. If it wasn’t for you, that shit—” I flung my hand toward the door, “would’ve turned me into a raging alcoholic.” “It’s a miracle you haven’t.” His smile was sad. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, especially not after her behavior in there, but she does love you. It’s just hard for her to understand you.” I nodded and rubbed my arm across my eyes and sniffled. “I am happy, Jude. I’m really happy. And maybe some of that is thanks to Ames, but what I know for sure is that I was happy before him.” “And that’s the miracle of you, Mila. You’re happy, you’re well-adjusted and strong, despite all of the bullshit. Probably because of the bullshit. Mom and Dad have forced you to be brave, to stand up for yourself, probably much to their chagrin. So don’t—” he braced his hands on my shoulders, “stop being who you are. Because you’re good, down to your soul. Maybe that irks her a little, knowing that, and she searches for faults to make herself feel better. I’m not saying it’s right. But it’s who she is.” I could feel myself calming down by the second. “I probably should apologize, but I don’t think I’m mature enough for that right now.” “That’s okay. She should apologize too, but I saw her pop a sleeping pill before you left, so she’ll be halfway to slumber town by now.” He squeezed my shoulders. “And hey, maybe the apology doesn’t need to happen today. Or even tomorrow. Maybe you’ll never see eye-to-eye, but one thing will never, ever change: she’ll always be your mom. Your

only mom. And it’d be better if, one day, you could talk to her, to tell her how she’s made you feel for years. Because it’s not fair to her, to not know those things.” I opened my mouth to say something, but he shook his head. “I know, you think that because she’s your mother, she should already know. But like you said, she doesn’t know you. And until you’re both speaking the same language, you’re never going to understand one another.” I couldn’t imagine a day where I could sit down and bare my soul to her. I couldn’t imagine anything of the sort happening in the near present. I had no desire to pick my emotional scabs until they’d bled. “I know. You’re right.” And he was. That was the miracle of my brother. To be able to see all sides of a conflict, and to handle all the arguments with the utmost grace. “Go on to your room. It’s late.” He cocked his head toward the room. “If by some twisted miracle she’s still awake, I’ll make sure she’s asleep before I am, so she doesn’t bother you.” I hugged my brother again. “Thanks for not being a shitty person.” He rubbed my head and chuckled. “Likewise.” Later, after a long, hot shower to help release all the tension in my body, I crawled into bed and switched off the lamp. Not two seconds after settling under the covers, I heard my phone vibrate across the desk and I practically flew out of the bed to grab it. But it wasn’t from Ames. Lotte: Want to dance this Wednesday? I’ve got the day off, and I think we can get the routine down. I glanced at the clock in disbelief. Me: Was this so pressing that you had to ask me at two-thirty in the morning?

Lotte: It was a long day, and I need the day off. Before I could type my reply, she added: Lotte: And I need someone to talk to.

Me: Sure. See you Wednesday. I turned my phone off, wondering what Lotte could possibly need to talk to me about.

Wednesday happened to be the last day of my parents’ visit, so after dropping them and Jude off at the airport, I hopped back on the tube and took it down to Lotte’s studio.

It’d been four days since I’d seen Ames, but our schedules just hadn’t worked with my family in town and the surge of people flooding Free Refills. I had a mountain of energy pent up from the last few days showing my parents around the city, taking them on the London Eye, a tour of Westminster Abbey, and a million other touristy things while studiously avoiding speaking with my mom about our argument. All that tension had settled in my muscles, making them feel as if they’d atrophied, so spending the afternoon dancing at Lotte’s studio sounded like the perfect way to bring my entire body back to life. I texted Ames outside of her studio. Me: I’m coming by the pub tonight.

Ames: Can’t wait. I couldn’t wait either. It had only been four days, but it’d felt like forever after seeing him nearly every day for the last week. Knowing that I had nine days left in the city hung over me like a cloud waiting to spill, and I did my best to pretend I could make those days last longer than their number. Lotte arrived at the studio the same time I did. “Hey, Mila!” she said, and I was struck once again by how young she looked. I knew she wasn’t that young, but her face, devoid of makeup and any visible signs of all the things that aged a person, she looked barely eighteen. She unlocked the door and I followed her in, shrugging off my jacket and tossing it on the hook. “What’s on your mind?” I asked her, remembering her text. She hung her coat up beside mine and worried her lip between her teeth. “Let’s get a warm-up in before I talk about it?” I nodded and slipped my dance shoes on, and began my stretches beside her on the floor. “I’ve been listening to the song nonstop. I think it would benefit with a bit less negative space between our movements. More fluidity. Especially when the chorus drops.” She turned on the stereo and selected the song. “Like this, maybe?” She stood up and stretched through the opening verse. When the chorus hit, everything about her changed. It was incredible to me, that she could go from an ingénue to this woman who commanded the floor, commanded the attention of anyone within sight. She dropped to her haunches before launching herself back up, crossing her arms over her body and popping her chest out to the stomping beat. She flung both arms above her head and then dragged the hand of one down, over her face, over her chest, until it found a home on her hip just as the next stomp in the song hit and she made the upper half of her body more sinuous, as if she had no joints at all. It was mesmerizing, watching her move, her blonde hair flying with each shake of her head—like she was an animal suddenly uncaged, and discovering how much she could

move her limbs. She hit pause on the remote and turned to me. “Holy crap, Lotte.” I fanned my face, not even in a mocking way. Her interpretation of the chorus was powerful, sexy—demanding in a way that was unequivocally alluring. “That was insanely hot.” Lotte laughed, and she lost all of that crazy intimidating façade. “Really?” “Hell yes.” I stood up, eager to repeat the steps she’d just shown. “You moved your body like a viper with legs. It was crazy.” “The song is ‘River’ after all. I thought we needed to show that a little in our movements. I think the beginning can still be soft and sexy, but when the beat drops and her voice gets stronger, I think our moves need to mimic that.” “I completely agree. Start it again, let me follow your lead.” And that’s what we did for the next forty-five minutes, repeating it over and over until I felt like I had the steps down without thinking. That was one of the things I loved most about dance—that it could transport me into a whole other person, someone strong and commanding—and powerful—without needing to think about anything. The movements were organic, and my body followed them faithfully as naturally as breathing. By the time we both took a break, we were soaked in sweat. Lotte slid a water bottle across the floor to me and I took a long sip before lying back and letting my breaths even out. She laid beside me and we stared up into the open ceiling, at the white fairy lights that wrapped around the beams. “Those are so high up,” I commented. “Ames climbed up there. Sat right on the beams like it was nothing and wrapped them for me. Took him hours.” “Worth it.” She chuckled. “It really was. It’s especially gorgeous at night—when it’s just those lights and the lights from outside. That’s when this building is the quietest, so it’s much easier to connect with the space.” She seemed to want to say more, but didn’t. It was obvious enough that I turned my head to look at her. “What’s plaguing you? I can practically see the wheels turning in your head.” Lotte sighed and rolled over to her side. “It’s Ames, actually.” “What about him?” She looked at the floor for a minute and then heaved a sigh, pushing herself up to a sitting position. “He won’t even listen to me. About this place.” She pulled her knees to her chest and I sat up to face her. “About selling it?” “Yes. Don’t get me wrong, I love this place. I love the location, I love the building. But I feel like I’m on a leash.” She pulled her tank away from her body to fan herself. “It’s

so stifling, to be told what you should be doing when it completely contradicts with everything you want to be doing. I don’t want to be here every single day for the rest of my life.” I sat quiet, listening to her. But already, I could see a lot of similarities between her and me, namely with wanting to do what other people didn’t want you to do. “You know what I see when I wake up, when I go down to the kitchen at the pub, when I come here?” I shook my head. “I see my life and my death—all at once. Do you know how paralyzing that is? It’s my biggest fear. I don’t want to wake up and do the same routine for the rest of my life. That’s not what I choose.” I remembered that transition from teenage to twenties, how the only thing I craved was uncertainty. I chased mountains in Tasmania, lakes in Finland, rivers in Canada. I couldn’t have imagined spending my days and nights doing the same thing, seeing the same people, eating the same things. It sounded stifling to think about, even though I had mellowed out in recent years. There was safety in knowing where you’d lay your head every night, but when I’d been Lotte’s age, I hadn’t wanted safety. I’d wanted adventure. I hadn’t wanted comfortable, I’d wanted the unknown. “I understand,” was all I could tell her. “I knew you would. You’re from the very place I want to run away to. You travel for work. You have a list of hobbies that sound…” she exhaled and her eyes held a million dreams. “I don’t know what word I’m looking for. Probably because I’m so bogged down by this place.” She turned toward the window. “I love London.” She paused and looked back at me. “I don’t know why I need to keep clarifying that I love London and I love dancing.” “You don’t need to clarify those things.” I chewed on my lip, fighting the urge to tell her to go for her dreams. “But they’re not the only things you want to fall in love with.” “Exactly!” She pushed to her feet. “You get it.” She clutched her hands close to her chest and looked out the window. “I want to find out the things I don’t like, too. Ames says I’ll hate the desert, because it’s so dry and there’s no reprieve. But he can say that, because he’s been there. He’s been all over, and I’ve been nowhere.” She laughed. “I want the space to hate things. Doesn’t that sound silly?” The conversation was weighing heavily on me—because I understood every single word she was saying. Moreover, I agreed with her. But I didn’t think it was my place to encourage her to make such a big decision, selling her studio and running away to another continent. Besides, getting in the middle of that discussion with Ames would not bode well for me. “It doesn’t sound silly.” I didn’t think Lotte knew the gravity of her asking me to back her up. She fingered the M charm at her neck, the one made from a piece of Mahlon’s wedding band. “I think my sister, if she were still here, would support me on this.” I couldn’t agree with her there, having not known Mahlon. But given her romanticism about the weight of a soul, I believed that she may have been romantic about her sister

chasing her dreams. “I’m sure it’s hard not having your mom or sister here to help you navigate these things.” “It’s so hard. My mum was a dreamer—which is probably why I am too. What’s funny is that it was that part of her personality that made my father chase her. He loved that she could see further than most. But now, likely due to Ames’ influence, he’s trying to keep me tethered here.” She wrapped her arms over her front and leaned against the window frame. Looking at her like that, wantonly staring off into the distance, I ached for her. I knew the yearning she had in her bones—and by the way she talked about it, I suspected it was even more powerful than my own yearning when I was twenty—the age that I’d begun my adventuring. Lotte was three years past that. Because of that, and because of the lack of support I’d had myself, I decided that I was being selfish in not wanting to risk upsetting Ames by telling her how I really felt. “If I were you,” I began, being careful with my choice of words, “I would do whatever it was that would enable me to live a life on my own terms.” She nodded, but kept staring off into the distance. “I’ll just need to keep pestering him and my dad about it until they agree. But I am going to do it.” She turned, and seemed alleviated somehow. “Ready to piece the whole thing together?” “Yes. I need to practice the transition between the verse and the chorus—because I’m not sure if the two moves will work together.” Lotte hit the stereo and we began again. I loved the way the song started softer, not hinting at what awaited when the power of the chorus kicked in. The song represented everything I was, and who I wanted to be. Soft, and then powerful and back again. Dynamic in its vocals and beats, something that you couldn’t sit idle while listening. I was so lost in the song that all awareness of my surroundings disappeared. I closed my eyes so I could focus wholly on the beat, on the way it echoed through my body. I almost didn’t hear the click of shoes on the floor—it was their vibration under my feet that caused me to turn around in the middle of the chorus. “Ames!” I exclaimed, startled by his presence in the studio. He looked guarded, like he’d snuck up on a wild animal. Which was probably how I’d looked to him, as wrapped up in the moment as I knew I’d been. The thought made me self-consciously tuck my untamed hair behind my ears. Sweat slid down my spine, and I was grateful I’d worn a crop top over my sports bra, enabling my skin to cool off much faster. But Ames had never seen me like this, in tight black leggings, black crop top, all of me soaked in sweat and my chest heaving in exertion. “Wow.” I tucked my hair behind my ears again, even though it was already tucked, and then clasped my hands in front of myself, not sure how to proceed. “That was…” he shook his head. “I feel as if I was in a trance, watching you.” The smile on his face was dumbfounded, and I felt embarrassment color my cheeks and chest.

“I…” I searched for Lotte, who’d made herself scarce at that moment. “I’m surprised you came by.” He took a tentative step toward me. “I guess I couldn’t wait until tonight.” He looked me up and down and took another step. “I’m happy I decided to come by, because watching you was…” he rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I don’t even have words.” The way he was looking at me, with awe in his eyes and that surprised smile on his lips, made me think of the way a man would look at a woman dressed up for a date with him. He was taken aback, and I’d done that. The notion filled me with more nerves than I thought I possessed. “Mila, remember when I said you were a good dancer?” I nodded and held my breath. “I’m afraid I lied. You’re,” he shook his head, and walked all the way toward me. My breath hitched. “Phenomenal. Transcendent. Wow.” I knew I must have blushed tomato-red from his praise. His hand came to my neck. “I came by to see you, and then once I saw you, I couldn’t stop watching you.” He rubbed along the column of my throat with his thumb. “My biggest regret is that my presence interrupted you. Will you do it again?” Laughing, I leaned into him. “No way. I’m embarrassed enough that you saw it. It’s not even done.” “It’s not like I could tell. You moved so powerfully—like you were always meant to move like that.” “Stop,” I whispered, because I wasn’t sure that my cheeks could burn any hotter. When his lips touched the top of my head, I ripped myself away from him. “I’m so sweaty,” I lamented. “I like it.” He took my hand and spun me back to him. “It’s sexy.” “You’re embarrassing me.” “Good.” “Don’t you have a bar to be running?” “You mean a pub, and yes, I do. But I’m allowed to take a break here and there.” “You’re working tonight?” “I am. Will you still come by?” “Definitely.” He took my hands and spread his fingers so that mine linked with his. “Good. When do you think?” I looked up at the clock, surprised it was already six. “Maybe in a couple hours? I need to shower and change before I come by.” “Change?” He held me away from him, looking me up and down. He hooked a finger

in the neck of my crop top and tugged me toward him. My heart tripped in my chest in time with my feet, and I felt everything inside of me go lax, like I was surrendering myself to him. “You should wear this. And I like the sweat.” “Shut up,” I said on a laugh. “You say that to me a lot.” He let go of my shirt and ran his finger down the side of my face. “I should get going, but I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” “Okay.” I rose on my tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss full on his mouth. “See you.” When he left, Lotte came out of the back room that seemed to be a storage area and she had her hands pressed against her mouth, stifling her glee. “That was so sweet!” “Oh, Lord.” I didn’t think I could burn any brighter than I did when she looked at me like that. There was expectation attached to that kind of glee—and it made my stomach flip. “Aren’t you supposed to be grossed out by that kind of…” I spun my hand in the air, searching for the word, “affection?” “Maybe if he was my blood brother, but since he’s not.” She shrugged as she pulled a jacket on. “It’s good to see him smiling. Really good.” I bent to pick up my shoes by the door, hiding my own smile. Slipping off the dance shoes, I gave her a look. “He makes me smile too.” She handed me my coat. “But apparently, according to him, I do that a lot.” “You do, but I think that’s part of your magic.” I rolled up the sleeves of my jacket, too warm to go full long sleeves even in the chilly September evening air. “I don’t have magic.” “You do, to Ames.” She opened the door and gestured me out. “I’ve known him a long time, Mila. And you’re the first person he’s looked at more than once since Mal. That makes you special.” I let out a puff of air when we stepped out onto the sidewalk, feeling my stomach coil with nerves. I believed she meant to reassure me, to make me proud of the effect I had on her brother-in-law. But he was having the same effect on me—and with the tick of our expiration date echoing in my head, it was impossible to continually feel lifted by the weight of my feelings for him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

WHEN I RETURNED to the flat, Asher was sitting on a chair on the patio off of the living room. I needed to get ready for Mila, and the plans I’d made for us, but something about the way Asher was slumped in the chair made me pause. He held something in his hands, something I couldn’t discern in the twilight. When I stepped out onto the patio, he didn’t turn, but dropped his foot from the chair it rested on. He waved his hand across the seat beside him. “Sit, Ames.” Not for the first time, I pushed down the feelings that surfaced seeing him like this— this big booming man, who’d nearly dislocated my shoulder the first time he’d shaken my hand. He was a shell of that man now, living in the shadow of his late wife. I sat across from him and saw the thing he held in his hands was one of Rayna’s many scarves. He twisted it, knotted it, over and over. “Charlotte wants to sell the studio.” I nodded. “She tells me on a daily basis.” He was quiet for a few moments, so quiet that I thought he’d actually fallen asleep. But he was deep in thought, twisting that scarf around his finger and then unraveling it. “Perhaps it’s not an awful idea.” My head snapped to face him. “You believe that?” He sighed, this bear of a man, and I could tell this conversation was important to him when he took a sip of his tea before speaking. “She wants to be free. Spread her wings.” “And under normal circumstances, that wouldn’t be cause for alarm. But she wants to spread her wings on another continent, alone.” “That she does.” “She’s young.” I worked to keep my voice level, not wanting to turn this into an argument. Asher chuckled. “She’s twenty-three. That’s hardly an infant.” “She’s young in ways that people take advantage of. And we’re not talking a visit. She wants to pop around the country, venture into Canada.” Asher calmed me with his hand on my arm. “Who’s the parent here?”

I swallowed, willing myself to speak rationally. “With all due respect, Asher, of course you are. But I can’t help but worry for her.” “I didn’t mean to imply I wouldn’t worry for her. In fact, all that worrying would likely send me into an early grave.” He laughed, but I hardened. It wasn’t something to laugh about to me. “And how would she feel,” I began, in even tones, “if something—God forbid— happened and she was far away.” He sighed again, and I pushed his tea toward him. I worried about his cough in the cool air, and the tea would help temper it. “Ames, that’s the very risk of living. Something could happen in the next five seconds. Something could happen in the next five years. Having that ignorance is a gift. Entertaining fears is selfish; it wastes life.” “I didn’t realize you’d be giving a sermon today.” I meant it sarcastically, but I knew my tone was off. “Sorry.” “It is Wednesday. Rayna’s church met Wednesdays for prayer meetings.” “Maybe that’s what Lotte needs.” “Church?” Asher chuckled. “A church isn’t going to tell her what’s burning in her heart. She knows what she wants. And I’m inclined to give her the permission she’s respectively seeking.” “Fine. If she really wants to go gallivanting off to the states, then fine. But she needn’t sell her studio to do so.” “Oh, Ames.” Asher patted my arm. “How will she pay for it? Utilities, taxes?” “I’ll pay for it. I’m going to sell the restaurant. She can keep the studio, and when she’s ready to come home, it’ll be here for her.” He sipped his tea and settled the scarf on his lap. “You know, when Mal first came home with the look in her eyes—the same one I saw in her own mother’s eyes—I knew one thing for certain. She’d fallen in love. The uncertainties were many: with whom? Was he kind to her? Was he good, in the ways that mattered?” He turned his head to look at me. “And then, after a while, she told me it was you. Of course, I’d already known who you were, and had observed your puppy love for my daughter from the start. But I didn’t know your character, except that you looked at my daughter like she was the one thing grounding you to this earth. It’s a scary thing, to watch your baby be loved like that by someone else.” I closed my eyes, well aware of the kind of impression I must have made on him. It was enough to make me cringe. “And so I told her to tell me about you—the things I didn’t already know myself. And the fact that she was so open, so willing to tell me all the good things about you, did a lot to assuage my concern. She told me that you made her laugh, that when that Johnny-Bobblecock—”

“Bobblecock?” I said on a chocked laugh. Asher laughed with me. “Yes. Whatever his name was. The arse who slapped her lunch tray out of her hands in an effort to gain her attention.” It was coming back to me then. “Ah, yes, I think he’s on his third divorce now.” “Shocking. Anyway. She told me that she sat with you, lunchless, and you took pity on her and gave her your milk and sandwich.” “Yes, well, like you said, I was halfway in love with her until I fell all the way into it.” “Right. And yes, what you did for her was a good thing, an honorable thing. And it made me like you more. But it was what she told me next that sealed the deal for me.” I waited in the silence, the only noise the cars on the street below us. After what felt like several minutes, he continued. “She felt awful for taking most of your lunch, and the next day she sought to buy an extra tray for you, so you could eat your fill two-fold. But when she brought you the tray, she told me you did something unusual. You picked up the tray you’d purchased, all the food still uneaten, and carried it to a table of children she said were from the poor end of Camden.” “Which end is that?” It was well known that Camden had the worst child poverty rates. “That’s fair. But stop interrupting my story.” I acquiesced to his request, and propped my feet up on the railing. “You gave the tray you’d purchased to kids you weren’t friends with. But they were in need, and you fulfilled their need. And, she told me, that you took the extra milk and pizza off of the tray she’d purchased for you and gave that up too.” “I had food at home.” “You’re interrupting me again, and I’m in the middle of a good speech.” I mimicked zipping my lips and sat back, letting him finish. “Did I ever tell you how I met Rayna?” “Am I allowed to speak now?” He chuckled. “You can nod or shake your head.” I shook my head. “She came to the restaurant I worked at and purchased sixteen pizzas. I stared at her, this small waif of a woman—much like my Lotte is now—and asked her where she was going to put it all. She said, ‘In hungry bellies.’ She had two wealthy parents, and used her pocket money to buy food for people who needed it. You’re like her.” “I don’t think sharing my lunch is quite on the same level.” “But it is. You’re comparing amounts and not the act behind them. You did what you could, within your means. When she told me that story, about how you did it every single

day, how you inspired her to use a bit of her spending money doing the same, I had no fear. If you could do such an act of kindness for complete strangers, inspire a similar act in my child, I could only think of the good you’d do for people you loved. Like my Mahlon.” “I loved her,” I said simply. “And you love Lotte. Not in the same way, but in a way that means, for you, sacrifice. It’s honorable, Ames, that you would be willing to sacrifice the restaurant—the dream you and Mal shared—in order to make sure Lotte could keep her studio. Even if she never returned to it.” I swallowed. “The restaurant needs work, a lot of work. I don’t have the time to devote to it, nor the funds.” “You don’t have the time because you’ve sacrificed your freedom to take over the pub for me.” Asher twisted his chair so he faced me, and even in the dark, I could see the feeling in his eyes. “When Rayna died, when Mal died, I fell apart. You didn’t get that luxury. You kept us three afloat, shouldering the burden of the pub and your own grief. We didn’t give you the space to hurt, to feel.” He patted my arm again and then gripped it firmly, desperately. “I know the blood running through these veins isn’t of my family—but you couldn’t be more my son than if you were born of my own flesh. There’s no son-inlaw—you are my son. You’ve done more for me than anyone should. And I don’t want to see you lose anything else.” I blinked rapidly. I’d loved this family for ten years, loved Asher like he was my father, Lotte like she was my sister. And while I’d known Asher loved me, hearing it like this, right now, was enough to make my eyes burn. “I’m not losing anything,” I assured him. “Maybe it doesn’t seem that way, but trust me—love doesn’t always require sacrifice. Especially not the kinds of sacrifices you’ve made.” He let go of my arm. “Just … think about what I’ve said.” I promised I would, and got him another cup of tea. My thoughts were swirling, but after a quick glance at the clock, I realized I had just an hour before Mila would be arriving. My body practically hummed with excitement. Tonight was going to be special—for her, and for me. She was special. Probably the most special thing I’d come across in years. It didn’t do well to think like that for too long. Mila would be leaving soon, a thought I didn’t let in my head too often because each time I did, the longer this went on, I felt this heavy, unsettling pressure. I wasn’t ready to let go, but I’d need to be. Soon.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I SHOWERED QUICKLY SO I’d have enough time to dry my hair before heading to Free Refills. The air was getting progressively cooler, and after leaving Lotte’s studio, the sweat on my neck felt like ice cubes. The dress I pulled on was pale pink, splattered with flowers and a skirt that split up the front to past my knees. Even though this wasn’t a date date, Ames had specifically asked me to meet him and that felt like something special. After slicking on some lipstick—a rare indulgence—I pulled a jacket on and made my way to Free Refills. As I approached the building twenty minutes later, I took in the way the glass front was practically vibrating along with the music inside the pub. I pulled open the door and the music poured out, mingled with a bunch of whoops and cheers. It was the busiest I’d ever seen Free Refills—slammed wall to wall with people. I couldn’t see a path to the bar, so I stood by the door for a while until Sam stood before me. “Oh, hey lipstick.” He waggled his eyebrows at me, and handed me a bottle of cider. “Busy place tonight, huh?” The cider was cool and tasted like juice. “This could be dangerous.” I held up the bottle between us. Sam narrowed his eyes. “I like living dangerously,” he said, a trace of amusement in his expression. “That’s hardly surprising.” Before I could ask him where Ames was, the man himself appeared in front of me, dressed in head to toe black—slacks, belt, and sweater. The crowded area around us made it impossible to hug him, so I just reached my hand toward him, which he grabbed and then yanked me—crowd be damned—toward him. “Hi there,” he said, and my insides liquefied. His arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me tight against him. “You look…” he shook his head and mouthed, Wow. And my heart had the same reaction. “It’s busy here,” I said against his ear, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hear me over the music. “Need help?” “Not tonight.” He turned to Sam, who clapped him on his back.

“Get the hell out of here,” he said, practically pushing us toward the door. “What?” I asked, twisting around as Ames led me outside. “Don’t you need to be behind the bar?” When we were outside, where it was only marginally quieter, Ames said, “Not tonight. Took the night off.” “Oh?” “Yeah.” He stepped back to take me in. “You make a pretty picture, Mila.” “You’re not so bad yourself.” I ran my hands over the front of his sweater, liking the way he looked in the dark colors, the way it accentuated all the muscles along his arms. “So, what’s the plan?” “Come on,” he said, leading me down the street. After a minute, I knew the path was familiar. “Sorry, I guess I could’ve told you to wear more comfortable shoes.” He looked down at my feet, taking in the nude-colored pumps I wore. I stuck one leg out of the folds of my skirt when we were paused at a crosswalk. “These are plenty comfortable.” “I’ll have to take your word for that. All they look to me is sexy.” He stepped back, taking me in. “But you don’t look like you could run very fast in them.” I kissed the skin under his jaw. “Do I need to run fast?” “I guess you’ll be the one to decide that.” “Well, for your information, I can’t run in heels. I can dance, and stomp, and glide— but run? No. However, it’d only take me a second to kick them off if I really needed to sprint.” “I hope you don’t take them off tonight, then.” He leaned into me, forehead against mine. “I don’t want you running away, not yet.” I leaned into him, pushing away the echoes in my head reminding me that I’d be leaving soon, and then when it was safe to walk, he scooped me up into his arms and sprinted across the street, not stopping until we were at the door to his restaurant where he gently set me down on the ground. I’d laughed the whole way across the street, surprised and impressed that he’d been able to carry me without breaking a sweat. He waggled his eyebrows at me playfully as he pulled the key out of his pocket. When he opened the door, I noticed immediately how bright it was. “Ames!” I exclaimed, taking in the dozens of strings of twinkly white lights all around the restaurant. “You did this?” He laughed, and locked the door behind us. “You mean, you can’t tell?” He tilted his head to the side and braced his arm on one table. He’d wrapped lights around it, kind of haphazardly. “I ran out of cord, so I had to use what was closest to the outlets.” “I love it.” And I did. It showed thought, and I couldn’t have been more surprised and pleased and … grateful. For his effort. For him. He led me to a table he’d set with flatware and glasses. A pitcher with white sangria

was sitting in the middle of it all. “Is that the Forbidden Fruit sangria?” I looked over at him. “It is. I made it this afternoon.” “Wait, how long have you known you had the day off?” “Since I asked to spend the time with you.” He pulled a chair out from the table and I sat. He leaned over and his mouth hovered over mine for a beat. “I wanted a night with just us,” he whispered before he slowly pressed his mouth to mine. I turned my head and deepened the kiss, gripping his sweater and waiting until my heart had settled into a steady rhythm before pulling away. “This is beautiful. Thank you.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “I wanted to do something. After all, I broke your kissing rule.” He glanced back toward the kitchen and then back at me, a wicked smile on his lips. “And we did, you know,” he raised an eyebrow and I couldn’t help but touch his face, to feel his skin under mine. To feel the smile as it stretched his skin—to know I was the reason for it. “And that was before we even had a date. It’s all very scandalous.” “So, this is a date.” “Pfft.” He laughed and took the seat beside me. “Look, this? Isn’t a date. Not my idea of a date, at least.” “But there are candles, and wine, and I smell something in the kitchen…” “Pizza,” he supplied. “You smell takeaway pizza from my favorite place.” I tilted my head to the side. “It has the makings of a date.” “It might, but I don’t want this to be our first date.” He laughed and rubbed a hand over my shoulder, wearing a sheepish expression. “I might’ve managed the electricity, but there isn’t even running water, so if you have to use the loo, you’ll have to run next door. Truth be told, I’m pretty shite at this.” I threw my head back and let out a laugh. “Oh, Ames.” Somehow, it charmed me even more. The fact this not-a-date date wasn’t good enough to him, that there was no running water and the pizza was takeout, and one of the tables had lights wrapped around it—all of that made it more special than the most perfectly choreographed date. “It’s perfect. The best non-date I’ve ever been on.” I covered his hand with mine. “Wow, you’re setting the bar high already and we haven’t even eaten yet.” “Because it’s not about the food, Ames,” I told him softly. “And the food’s pretty damn good.” I linked my fingers with his. “It doesn’t hold a candle to the company.” “Are you hungry?” “Starving. All that dancing made for one hell of a workout.” “I bet. I’m still thinking about you in those tight leggings and that sexy top.” He stood.

“I’m going to grab the pizza.” “I’m coming with you.” In the back, across the stainless steel island, were three boxes of pizza. He flipped the top on each one with a gusto that made me pinch him gently. “I think you overestimated how hungry I am.” “Well, I got three kinds. I don’t know what kind of pizza you like.” I rubbed my hand on the island and exchanged a heated look with him, remembering being splayed out on this island just a week before. “I like pizza. You can’t ruin pizza.” “On that, we agree. This one is plain cheese. This one is pepperoni and bacon. And this one—if you want to get really British—has baked beans.” “I’ll take a slice of each.” I leaned on the island, looking over each pizza. The crust looked crunchy and seasoned—absolutely divine. Suddenly, the table moved under my weight, sliding just slightly across the floor. “I think you forgot to lock the brakes on this thing.” I tucked my tongue into my cheek, once again remembering Ames’ skill with this table. “Maybe. Or maybe I didn’t forget.” He winked at me as he pulled slice after slice and put them onto a white plate. I stepped around the island, getting a better look of the part of the room I hadn’t seen my first time through here, and he sighed. “What?” “That sound.” He nodded at my heels. “It makes it sound like a real restaurant back here.” I gave him a sad smile and remembered my conversation with Lotte. I wanted to bring it up with Ames, to see if I could help him with some clarity—but I knew right now was not the perfect moment to bring it up. “It sounds great,” I told him. He’d picked up the paint cans and newspaper that’d been all over the place and shoved them to one side of the room. But he’d left one thing intact. “I told you I was keeping it,” he said, coming up behind me and looking down at the paint stain. The blues and reds had formed a dozen different shades in their mixing together across the concrete. It didn’t go with the rest of the room with its gray floors, but it almost looked intentional, in the way it stayed somewhat circular in shape, in just that one spot. “It’s so pretty.” I tested it with my shoe and it came away dry. “It’s interesting. Like walking through an art show and seeing one wild painting that doesn’t fit with the aesthetic. I like it.” “Me too.” We walked back to the table with Ames carrying our plates of pizza. I took my first bite of the baked beans pizza while he poured the sangria into large glasses.

I made a little noise which caused him to look at me. “You like?” I pressed two fingers against my lips as I chewed and swallowed. “It’s so surprising. I would’ve never thought to pair beans and pizza together, and yet it works.” I took another bite and chewed it just as thoughtfully. “Okay, this is really good pizza.” Ames smiled in a way that made his eyes go soft. It was one of the many Ames smiles I was still discovering, and each one I filed away in a safe place in my memory. The sangria was delicious, as I’d expected. But I’d been right in saying it was the company that made the night special for me. The entire dinner, Ames was thoughtful. Refilling my glass, grazing his fingers across my knuckles, and scooting his chair so close to mine that he nearly landed in my lap once. “If I was keeping this place, I’d throw away all these chairs and buy booths instead,” he said on a laugh. I couldn’t stop touching him. I’d find reasons to run my hand over his shoulder, around his neck, through his hair. At one point, when I stretched, he gently grasped my leg and put it on his lap, making small circles over my skin. I didn’t want to not be connected to him in some way. And every time we weren’t touching, I was inventing new reasons to touch him again. As the candles had burned down to nubs, Ames and I talked and talked. When he asked me to speak in my Australian accent, I’d indulged him and made him toss his head back on a laugh. “It’s so good, Mila. You’ve a real knack for it.” “Being here has been good practice. There’s a coffee shop near my hotel and I go there and just listen, repeating phrases and practicing the nuances of all the different accents I hear.” I propped my elbow up on the table and dropped my chin into my hand. “It’s fascinating.” His answering smile was slow-spreading. “You’re fascinating.” With the low light, and the flicker of the candlelight in his eyes, the moment was saturated with intimacy. And, for a second it made me nervous. “Shut up,” I whispered. His lips spread wider. “I’ve realized you say that a lot when I’m embarrassing you.” “If I say it a lot, it must mean you embarrass me a lot.” “I can’t help but pay you compliments, Mila.” He shook his head and lowered his voice. “When I say you’re beautiful, that you smell like something as abstract and ridiculous as sunshine, that you absolutely dazzle me—I’m not saying that for any reason except to state a fact.” I shivered, but not because it was cold. “Maybe I need to get used to it,” I said without thinking. Nine days loomed in front of my mind and as if Ames could see it, he placed his hand on my knee, pulling my attention back in. “I’m not the first person to pay you compliments.” “No, but with you it’s different. Colin—he wasn’t terribly affectionate, with his words or his hands. And that was fine by me. I didn’t crave more than that, not like I do with you. And, I hate comparing Colin and you in the same sentence, because you’re not even

on the same playing field with one another. It’s just different.” I took a sip of my sangria and eyed the empty pitcher. “I don’t expect you to be like him, to do the things he did, to treat me how he did. Everything you’re doing is just right, to me. There is no comparison. There are differences, but I’d be lying to you if I didn’t sometimes think about him. Even when I’m here, with you.” He sighed, running a finger over the lip of his glass until it hummed. “I get it. You remind me of Mal, but you’re different, too.” He licked his lips. “Mostly you remind me of the way she made me feel—which is the only thing I want to be similar.” My eyes widened as I grasped what he was saying. Hurriedly, he continued, “The last few days, I’ve picked up my phone and wanted to text you, I miss you more than I care to admit. I’m not a sappy man, with sentimental notions. But knowing that I had you to look forward to, that I’d get to talk to you, to touch you, after several long days at the pub? Well, it was a good feeling.” I tilted my head to the side, taking him in. The candlelight flickered softly, reflecting in his brilliant eyes, and I bit my lip. “If you had texted me that you missed me, I probably would have abandoned my family in a heartbeat and ran to you.” I played with the stem of my glass. “I’m on uneven footing with you. I don’t know the right things to say to you. The last few weeks caught me off guard. You caught me off guard.” “I only want you to say what you feel. And you caught me off guard too, Mila. There hasn’t been a single soul to catch my eye the way you have, since Mal.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be maudlin in talking about her.” I shook my head quickly. “No, don’t be sorry. I like to hear about her, about your life together.” I clasped his hands with mine and squeezed, hoping he knew just how earnest I was in that. “You’re talking to someone who gets it, remember?” He brought my hands to his lips and pressed soft kisses against each knuckle. I had to work to keep my breathing even. “I have to remind myself of that sometimes, I admit. You know…” he paused to run his thumb over the knuckles he’d kissed. “This is so much easier than I thought it’d be.” “What’s easier?” “For starters, just … breathing. Without feeling guilty for it. I admire your resilience, your strength, in going through what I’m going through. And I don’t say this to diminish her significance in my life, but sometimes I wish I could have the attitude you do about all of this.” “People grieve differently. What’s right for me doesn’t mean it’s right for you. And besides,” I rubbed my foot under the table against his, “you’re surrounded by it all the time. With Asher and Lotte, and Free Refills.” I waved a hand around us. “This place.” “I know. Maybe I’m making it harder on myself. But I don’t regret sticking around.” His eyes took a brief faraway look, and I wondered about what he was thinking. “I’m surprised I can talk about it, about her, with you and not see you shake with jealousy.” Because I wanted to be closer to him, I slid off my seat and sat sideways on his lap, wrapping my arm around his neck. I sighed and settled against his chest. “How could I be

jealous?” I rubbed my hand over his sweater and tilted my head back in order to look him in the eye. I summoned all my courage, swallowed down my fear, and said, “How can I envy someone who loved you?” I brushed the hair away from his forehead and watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “I can only be thankful for it.” “That’s an interesting perspective.” He rocked me gently in the chair, swaying to a song we couldn’t hear. “The thing that keeps me going, that makes it okay to wake up each day and keep moving, is knowing that I loved Colin with my entire heart. And he loved me too. I’d like to think we gave each other happiness in our time together, limited as it was. And I’m grateful for that, that he died with love in his heart. So how can I be jealous that someone loved you as much as Mal did? It’s a beautiful, wonderful, heartbreaking thing to have loved someone who is no longer breathing the same air you are.” To emphasize my point, I ran my forefinger over his ring. “It’s that ‘loved and lost’ quote. I can choose to wallow in misery, or I can choose to be the same person I was before—the person worthy of the love he gave me. The choice was easy for me. Colin wouldn’t want me to be sad forever. And Mal wouldn’t want that for you, either.” “I just don’t know if I can find my way to one hundred percent happiness.” I rubbed the neck line of his sweater. “Maybe it’s not about being happy. Maybe it’s about being okay. Accepting it for what it is. Accepting that life is itself a constant work in progress.” “But you’re happy, Mila. All the time.” I sighed and smiled softly, just a tease of the corners of my lips. “Not all the time. But we all heal differently. I loved Colin,” I swallowed, and said my next words carefully. “But I love deeply, and vastly.” The arm around my waist tightened. “I know you’re right. And I think, that maybe, I’m afraid.” “Of what?” “Summer.” When I crinkled my brow, he took a sip of his sangria. I could feel his heart calm, the beats slow to a rhythm not unlike my own. “The sun shines the longest in the summer, making the days last longer than the nights. And when I first saw you on the bridge, you looked like summer to me. It made no sense, not at that time of night, on the cusp of autumn, that I could look at you and see so much sun. There’s comfort in night, in the dark—a safety that the sun cannot guarantee.” He shook his head on a laugh. “I’m babbling.” I pressed my fingers to his lips, to stop him from dismissing what he’d said. “If I’m summer, what are you? You’re not winter—you’re not ice.” He held the sangria close to his chest and, softly, he said, “I don’t think I’m winter. I don’t know what I am, except for a person who wants to brave the sun, as long as he can.” “Ames,” I said, hoping he could hear the depth of feeling in my voice. “Thank you. For tonight. For this.”

He twisted my hair in his hands. “I wanted this place to be special for one night, you know? To be a place someone could take a date.” And he’d picked me. My chest expanded and deflated, and expanded once more, wider than before, making room for him—at long last. I framed his face in my hands, and kissed him with all the warmth I possessed. “Come back to my hotel with me tonight.” He squeezed me tight, and kissed me until I was breathless. My fingers roamed over his sweater, gripping it tightly and holding him hard to me. When we pulled away, his eyes were dark and insanely sexy. As he shut off the lights and locked the doors, I stood back by the front just watching him. There was no question in my mind that I was falling in love with him. I hated that word. Falling. It sounded so involuntary, as if this was an accident—and calling what I was feeling an ‘accident’ cheapened its experience. Falling was inherently scary. But I wasn’t afraid. I’d lived through heartbreak already, and lived with the hollow it left, and still I had a capacity for loving; I didn’t believe in letting it rot away, unnurtured. There was no such thing as too much love, not when there were millions of others in the world with not enough. He hailed a cab back to my hotel, and we sat in the darkened silence, wrapped up in each other. My head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around mine. Our hands clasped in his lap, our breaths even, and a sense of comfort that had nothing to do with the heater, the smooth roads, or the driver’s skill. We kissed probably a hundred times in that car ride; soft, breathy kisses that moved into deeper, warmer kisses—tongues clashing and teeth nibbling. We were quiet all the way through the hotel lobby, up the elevator, and down the hallway to my room. And once the door closed behind us, leaving us in the dark, I took the initiative and pushed him right up against the door. His hands went to either side of my head, and yanked my face to his. I wrapped an arm around his neck and he stooped to pick me up, walking further into the room with my legs wrapped around his waist. He fell to the bed and in a fit of impatience, we were a tangle of legs and breaths as we kicked off our shoes. He tugged the sleeve of my dress down one shoulder and nipped along my exposed collarbone. I gripped a fist in his hair, my nails biting into his skull, impatience dominating my entire body as I writhed on his lap, seeking more of him. He tugged the other sleeve of my dress off my shoulder and sucked at my skin, leaving hot open-mouthed kisses that cooled in the air of my hotel room. My impatience won, causing me to push his shoulders down so he was flat on the bed. I crawled over him, my hair like a curtain around us, as his hands came up to my breasts and squeezed. The shock from it caused my head to bow and he flipped me over onto my back and ground his hips against mine. I wanted to scream an answer, even though he hadn’t asked me a question. That pressure had scorched a line right through me. My hands fumbled on the buttons on the front of my dress, as he whipped his shirt off and undid his pants with a speed that I

couldn’t match. By the time he was shed of his clothing, I was still working on the last few buttons when he took over. In hindsight, a dress with two dozen buttons down the front was probably not my wisest choice for attire. When the last button was finally free, he grasped the dress on either side and opened it up. He let out a sigh, and goosebumps lit my flesh. The reverence in his eyes when they met mine was enough to make me feel like an earthquake had begun from the inside and was getting ready to break loose. He sat back on his haunches and reached for my hand, pulling me up into a sitting position so he could pull the dress all the way off of my shoulders. When his finger teased the skin just under the strap of my bra, I lifted my face. He kissed me before I could kiss him, and ran a finger along the line of my spine until he came to the clasp of my bra. I tugged the straps down, eyes on him in the moonlight, until only the cups were supporting my breasts. He wasn’t smiling—no, there was no humor in his face. He was completely serious, his eyes burning, and there was a tick making its presence known in his jaw. The bra came loose and slid down my body between us before he tossed it away. He scooped me up and leaned us forward on the bed, pulling the comforter back and laying me down on the cool sheets. Before covering me back up with the comforter, he grasped the sides of my panties and rolled them down until I was free of them, leaving me completely naked in the dark of the room. His hands came to my knees, and then he pressed his palms in as he moved up the top of my thighs. My breaths were coming quickly now, my chest heaving so much that it nearly made me self-conscious. But the way he took me in, the way he covered my body with his, his fingers linking with mine and holding them hostage above my head, I’d never felt safer. And when we joined together, hips rising and falling, lips biting and opening for each sigh, I climbed faster than I had the first time. Anticipation was the greatest foreplay, I’d learned. When we were sated, he rolled off of me before tugging me to him so my head could lay on his chest, right over his heartbeat. The staccato beats sounded like music, like the three words I could taste on my tongue, waiting to be unleashed from my mouth. Thump-thump-thump. I-love-you. Thump-thump-thump. I didn’t know how I was going to be able to leave him in eight more days. His hands played with my hair, massaging into my scalp, and we said no words as I listened to the thump-thump-thump of his heart until I fell asleep.

When I awoke, he was sitting on the edge of my bed, a cup of coffee in his hands as he took in the painting on the wall. “You look like you’re trying to unlock the mysteries of the world,” I said. “I’m afraid you’re not going to find them in that terrible painting.” I watched the skin stretch on the side of his face before he turned to look at me, soft smile on his lips. My eyes fell to the anchor on the inside of his bicep and I covered it with my hand. “I like this,” I told him, rubbing along the curved arm of it. “Why’d you get it?” He leaned on the bed, and ran his fingers through the ends of my hair. “After I did a bit of traveling, seeing the world, I got the anchor.” He watched my finger trace the curves and lines. “London is my anchor; my home. This was the safe end to my journey.” “And these?” I asked, touching the twin sparrows on his chest. “‘Are not two sparrows for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care.’” His smile was tinged with sadness. “When Mal died, I am not ashamed to say I felt forgotten. Why her? Why me? I was lost. Worthless.” He offered his cup of coffee to me. “One day, when I was struggling more than I was willing to show, Asher sat me down and talked to me. I swear, the man is so full of wisdom, I’m surprised it’s not leaking from his pores.” I handed him back his coffee and he took a sip. “And he told me that no matter how insignificant we feel, we are not nonexistent, swallowed up in the vastness of humanity. Even the smallest creatures have a purpose—and their perceived earthly value isn’t a reflection of their importance.” “Damn, Asher is deep.” Ames laughed. “He really is.” “Intimidatingly so.” Ames looked away again, his mind somewhere else. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Just thinking a lot.” “Oh?” He nodded, so I gripped the sheet to my chest and scooted up to a sitting position. He looked at me for a moment before reaching forward and pulling the sheet down. I pulled it back up before he tugged it down again. “Ames,” I said on a laugh. “This is not going to help you think.” “Maybe I don’t want to be thinking right now.” He leaned toward me, but I put a hand on his chest, stopping him.

“What’s up?” I watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat before he turned to face me. “I’m thinking about the restaurant.” He stared down at his coffee. “I was in contact with an estate agent who emailed me this morning. It’s going up for sale.” There was no pretending that his voice didn’t sound somber, like he was giving up on the one thing that really mattered—outside of the people in his life. “But Ames, you shouldn’t. You love it so much.” “It’s going to cost a fortune to renovate, and it’ll mean that I spread myself too thin. I don’t want to make myself less available to the people who need me, not right now.” “But if Lotte sells her studio—” “She’s not going to.” His voice was harsher than I could remember it being, even in the beginning, before he’d known me. “That studio was her inheritance. She can go off to your country all she wants, but she doesn’t need to throw away the one good thing she has here.” “Hey,” I whispered, putting a hand on the side of his face. He closed his eyes, and I could see the frustration drain away. “Sorry.” He let out a breath. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. But I should get going. I’m going to be meeting the agent at the restaurant and I need to clean it up after last night.” He tugged the sleeve up on his sweater to check on his watch. “And then Lotte’s coming into the pub so we can chat.” The worry was gnawing at me, and I had to restrain myself from crawling off the bed and talking to him about Lotte, getting him to understand her. “Okay,” was all I said, resolving to go by the studio that morning to talk to Lotte.

“I didn’t expect to see you today!” Lotte said as she let me in, her smooth blonde hair pulled back into a restrictive bun. I took in the slippers she wore and the tight leotard. “Practicing ballet today?” “It’s good once in a while, especially when I feel my muscles tightening up from working in the kitchen.” I followed her into the studio, taking my jacket off and tossing it on a hook. When I turned to face her, I felt very much like I was about to cross a threshold that would change everything for Ames and me. Which was why I spent an hour stretching and working on my flexibility with Lotte before I blurted, “I know Ames is talking to you today.”

She paused, bringing her arm down from a stretch as her eyes shot to me. Suddenly, she seemed very vulnerable—her age stripped away from her, leaving her looking like a teenager that needed to be protected. Which she wasn’t, and that she didn’t. “Shit,” I said and plopped to the ground. “I really have no business sticking myself in between you two, and I shouldn’t be doing this. But it goes against everything I believe not talking to you about it.” Lotte clasped her hands in her lap and turned to me. “When I was eighteen, I’d scarcely removed my cap and gown before my parents sat me down to talk to me about my plans—which was actually a conversation about their plans for me. My parents wanted me to figure out my career, to find my calling in a respectable field and do the right thing. Whatever the hell that was.” I squeezed my fingers into a fist to keep the blood flowing when it drained from my face, knowing what I was telling Lotte would only provide more resolve for her to do what she wanted to do. “So, what did I do? I did everything they didn’t want me to do. I went to Africa for six months. That was the first thing. On my flight home, someone told me I had a pretty voice, so I tried out voice acting. I did okay with it. Mostly radio commercials. But it wasn’t anything I was intensely passionate about, so I didn’t dedicate myself to it. Not that it mattered, because it wasn’t good enough for my mom. You see, my brother was this … perfect kid. And I hate saying that, because no one’s perfect. But he was. He is. He handles every situation with grace, and manages to find a balance between doing the things he loves and pleasing my parents. The fact that he has a heart condition on top of it only adds fuel to my mother’s fire. Why can’t I be like him, you know?” I paused to swallow. “And in reaction to that, in not feeling like I was enough for her, I became enough for me. I did the things I wanted to do. I went to Canada for a summer and lived by the kindness of strangers I met on the Internet. I worked for my brother part-time instead of getting a ‘real job’ and I traveled the world with him. I fed my hunger to live as much I could, and it made me damn happy.” “I’m guessing it didn’t make your parents happy.” “Of course not. But that’s the thing: if I lived by their life rules, if I choked down all the things they wanted for me, I would never, ever be happy. I’d have eventually suffocated.” “That’s what it feels like I’m doing.” “I don’t know if Ames told you, but a few months ago, my boyfriend died.” Shock spread across her face, and I was grateful that Ames hadn’t told her everything about me. “He died, and if someone had given me a box like this,” I looked around the studio, “despite their best intentions, I would have felt like I was being smothered. Like I was being told what to do next, as if I was incapable of thinking for myself, making my own decisions.” “You’ve put how I feel into words better than I can.” I smiled and rubbed her knee. “I know Ames loves you, and wants to protect you. He has pure reasons for wanting you to keep the studio.”

“But they’re wrong.” She blinked rapidly and shook her head fast enough that some tendrils escaped from the bun. “He’s willing to break himself in half, supporting this studio that won’t be bringing in income, on the off-chance that I’ll return from my gallivanting—as he calls it—and want this place back.” She looked around the room. “But it’s not the only place in London where I could practice dance. If I even come back to London and still want to pursue dancing. He needs to keep the restaurant. That was his dream. It’s not fair for me to chase mine and for him to give his up.” “He told me he’s meeting with an estate agent today for the restaurant.” I could tell by the way her eyes widened that this was news to her. “So he’s just going to sell it? Without even talking to me about it? With the way he’s trying to micromanage me, and this place, and how he expects to have a say in what I want to do with my inheritance?” She stood up and I could practically see the rage waiting to splinter from her restless arms. “No. No!” She stalked across the room to her phone. She furiously tapped away on the screen as my stomach started to coil and unfurl. Ames was going to be angry with me. I closed my eyes when they started to burn. He was going to be livid with me. Just thinking about him this morning, the stormy look on his face just talking about it, knowing I essentially went behind his back was going to change us. “I just emailed an estate agent. He’s not the only one who has one in their pocket.” She began pulling sweats on. “Where are you going?” “To tell him what an idiot he is.” “Maybe I should go with you,” I said. “Maybe having it coming from us together will resonate with him.” I doubted it myself, but I didn’t want to send Lotte into the lion’s den alone. “Come on then,” she said, and I followed her with a heaviness in my heart.

Ames was so surprised to see us both—I could tell the moment we walked in the door. What was probably even more surprising to him was our completely opposite reactions. Where Lotte was radiating anger, the only emotion I found myself able to hold was the rock-solid weight of sadness. Lotte pointed a finger to the kitchen before stalking back there. Ames exchanged a look with me and I swallowed, not saying anything. Because all I could think was how I’d probably completely fucked up my relationship with him, and the hope for friendship was completely off the table.

Once we were back in the kitchen, I didn’t take my coat off, knowing I’d soon be leaving. Likely alone. The most torturous part of watching Lotte confront Ames was knowing that at the end of this conversation, he’d look at me like I’d betrayed him. Getting from point A to point B was inconsequential in and of itself. The result would remain the same. “How dare you,” she said, punching a finger to his chest. “I cannot believe you put the restaurant up for sale without even talking to me.” He glanced at me. “You knew I was considering it.” “Considering it and doing it are not the same thing. I told you not to. I told you I wanted to sell the studio so I could help you with the restaurant.” “And I told you that wouldn’t be happening. Ever.” His eyes hardened. “The studio is all you have. I’m not going to let you let it go while you go off adventuring temporarily.” “Don’t assume it’ll be temporary. I might like it there. Maybe I’ll find an American boy and stay forever,” she snapped. “Don’t be a child, Charlotte.” Her eyes narrowed and if I wasn’t emotionally invested in the conversation, I could have found it fascinating, to see this young woman I’d known as innocent and demure all riled up. “A child? You think me a child? If I’m a child, you’re a traitor. Going behind my back and pulling one over on me by listing the restaurant before we could rationally talk about it?” “We have talked about it.” “And you haven’t listened!” She flung her hands out. “You’re too busy bending over backward, doing everything for everyone, to have a shred of common sense. It doesn’t make sense to hold onto a building that isn’t bringing in income, in the hopes that I’ll maybe want it again, some day in the future.” “It doesn’t make sense to sell it to fund my pet project.” “Do you think I’m truly that stupid, Ames? That restaurant wasn’t your pet project. It was yours and it was Mal’s. And you’re going to let it go just so I can keep the studio.” “It doesn’t make sense to hold onto it, not when it’s never once brought in an income,” he replied, repeating her words back to her. “It hasn’t had the chance! You’re not giving it the chance it deserves. I had my fun with the studio. And I’m done now. I’m okay.” Ames turned to me. “Why did you come with her?” he asked me, and his voice lost all the trace of warmth I’d ever known it to have. Lotte interjected, “Because she’s the only one in this family who understands me. She’s been where I am. When she was nineteen. I’m twenty-three, and I’ve been doing the same thing for three years, since Mal and mum died. I’m tired of it. I’m stifled. I don’t want to stay here and do the same thing for the rest of my life. I’m not like you.”

“You’re only twenty-three. You don’t know what you want yet.” He turned to me and shook his head, and I swore I could feel the shake all the way in my chest. “I can’t believe you went behind my back, after our talk this morning.” I swallowed. “It wasn’t a real talk, Ames. You need to see her side. You need to understand where she’s coming from.” It felt like I was listening to my brother giving advice. He laughed humorlessly, “So, what? You think because we’re,” he waved his hand between us, “doing whatever we’re doing, that gives you the right to interject yourself into conflicts that are none of your business?” “No, I don’t think that at all. She wanted advice. I gave it to her. And yes, I did go behind your back in telling her about you selling the restaurant, but I couldn’t believe you hadn’t told her yourself.” “I can’t believe you. You’re here,” he rapped his knuckles on the table I sat at, “temporarily. For, what, another week? And you’ve meddled your way into every single facet of my life like you intended to be here in a permanent way?” It felt like a tennis ball was lodged in my throat, and I couldn’t swallow it down or spit it out. “I’m not trying to make my temporary visit a permanent impression upon your life,” I said, but didn’t really believe it myself. There was no use in denying it—I’d fallen in love with Ames, and sitting here, listening him talk to me like this, was taking all that newness in my heart and forcing it to crack. “So, what, you just wanted to have a bit of fun with an Englishman, then? Play with him for a while until you bounced back to America and went on about your life like this— like I—was nothing?” The direction of conversation gave me momentary whiplash. “Ames. I mean, we had three weeks. I don’t think either of us meant for it to be more.” “Right. I sure didn’t. I knew this was temporary—that’s really the only reason I warmed up to you.” I’d expected him to be hurt. I’d prepared for it. But I hadn’t expected him to take the knife and turn it on me. I tried to breathe around the painful mass in my chest. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying you are temporary. I loved my wife.” He held his fist to his chest, his eyes angry. “That was the great love of my life. I don’t have the capacity for anything other than that.” “I didn’t ask you for anything,” I whispered. “I just wanted to spend time with you.” “And what? Prove you’re right? That you know how to grieve better, that you know better than I do what’s right for my family?” “Ames.” Lotte stepped forward, and I’d forgotten she was still there. My face burned from unshed tears and embarrassment. “She was just trying to help.” “Well, she didn’t, did she?” He looked at me a moment longer, his eyes filled with cold fury. He turned away from me. “Lotte, I don’t want you to sell the studio.”

“Why are you pushing me so much on this? I’m going to do it, with or without your permission.” “Mal wouldn’t have wanted you to get rid of it.” “And she would’ve wanted you to get rid of the restaurant? The last tangible thing on earth that was hers, and yours, together?” She’d cornered him there. His jaw ticked and his eyes narrowed. “Not at the cost of losing your studio.” Lotte stepped right up into his face. “I don’t know how many times I have to say this to you until you’ll listen to me. I. Don’t. Want. It. I don’t. It’s just a place. It doesn’t have the meaning the restaurant does. It’s a place that someone else picked for me.” She paused and turned away for a second. “You may have loved my sister, known her as your equal for most of your life. But she was my sister. And no matter what you think, I know she’d have never chosen for you to be a martyr. Not ever. “I don’t want the studio. I am not Mal. You can’t keep me safe by keeping me in a cage. I don’t want the plan everyone else has for me. But you want that restaurant.” Her voice broke on want. “And you’re going to let it go just to keep my unwanted studio alive. You’re really an idiot.” She bolted from the room then and I stared at the ground. I could feel Ames’ eyes on me, so after a beat, I looked up at him. “I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice breaking. “I tried not to insert myself into your argument, but I feel for her, Ames. She’s so much like me.” He ran his tongue over his teeth before saying, “Why are you still here?” I’d never been more aware of my heart than right then, when he looked at me with contempt and derision, with the coldness I’d never known he possessed. Until that moment, I had no idea that romantic love could have so many thorns.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“I REALLY FUCKED UP.” I pressed my palms against my face, trying to work the feeling back into my skin. “You did.” Sam didn’t try to make me feel better about it. I had fucked up, royally so. Saying things I didn’t mean, with anger in my words. “What are you going to do to fix it?” Running a hand down my face, I let out a sigh. “What the hell can I do?” “Uh, going to her hotel and starting with an ‘I’m sorry’ would be a good start.” “Oh, thanks. Didn’t think about that.” I shoved him, and he sloshed the beer in his hand. I ignored his glare. “She’s not in her hotel. She checked out, and I don’t even know if she’s still in the country.” It’d been a week. A week of restless nights, of walking the city for hours at night until I was weak from the cold. If I replayed the conversation we’d had in the pub’s kitchen, all I did was want to wring my own bloody neck. The way she’d looked at me, like she was watching my soul leave my body, was enough to make me hate myself more than I ever had. I stood up and paced the room. I would torture myself if I kept replaying that scene in the kitchen. If I’d ever doubted her growing feelings for me—which I hadn’t—that moment would’ve cemented them for me. I’d broken her, in a way she didn’t deserve. All because I’d been angry. Lotte had called me a fucking idiot about a hundred times, but it’d been drowned out by the same words I’d said to myself, over and over, for the last one hundred and sixtyeight hours. “What if she has left the country, mate?” When I didn’t answer right away, he punched me relatively gently in the arm. “Don’t be stupid. You lost one person you loved, and you didn’t have a choice. Now, you do. You have a choice: to go after her or to lose her.” The thought made me angry, and I punched him back without trying to cause actual harm to him. “It doesn’t feel like a choice to me.” “Good.” He settled back against the couch. “Because it’s not. You’re going to find her.” I nodded, steeling my resolve. “I’m going to find her.” “How?”

“Google?” Sam sat up and dropped his feet to the floor. “Look, Ames. I get that Google is the allpowerful vehicle to finding just about anyone in the world, but you’re talking about a country with three-hundred million people in it.” “How many Mila Sommers can there be?” Sam pulled out his phone and typed. “Looks like there are a handful on Facebook.” I scratched my head. “I don’t think she’s on there.” “What about her brother? Doesn’t he have a blog?” I pointed at him. “Yes, he does. Search Jude Sommers.” It took us only about twenty minutes to find him, and less than a minute to find his blog and his email address. As I began composing my email to him, Sam stopped me with a hand to my shoulder. “What if he’s angry at you, for hurting her? You think he’s going to tell you where she is?” He had a point. “But I can’t do nothing.” I inhaled deeply, and exhaled, trying to clear my thoughts. “When is she due to go back to the States?” I glanced at the calendar on the wall. “Tomorrow. But she could’ve caught an earlier flight for all I know. If I hurt her like I think I did,” I clenched my jaw, “she might’ve left as soon as she could.” “And where would she have gone?” “To Jude’s, in Colorado.” “Look, I’m not suggesting you do something as crazy as fly to Colorado and track Jude down, but, well, I am saying that. An email could be ignored. You need the big gesture. You need to apologize in person. And get on your knees and tell her you love her, and that you were an exceptional arse.” I raised an eyebrow. “I never said I loved her.” “Oh, piss off.” He pushed me this time, hard enough to send my phone skidding across the floor. “I’ve known you most of our lives, and I’ve seen you this miserable twice. You don’t look that miserable when the feelings aren’t that deep.” He laughed bitterly, and drained his glass of beer. “Trust me, I know what heartbreak looks like.” I scrubbed my eyes with my hands, trying to figure out how I was going to wrangle time off from the pub in order to search for Mila in the States. “I don’t know how to begin with her. I don’t know what to say to make it better. I didn’t expect her, wasn’t looking for her.” “The night you saw her on the bridge, something was different.” Sam set his glass down with a loud thunk. “The look on your face. I know you felt something shift.” “Because when I saw her, when we made eye contact, the first words that crossed my

mind were, ‘There she is.’” It had stunned me then, the words and the feeling just looking at her had elicited in that moment. It was why I’d stopped in my tracks, the reason I’d forgotten how to breathe for a second. “I fought it hard at first. I resented her. And maybe I’d never truly let go of that resentment. I don’t know how else to explain what I said to her.” “You were scared. Because you love her, and you’ve loved and lost in a way that’s scarred you permanently. But you have to grow the fuck up, and find her. You can’t be afraid, forever.” “I don’t want to be afraid. And I don’t want to move on without her. That’s…” I shook my head. “It’s not even an option for me.” The air around me since she left felt thicker, like I could choke on it. Had the air been thick like that before she came, and I was too busy taking shallow breaths to notice? I wasn’t sure—the only absolute thing I knew for sure was that I wasn’t going to move on without her. “You should start drafting your apology speech now.” I sighed, staring blankly at my phone. “How do I apologize to her? How do I tell her I won’t fuck up again?” “Ames. Come on.” Sam gave me a look like he was trying not to laugh at me. “You will fuck up. Probably hundreds more times. You’ll hurt her and she’ll hurt you.” “Then what’s the point of promising I won’t?” “Don’t promise you won’t. That’s the point.” He glanced at his phone. “Jude lives in Highlands Ranch.” Sam turned his screen toward me. “It’s south of Denver.” “I need to talk to Asher and Lotte. And Jennie, too.” “I’ll help. With the pub while you’re gone.” “Thanks,” I told him, and started pulling up flights on my phone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

IT WAS my fifth day straight lounging on Jude’s couch. I was sure that if I moved away from it for too long, it’d lose my impression and I would never get comfortable again. I’d burned through all the shows I’d saved up on Jude’s Netflix queue while I’d been gone, and I hadn’t checked my email once in the week since I’d left the U.K. Jude gave me food when he was around, and his girlfriend, Trista, kept me company, silently, once in a while. But it was the second time in four months that I felt like I’d lost direction of my own life. Like my compass was spinning, unable to find the magnet to make it stop. I knew I’d figure it out eventually, but having my heart tossed into a blender was admittedly making me the most pitiful person at the moment. But on that fifth day, Jude dragged me out and put me in his car and drove me to a dance studio that had private rooms for rent. I sat in the car and stared up at the building blankly. “Come on, Mila-moo. You need to get back at it. You’re turning into sludge just sitting on my couch all the time.” “I don’t feel like dancing.” “I don’t feel like watching you sitting on my couch, day in and day out. Get in there and dance. For an hour. I’ll run to the grocery store and when I come back, we can go home. But I’m not going to let my sister turn into a zombie.” I looked at him, feeling the weight of my pain then, like it was wrapping itself around me, tighter and tighter. Ames had looked at me like I was unwanted. A nuisance. “Mila,” Jude said, softer this time. “I know you’re hurting. But you aren’t a wallower. You’re a doer. I’m going to make you hike with us this weekend too. So, you might as well remind your muscles what it feels like to move so you’re ready.” “I don’t want to go hiking. And I don’t want to dance.” I propped my elbow up on the edge of the window. “I just want to go back to your couch.” “I’m not going to let you. I’m going to bully you into doing this one thing for yourself. Go in there for an hour. I don’t even care if you dance. But put on the music and just listen to it, okay? For me?” “Why do you have to pull the ‘for me’ card?” I groaned, and grabbed my bag before climbing out of the car. “One hour,” I reminded him.

“One hour,” he confirmed, and reached over to close the door. I stared up at the all glass-fronted building, and felt like falling apart on the sidewalk. I didn’t want to dance. I didn’t want to move. I just wanted to exist, until I was back to my normal self. But because Jude had asked, I went into the building, my oversized CU Boulder sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder in a way that wasn’t stylish but sloppy. Jude apparently had already paid for my use of the space, because the woman didn’t take any money from me. She walked me down the hallway, past classes and individual lessons and one or two solo dancers until we were in the very last room. She showed me where the bathroom was and then closed the door behind me, leaving me alone in the space. I walked to the windows first, which had a view of a green park beyond the parking lot. Leaves were falling from the trees, now that fall was officially in Colorado. It looked so different than the view I’d become accustomed to. Gone were the gray skies that I missed, the tall buildings lining the river. Gone was Big Ben. I traced the window trim and closed my eyes. I missed Ames so much. The way we’d connected, how my skin had hungered for his. The drop in my stomach every time he smiled at me. I pulled in a deep breath and then connected my phone to the Bluetooth speaker in the room. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I scrolled through my list of songs until I found something mellow to stretch to. I had no plans to actually dance, but I couldn’t deny that getting a deep stretch in my unused muscles felt refreshing after sitting on a couch for the better part of a week. After twenty minutes of stretching, I turned to an older song I’d developed a dance routine to. It was a slower beat, lots of feet sliding across the floor, body spinning and arms moving through the air like the wind. I was so wrapped up in the song that I didn’t realize an hour had passed until my phone rang through the Bluetooth speaker. And that’s when I realized it’d been closer to two hours. I slung my sweater back on and trudged out to Jude’s car. “Feel better?” I grunted in response.

A week later, our parents came to visit. It was their first time visiting Jude’s new house, so they decided to make the visit last all day. My mother and I had never addressed our argument in London, and I had no desire to. But as fate would have it, she and I were thrown together inside, to assemble the salads for the barbecue Jude had planned.

We didn’t speak, except to sneak around one another for a utensil or a vegetable. As I hulled the strawberries, she seemed to be unable to take it anymore. “What are you making?” “Strawberry poppy seed salad.” She made a noise in the back of her throat. “You loved that salad when you were younger.” I stopped hulling for a moment, surprised she’d remembered and surprised she’d bring it up. “How are you doing?” she asked in a rare moment of her actually showing in an interest in such trivial things. “Fine.” I dropped strawberry after strawberry on the cutting board before grabbing a large chopping knife. “How are you?” I asked. “I’m okay. Seeing a new therapist.” I didn’t have a reaction to that. My mom saw therapists like she saw movies. A different one every couple of weeks. “That’s great.” It was said without feeling and I winced, knowing she’d hear it in my voice too. After trying to slice through a strawberry and effectively smooshing it from the dull blade, I grabbed the knife sharpener and started sliding the knife across it. “He’s older. His youngest was diagnosed terminal cancer when he was five. I think that makes him more empathetic.” I waited for it. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard my mother say such a thing. She gravitated to therapists who had experience with having sick children, and used that as a way to explain away her lack of support for me. I washed the knife under the faucet as I waited. “His older kids had to fend for themselves for about four years, until his son died.” She wasn’t looking at me as she stirred a mayonnaise mixture in a bowl. “And he was surprised that they didn’t need him anymore. It made him lash out a little.” She paused mixing and I moved the knife to the cutting board to begin chopping the strawberries again. “Okay.” “Of his three living kids, he only has a relationship with one of them. I…” in my periphery I saw her turn toward me. “I think that maybe I haven’t always been fair to you.” It hurt her to say it, I could tell, from the way her voice sounded warbled and unsure. I channeled Jude in listening to her, because I wanted to tell her, “Oh, you think?” but knew that wouldn’t accomplish anything productive. “When we found out about Jude’s heart, we were so worried about him that we stopped worrying about you.” She braced her hands on the countertop, but I kept cutting, not wanting to turn to her. Not yet. “And it’s no wonder you lashed out, rebelled the way you did.”

That caused me to roll my eyes. To my mom, sneaking out once when I was sixteen was akin to taking up a heroin habit on the scale of levels of rebellion. “I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry if I ever made you feel slighted. I know we don’t understand each other, and we never will, I suspect. But you’ll always be my daughter, and I don’t want to fight with you.” As far as apologies went, it wasn’t a terrible one. We wouldn’t be holding hands and singing Kumbaya around Jude’s fire pit that night, but it was better than nothing. “I don’t want to fight with you either, Mom.” I placed the knife down and turned. “But I want you to respect my decisions, especially when they’re not hurting you, Dad, or Jude. You don’t have to understand them, or me, but you don’t need to tell me how live when I’ve managed more or less on my own for the last ten years.” I watched her swallow, and knew this conversation was almost unbearably difficult for her. “I’ll try.” It was a start.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

BY THE SECOND WEEK, I was beginning to feel like myself again. The couch no longer had a solid impression of my body, I was finished with all my London posts for Jude’s blog, and I’d done two jobs from the makeshift studio I’d set up in the corner of Jude’s guest bedroom. Trista and I were out to lunch, our first time actually forced to engage in conversation. We’d talked, sure, but only casually around Jude’s house. But after my conversation with my mom, I was done holding onto old demons and waiting for them to strike. The bistro she’d picked was small, our table barely the size of a dinner plate. Once the waitress had left us, I cleared my throat. “Thanks for coming out with me.” “Of course.” She looked at me expectantly, and I felt myself shrivel under her gaze. That was the conundrum about Trista. She was quiet, hardly ever the one to initiate conversation. She just looked at you with these saucers for eyes, as if she could see deeper than you could speak to. It was intimidating, but somehow not completely uncomfortable. “We haven’t talked, not really, since things with Colin.” I swallowed down my anxiety. “I know that stealing your boyfriend was a pretty shitty thing to do.” I cradled my coffee cup in my hands, staring into its contents as if it could help me conjure up what I wanted to say. But then she spoke. “You didn’t steal him.” I raised my head. “But… I was seeing him, while you were together.” “Things can be stolen, but people can’t. He wasn’t mine. Especially if he could be in love with you at the same time.” I was perspiring. This conversation was made doubly uncomfortable because I’d been crashing at her house, recovering from my second heartbreak of the year. “Regardless, it was still a terrible thing I did. Probably one of the worst, if I’m being honest.” She nodded, and appeared to be thinking. I had to force myself not to ramble, to give her the time to think. My lips itched to chatter. “As trite as it may sound, I believe that everything happens the way it’s supposed to.” She leveled me with her gaze. “I’m not sure I ever would have left Colin if that hadn’t happened. I would have stayed with him, unhappy, and punished myself by loving your brother from afar for too long. I’m not like you.” She was the picture of serenity, the

afternoon sun warming her face. Her features were smooth, and she had the presence of someone who had lived a thousand years. “You being with my boyfriend forced me to face the reality of my situation. It forced me out of my comfort zone. But,” a smile teased her lips, “I’m not going to thank you for it.” “Fair enough,” I said, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans. “But what did you mean, that you’re not like me?” “You’re strong. Rock solid, unshakeable.” She sipped her tea and carefully set it down. “You lost Colin, and then you left someone else you loved in London. Don’t worry,” she quickly added, before I could ask her anything. “Jude didn’t tell me much. He’s fiercely protective of you. But I can tell you’re still hurting. You just bounce back faster than the rest of us.” But this time it didn’t feel like I was bouncing back fast. Knowing that Ames was still in London, moving about his day, seemed almost worse than the finality of death. Which was an absurd thing to think, but if I was being honest about my feelings, there they were. “I don’t think I’ll ever feel quite the same,” I said honestly. “Not comparing him to Colin, but it’s different this time.” “It should be different. It is for me.” She smiled then, a sight that was so rare when she wasn’t around Jude. It completely transformed her face. It was easy to understand how Jude could love her, all her soft edges, her deep and quiet thoughts. “Forgive me for being frank, but did you love him?” “I did. I do. He’s special.” I played with the tines of my fork. “He’s incredibly romantic, even when he’s not trying.” I thought of the night he took me to Big Ben, and the ink of that memory bled down, filling my eyes. “Oh, yes. I loved him.” I could hardly swallow, such was the significance of my love for him. “But I betrayed him. I intervened without talking to him first about something.” “Why don’t you call him? Talk it through?” “I don’t have my international phone anymore. And I’m afraid to talk to him.” But maybe messaging him, not seeing his face, would be easier. “I can’t imagine you being afraid of anything.” “Giant Huntsman spiders,” I blurted out. “I went to Australia once, and in the middle of the night, I opened my suitcase and rifled for my flashlight and brushed across the legs of one.” I shuddered. “Every time Jude gets a job in Australia, I’m like,” I crossed my arms over my chest and shook my head. “Never again.” Trista laughed softly. “So, you’re afraid of spiders and talking? For as chatty as you are, I find that surprising.” “I’m not afraid of talking. I’m scared to talk to him, in case he’s still angry. What if he doesn’t feel for me the way I feel for him? And if he does, what then? He’s in London. I’m in Colorado.” “You make it work. That’s what you do.” “You make it sound so easy.”

“But you know it’s not. And that’s what’s important. It doesn’t matter if it’s easy, not if it’s worth it.” I pointed at her with my finger. “You and Jude and all your weird wisdom. No wonder you’re perfect for each other.” I let out a sigh. “I’ll need to message him. I’ll do it when we get home.” “Good.” Trista nodded. “It’ll be okay. If you were with him long enough to love him, I’ve no doubt that he feels the same for you. You’re magnetic, Mila. It’s easy to love you.” I hadn’t expected to go to lunch with my former boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend and find a friend, but that’s exactly what had happened over three refills of tea and bacon and tomato paninis. When we got back to the house that night, after Jude and Trista had gone to bed, I curled up in my corner of the couch and added international texting to my phone plan before writing out my first text to Ames. I typed out a million different responses, a million different ways. And decided that I didn’t want to pour my heart out over text. What I needed was to initiate the conversation. Me: I’m so sorry, Ames. I miss you. My thumb hovered over the send button for a long, long time, until finally I pressed it and then tossed my phone to the other end of the couch, afraid to see if he’d reply.

By the following morning, I didn’t have a reply. I tried not to let it bother me, tucking my phone away as Jude drove me back to the dance studio, where I took my place in the space Jude had rented out for me for the morning block. I started with the slower song again, until I felt limber and like I’d stretched enough to work on something harder. I shed the oversized sweatshirt and adjusted my black leggings in the mirror. Even though I danced facing the mirror, I so often closed my eyes while doing the routines that I didn’t pay attention to my form the way I should have. For the first time since leaving the U.K., I put the song River on the stereo. I didn’t want to forget the choreography, especially since I’d only practiced the routine for a few hours. I put on the heels I’d brought with me and adjusted the tie laces in the front. Even though I’d never be performing this song on a stage, doing the routine was something I could do for myself. Something empowering that gave me purpose. The song kicked on and I faced the mirror, starting through the moves Lotte and I had practiced. My mind was a scrambled mess of thoughts as the chorus approached and I tried to remember the steps. But watching myself in the mirror proved too distracting. It was as if every mistake I made was magnified by the mirror, and I became increasingly

frustrated with myself. I stalked over to the stereo and restarted the song and stepped in front of the mirror again. I drew in a deep breath before the song began and then moved along to the beat, imagining my body was an instrument playing in time with the beat. When the chorus hit, I had more confidence this time, but I was again so distracted by my reflection that I faltered, and my ankle twisted in the heel. “Fuck!” I yelled, pissed that I was screwing up the dance and that my ankle was sore. I channeled the words of one of my old dance coaches to bear the pain like a badge and kept the heels on. The song began and I faced the mirror, this time closing my eyes to keep from distracting myself. I moved through the song, relying mostly on feeling, and it flowed naturally through me, as if the moves had been in my bones all along, waiting for me to listen and follow. When the song stopped, I opened my eyes and smiled proudly at my reflection. My ankle no longer ached, and it was as if a weight had been lifted off me. Dancing was addicting in that way. I had thirty minutes before Jude picked me up again, so I turned the repeat mode on and started the song again, eyes closed as I faced the mirror. In the opening of the song, I swung my arms back and forth to the beat and tossed my head back, staring up at the ceiling before I dropped to a squat and pushed myself immediately back up to standing. I popped my chest to the beat, felt my hair fly all around my head and completely surrendered myself to the rhythm. It moved through me like water, making me feel as connected to it as any actual person. When the beat kicked in, I felt it deep in the pit of my chest. During the second verse, I clutched my chest and tossed my arm out, opening my eyes briefly to check my posture in the mirror. And that’s when my heart leapt right into my throat. Because in the reflection, behind me by the door, stood Ames. I missed several beats as I stared at him, our gazes meeting in the mirror. He was just a dozen feet behind me. I could turn to him. But I couldn’t. Not yet. As if I hadn’t missed the beats, I picked up where the choreography did just before the chorus began again. I stomped with more fury, more power, across the room, away from him—but not intentionally. Ames was here. I had to keep reminding myself to breathe, because staring at him was undoing me slowly. I became a slave to the song, to the way the lyrics spoke for me, to the look Ames was giving me. After the second chorus, I closed my eyes and felt tears gathering at the corners. But I

kept moving, shallow breaths and strong movements. The only thing that betrayed me was the look on my face in the mirror as tears spilled from the corners of my eyes and down my cheeks, falling across my chest like rain splatters with my movements. The tears didn’t stop, they just kept spilling out. The significance of the song wasn’t lost on me, because my tears flowed over me just like a river. And all the while, he kept watching me, his face sad. Ames was here. It was like seeing a ghost, watching him watch me. When the chorus kicked in for the final time, I could hardly breathe. But I was committed to finishing the dance—I just wasn’t sure if I was finishing it for him or for me. He moved a little more into the room, making him easier to see as he stood under the can light. The entire time I danced, I didn’t turn around once—wanting to watch him in the mirror. Where it was safe. I knew the second the song was over, that I would be left alone, back to my normal self, with him. I was equally afraid and excited for it. When the beat finally stopped, I stood still for a moment, trying to suck in a breath, but completely unable to. Tears were still dripping off my chin, but I made no move to wipe them. Slowly, I turned around to face him. After having the room so filled with sound, hearing nothing but the gasps of each mini breath I took was terrifying. I’d said once before that looking at him was like waking up, and it had never been truer than in that moment. “Mila,” he said, and my chest squeezed tighter. I looked at his hands, wishing and not wishing he would touch me, if only to see if his skin vibrated like mine did when I was around him. “I feel like I can’t breathe,” I choked out. I wanted to reach inside and open my rib cage, allowing myself more room to breathe around all the pain and longing that mingled in my chest. “Come here,” he said, but before he could get the ‘here’ out, I was already across the room and in his arms, legs wrapped tight around his waist as he held me. “Shh,” he said, and I realized I was sobbing. The combination of finishing the song, of seeing him here, of the feelings his presence alone evoked was so immensely powerful. As tightly as I squeezed him, he squeezed me tighter. I didn’t know what him being here meant. I didn’t know what he was going to say, and I wanted to hold onto him as long as I possibly could. He was warm, and whole, and calmed down the racing of my heart and the tightness in my chest. Finally, after what must have been several minutes, I loosened my grip, thankful he waited for me to be the first to do so. As he set me down, I couldn’t look into his face, I just stared at the zipper of his jacket until his fingers lifted my chin.

“Mila,” he repeated. I waited, thinking I was going to explode from wanting. “You’re here,” I said, stating the most obvious fact in the universe. “I am. Did you get my text?” I shook my head and ran my thumbs under my eyes. “I texted you last night, but I didn’t see a reply.” “You texted me after I’d already boarded.” Leaning away, I grabbed my phone off the ledge by the stereo and saw several missed texts, from Ames and Jude. Jude’s were giving me a heads up that Ames was coming, and Ames simply said: I’ll be with you soon. I swallowed and wiped away the tears on my face with my oversized sweatshirt. “You were already on your way.” “I would’ve come sooner. But I had to hire a new employee first.” I still didn’t know what him being here meant. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.” I sniffled and felt embarrassed for having cried all over him. As if he could tell that I was putting a little bit of an emotional distance between us, he took my hand and pulled me to him. “I don’t know where to start except to tell you how sorry I am. What I said to you is unforgiveable. I was angry, but that was no excuse for me to lash out at you.” I curled my fingers into his, but didn’t say anything. “I’ve looked after Lotte the last few years, loved her like a sister for longer. I know that you were only trying to help her—to talk to her the way her own sister would have if she was still here. I didn’t respect that, or you, and I am so, so sorry.” Now that I was close to him, I could see the worry in his red, tired eyes. The way lack of sleep had bruised the skin under them. “And,” he said, swallowing, “I love you.” Though he was quiet as he said it, there was no doubt of the strength of his words. “I love you,” he repeated, looking into my eyes. “And I hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’d take it all back if I could.” I let out a breath, now that I could breathe more easily. “I should have talked to you directly. Lotte reminds me of me, and seeing her so hurt was hurting me. I’m sorry, too, because I should have gone to you before I went to her. Or, I shouldn’t have intervened at all.” “No, you should’ve. As Lotte and Sam have made me painfully aware over the last couple of weeks, sometimes I think I know what’s best, when I actually have not a fucking clue.” He laughed, but it didn’t sound like he held any humor. “I shouldn’t have said what I said to you. I was wrong. I endeavor to never be cruel, and yet there I was—to the one person who’d reminded me how good it was to fall in love.” I wasn’t sure my ribs were strong enough to contain the beating of my heart. I didn’t know that love could feel like this, could simultaneously hurt and soothe.

“I love you,” he said again, and I realized I could never tire of him saying it. “Please, forgive me.” In answer, I looped my arms around his neck and pulled him down to me. It’d been so long since I kissed him that it felt like I was kissing him for the first time all over again. His hands cradled my face and he pulled back, pressing his forehead to mine. I dug my hands into the base of his scalp and waited until he was looking at me. “Ames. I love you,” I whispered against his lips. In response, he picked me up again and held me tight against him, so tight that nothing —not even air—could come between us. He kissed me over and over, before pulling away to look me in the eyes. “God, I missed you,” he said, his voice low and rumbly. “I missed you, too,” I whispered. I squeezed tighter around him. “Saying that I’m glad you’re here sounds like a massive understatement.” He set me back on my feet, but didn’t let go. “I came as soon as I could. This is the first time in weeks that I feel like I can breathe normally.” He shook his head. “Listen. I won’t give you absolutes. I can’t promise you I won’t ever fuck up again. Because I will. I’ll probably say something stupid more than once. I can’t tell you I won’t be an arse, because chances are I will. I’ll probably hurt you again. I can’t promise you I won’t, because you’re worth more than empty promises.” His eyes were earnest, searching mine. “But I can promise you that if I hurt you, I’ll hurt more because of it. I can promise that I’ll never stop trying when I’ve done something daft. If that means I must buy plane tickets to the States every time I say something dumb, well then, I’ll need to get another job because that’ll get expensive.” When I laughed, he lifted my face again. “But I’ll do it. Always. I won’t let you slip from my grasp. Not again.” He wiped away the tears that had collected under one of my eyes. “You’re the first thing I’ve wanted for myself in so long, that it’s hard for me to not be selfish and take you home with me.” I knew what he was asking, and I didn’t have a moment’s hesitation. “Take me home, then.” He blinked and his eyebrows drew together. “You want to go back to London?” I nodded. “Yes. I do. With you.” When he still looked at me, disbelieving, I cupped the side of his face. “I love London. And I’ve lived on a couch for the last two weeks and a hotel for five weeks before that—which means I can pretty much live anywhere.” “But you travel all the time. I don’t want you to be like Lotte, stuck in one place.” “I’ve seen so much of the world, Ames. I think I’m due for some roots. Your entire life is in London, and after being there for five weeks, I can see mine being there too.” He fought a smile. “You’re sure?” I squeezed his bicep, right over his tattoo. “I need an anchor, too.” The widest smile I’d ever seen overtook his face, and I was breathless from it. He cradled my face in his hands, shaking his head back and forth. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me right now.” He grasped my hands, placed them on his chest. His heart beat steadily, powerfully.

I leaned up on my tiptoes to kiss him. “This isn’t a sacrifice for me. Being away from you? That would be a sacrifice. A most unnecessary one.” I searched his eyes. “Are you happy?” “Happy?” He laughed and wrapped his arms around me, lifting me off the ground. After a quick spin, he set me back on my feet and pressed his forehead to mine. “I didn’t think I could be this happy again.” My heart expanded, and I couldn’t get close enough to him. “Ames,” I sighed. I dropped my hand to grasp his. “What are you doing with the restaurant?” “Lotte has a potential buyer for the studio.” Judging by the way his mouth twitched, I could tell it was something he was still trying to accept. “So, we’re going to go ahead with her plan. Do what she wanted.” “What your wife would’ve wanted, too.” He let out a breath. “That’s what Lotte thinks.” I wrapped an arm around his waist. “Maybe Lotte will come back, but maybe she won’t. But you know she’ll be happier without feeling like you’re breaking your spirit for her.” “It’s hard for me to admit defeat on this,” he admitted softly. “But I guess we’ll see what the future holds for her.” His use of ‘we’ made me want to wrap myself around him. “But there’s something we need to do before I take you home.” I furrowed my brow. “What?” “I need to take you on our first date. A place that I don’t own, a place where I have to actually pay for the food.” He grinned. “A place with a working loo would be an upgrade from the last dump.” “Our first date, huh?” I asked him, shutting off the stereo and having him lead me out. “I liked our other not-a-date dates.” “There will plenty of those when we get back to London,” he promised and led me out of the doors and into the sunlight. I closed my eyes briefly for a moment, letting the sunshine wash my face the way the moon had washed over me in London, the night I met Ames. “Hey,” he said, and with both of his hands, he pulled me toward him. As my fingers dug into his, I noticed his ring was missing. When I stared at it, he held up his right hand, showing me the ring’s new place. “I don’t want you to think you’re a replacement,” he told me. “You’re not a means to fill a void.” I took his left hand and held it, palm up in front of me. I rubbed the callous on his ring finger in the sun, and felt the deepest sense of peace, for both of us. I felt gratitude, for Colin loving me the way he did. And gratitude again, for Mal, for loving the man whose hand I now held.

The weight of their lives had brought ours together, and I’d never take it for granted. I wouldn’t let go.

As always, the first line in my acknowledgements belongs to my kids and husband. The real loves of my life. Thank you to my husband for all the cooking you did as I was buried in this book, and for not raising your brow when I wore the same clothes three days in a row. And to my boys, who cheered me on and fell asleep early on nights I needed to get the words down. To Sona Babani, my best friend, my longest friend. I’m so grateful for you, and the way you never make me feel less than. For the way you make me laugh at 2 AM when I need to laugh more than I need to sleep. Jade Eby, my beebee. You’re a miracle worker. So giving, so loving—you speak my love language. Thank you for making my books beautiful and for being the person I always need. Karla Sorensen, thanks for being mean when I visited you, and yelling at me to write this book. Thank you for telling me the things I need to hear, even if I don’t want to hear them. And for helping me talk through the little things I’ve sprinkled in this story. Jena Campbell, for also yelling at me and for doing everything to help me when I was floundering while writing this book. Thank you for organizing my all my promo, and for bending over backwards. And thank you for listening to me whine like a little bitch. Whitney Giselle Belisle, thank you for being such a huge cheerleader for all my books. You’re the first person who was excited to read the pages of this book, the first person who begged me for more. Thank you for your typo help and your enthusiasm. I hope to awkwardly hug you some day. Talon Smith, my sour patch kid. I was the most afraid to have you read this book, and you were the first person to finish it—and the first to love it. Thank you for the album of eye rolls and for keeping my head on straight. And thanks for your honesty, always. Wear your damn seatbelt. Thank you to Lex Martin, as always, for your honest feedback and willingness to drop everything to read for me. You’re one of the kindest and most genuine people in this universe, and I wish everyone knew just how special you are. I’m so grateful for you, always. To all the authors who have supported me through the process of writing this book: Karen Cimms, Fiona Cole, the ST girls, the Tribe girls—your support is invaluable to me. Thank you to Lauren for the beautiful photos and Najla for the gorgeous cover design, and for having patience with my many changes.

Thank you to KP and Tracie. If I never see “too much passive voice,” it’ll be too soon. Also, sorry, for, all, the, commas. Thank you to Alexis with Indie Girl Proofs, as always, for being so thorough and helpful—your willingness to squeeze me in was everything. To Amanda Marie, with AM to PM Book Services—I’m so thrilled I got to meet you last June, and talk to you about books! Thank you for the proofread, and the bonus beta comments. You’re lovely. Ginelle Blanch, thanks for always managing to squeeze me into your schedule, and for the lovely comments as you read. Thank you to Cassie Hanjian, my immensely supportive agent. To my beta readers: Sharon Powell, for the thorough comments and insight—thank you for making the time for me! Emma Louise, for educating me on jelly versus jam – could’ve been a bad one! Thank you for your willingness to read and send back feedback so quickly! To Natalie Williams, thank you for squeezing me in despite the short notice and crazy scheduling conflicts! Thank you to Amy Bosica, who makes my Grinch heart expand with all those emails. Briana Pacheco, for giving me honest feedback when I need it—and positive feedback too. Thank you, Kristen Johnson for squeezing me in, and telling me your thoughts. I love our chats, and I’m so glad to know you. You’re all the reason I was able to finish this book, and I’m so grateful. To Christina Harris, Tiffany Elain, Tina Lynne, Kimberly Dodd—for being the people I need at exactly the time I need them. Cynthia Aponte and Samantha “SamPA” Hanson, our group chat gives me life. I wish I could easily put emojis in here to show you my feels. Thanks for our many late-night video chats, and for making me laugh when I’m having a shit day. Mary Ruth, thank you for all the beautiful teasers you make for my books! I’m so very thankful for your talent. Thank you to my Barbetti Babes—I love each one of you so freaking much. If I could, I’d buy all of you tacos. Thank you for traveling far and wide to meet me at signings, and for giving me all the feels. To Debbie Snyder for margaritas and movies and being an ear when I need it. You’re an honorary aunt to my kids, and they’re so lucky to have their favorite Kevin. I have one million bloggers to thank, for going out of their way to pimp my books AND me! I value your support and your time, so I thank you for all the times you shared my books with your followers. I know many of you also gifted copies of my books to your friends and/or hosted giveaways for my books. I truly thank each of you from the bottom of my heart. You give so much of yourself for authors like me, and I hope you know that you are so deeply appreciated. To the storytellers who I’ll never personally know—who will never read these words —but I’d be remiss in not thanking them for the specific inspiration they gave me: Brit Marling and Zal Batmanglij. Your show is the epitome of the power of storytelling, and influenced me in writing the first draft of this novel. Also, thanks Netflix for being so bad ass in giving this platform to such epic storytellers.

Thank you to all my readers. One of the best things about being an author is the relationships I form with the readers who reach out. I love getting to know you on my Facebook fan page, in my reader group, on Twitter or Instagram and even via email. You rock my world. Finally, thank you to my Savior and Lord, Jesus Christ, for giving me strength when I am weak.

He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. Psalm 147:3

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Whitney Barbetti is a mom to two and a wife to one, living in Idaho where she spends her days writing full time and keeping her boys from destroying her house. She writes character-driven new adult and contemporary adult romances that are heavy on the emotional connection. You’ll most likely find her curled up with a good book and a giant glass of wine, with Queen playing through her headphones.

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Title to Come (a cowritten book with Karla Sorensen) August 2017

Title to Come (Lotte’s story) October 2017 If you would like to be notified as soon as the next book releases, please subscribe to Whitney Barbetti’s newsletter at http://www.whitneybarbetti.com/signup/