15. “Back to December” - Taylor Swift #2
I take it from him and look inside. I recognize the scarf I gave him last Christmas, the toothbrush I kept at his flat, a picture of the two of us in Rome. I slide a Valentine’s card out and hold it up. “You’re giving this back?”
He shrugs, as if the life we built together was of no consequence, and clears his throat. “It’s not exactly a clean break if I still keep mementos lying around, is it?”
I stick the card and my pride back into the bag. “No, I guess not.” I say, scooting off the barstool. “I’ll just go get the ring.”
Beck has stacked our take-away containers on the counter when I get back. “I wasn’t sure where the bins were,” he says, sticking his hands in his pockets.
“I’ll take care of it.” I hold out the velvet ring box, and he takes it from me. I can almost feel the rush of air from the story of us slamming shut.
“Thanks. I’m sorry to make things awkward.”
“It’s fine.” I wave my hand like this isn’t tearing out a chunk of my heart. “So. You’re seeing someone?”
He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “I am. But that’s not what this is for.”
“You don’t owe me any explanations,” I say.
“I don’t want you to think I would ever give another woman the ring I bought for you.”
“Really, Beck. It’s fine.” It took him two and a half years to propose to me.
“Alexa is changing her major again.” He holds up the box. “I need the tuition money.”
I laugh as though I’d assumed nothing less. “Of course she did. Give her my best wishes.”
“I will.” He moves toward the doors in the foyer, but before he can open them, Henry walks through and nearly into us.
He looks up from the phone in his hand and takes in Beck and me standing there. His expression changes from one of distraction to one of very strong irritation, the way it would if you realized someone had completely rearranged the drawers in your desk.
“What’s going on?” Henry looks directly at me and ignores Beck entirely.
I glance at Beck. Disgust hides in the lines of his face, and I realize the conclusions he must be coming to. “We were just— I’m staying with him, but just until the palace—”
“Celia,” Henry barks. “Not another word.” He turns to Beck. “You need to go.”
“I was just on my way out. Sir.” There is no mistaking the icy way he splits it into two sentences.
After he leaves, Henry and I stand facing each other.
“You didn’t have to be rude.” I turn back to the kitchen.
“Entertaining guests in my flat while I’m gone?” he says, following me. “I’ll admit, I was expecting shaving cream in my shoes or holes in my pants, but this?” He leans on the counter, palms flat against the marble.
“I wasn’t entertaining. I was soliciting advice,” I say, refusing to look at what his posture does to his shoulders.
“Advice about what?”
“None of your business.” I begin to stack the dirty plates into the sink. “But since I know you won’t leave it alone, I needed advice on the budget.”
Henry looks incredulous. “You wanted that bugger’s advice but not mine?”
“He’s a solicitor. Besides, I already asked for your advice.”
“And I gave you a damn good idea.”
I shrug and start rinsing the dishes. “Depends on who you ask.”
He shakes his head, muscles popping in his arms, which are still propped on the countertop. “No one is to know where you are.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It was only Beck.”
“How do you know we can trust him?”
“I trust him more than I trust you.” I keep my eyes on the sink, but I can feel Henry’s glare.
“You don’t mean that,” he says.
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“When have I ever hurt you?”
My eyebrows fly so high they’re in danger of getting lost in my hairline. “Are you serious right now?”
“Besides that.”
“Excuse me? Besides that?”
He sighs. “You know what I mean. Have I ever hurt you physically or put you in danger?”
“No. And neither has Beck.” I load the plates into the dishwasher and dry my hands on a towel, steeling myself against the bile clawing its way up my throat.
“Well, at this point, the only people I’m confident won’t hurt you are me and my security team. So until we can prove otherwise—”
“Oh, please. My mum? Beatrice?” I don’t bother to hide my disgust.
Henry opens the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of nasty-looking green sludge. “Obviously I don’t regard your family as suspicious.”
“Just your own.”
“Can we be done with this conversation?”
I tear off a big hunk of naan and wave it at him. “Feel free to leave whenever. I was just trying to enjoy my lunch when you came barging in like a jealous caveman.”
He points to the sloppy take-out containers littering his pristine kitchen. “Since when do you like Indian food?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Not as much as you think.” He takes several long swallows of what looks like pond scum. His Adam’s apple bobs, and my mouth grows dry.
“Let me guess. You have a three-inch dossier on me in your office,” I say.
“Try three and a half.”
“And here I thought the boarding school scandal got hushed up.”
“Do go on. This sounds juicy.”
“It really wasn’t a big deal,” I tell him sweetly. “He was only ten years older—”
Henry chokes on his green smoothie.
“But I’m boring you.” I hop down from the stool and gather the garbage into the bin.
He picks up the shopping bag Beck brought. “What’s this?”
“Just reminders he no longer wanted.” I snatch the bag from his hands.
Henry tugs it back. “Let me see,” he says, sifting through it. “Seriously? He returned this stuff to you?” He holds up the political thriller I gave Beck on his last birthday.
“Yeah, well, I guess the memories were too painful.”
“Then he could’ve thrown them away. Giving them back is a dick move.” Opening the bin, he drops the whole bag inside. “You’re better off without him.”
“Some people would say the same about you.”
“And I’d agree with them. But at least I’d never give your stuff back.”
“What stuff?” I say.
“If there was stuff.”
Another wave of nausea hits, and this time I have to grab on to the back of the barstool to stay upright.
Henry is beside me in an instant. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Is it your head?”
I shake my head. “Stomach,” I manage to get out, before clamping my hand over my mouth and rushing for the trash. I lose my lunch on top of Beck’s things, and Henry holds my hair and rubs my back until I’m done.
He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, takes the lid off, and hands it to me. I rinse my mouth out and spit into the sink.
“Thank you,” I say, just as I feel it hit again. I lean over the bin again and heave until I’m sure every last intestine has been deposited in there along with my lunch.
“That bloody tosser,” Henry mutters. “He gave you food poisoning.”