Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
PERSUASION
Jules
I’ve been staring at my hands since he asked about my dad, and he’s been sitting waiting patiently for several minutes before I can pull my thoughts together.
I don’t know what I was thinking when I started talking about my dad in front of that museum. I’d had too much to drink, too much to eat, and was happier than I could remember being when we approached the Tate. I wasn’t going to say anything, but there was a tug of something as I walked by that made me stop. I didn’t realize it was guilt, and I answered Omar’s question.
I know if my father were here, he’d be standing by my side. I know he wouldn’t blame me for leaving him the way I did. And as soon as I said it, I heard his voice in my head saying, “Don’t be silly.” And wished I could take it back.
I started my tourist guide routine as soon as Omar sat down, hoping he wouldn’t press me on it. I should have known better than to rely on a fair-weather friend like hope.
I don’t know him well enough to tell him the whole truth. But I don’t want to lie to him, either. So I tell him the truth as I know it.
“The night my father died, there was a fire, and I woke up in time to get out of my room. I ran to his and tried to wake him up. But when I couldn’t, I ran out of the house to get help. The roof over our bedrooms collapsed minutes after I got outside. While I was still calling for help. I left him to die alone in that house. I have nightmares that he woke up when the ceiling caved in on him and was scared and wondering where I was and that he died terrified and heartbroken while I was outside, safe. And tonight, I was so happy. And I didn’t think about him once this whole evening. But that museum always reminds me of him, and I felt ashamed that I was so happy when I should be dead, too.” I brush at a tickle on my cheek and am surprised when my hand comes away wet. “I didn’t think I had any tears left.”
He takes my hand in his and squeezes it. “I’m so sorry. How old were you?”
“Twelve,” I say and have to swallow a sob and turn my face toward the window to brush away more tears.
“Jesus. I’m so sorry. You were a baby.”
“It’s more than half my life, you’d think I could make it through a date without crying, right?” I try to effect a laugh, but it sounds like a strangled cough. He lets go of my hand and drapes his arm over my shoulder, pulling me into the curve of his side. It’s been ages since anyone has held me like this, but my body remembers, and I find a comfortable crook to nestle against. I bury my face in his shirt and sit up. “You wear neroli oil.”
“Yeah, I do. Is that on Google, too?” he asks with a chuckle.
“No, my dad was a chandler—a candlemaker. And he grew most of the plants he used to scent them. But his favorite was the oil from his hothouse bitter orange trees—which is where neroli comes from—and he put it in everything: soaps, cremes, lotions. He even tried making cocktails from it. It smells much better than it tastes.” I laugh at the memory of him spitting it out after one sip.
I let my eyes drift shut as the bus sways down Brixton Lane toward home and let the orgy of citrus, green grass, and air with a whisper of honey take me back to the last time I remember being truly happy.
Until tonight.
I’m sure my tears and melodrama have ruined any hope of this turning into a night of lost virtue and orgasms. The bus is one light away from the stop outside the station, and I sit up and unglue myself from his side to take a deep breath and compose myself. “I’m so sorry, Omar. I didn’t mean to spoil the mood.”
“Don’t apologize for your honest emotions. I’m honored that you feel like you can share them with me. And you’re not alone. I used to think I was all cried out, too. But I wasn’t. Unfortunately, I don’t think we ever are. No matter how long ago the hurt happened.”
I remember what he shared with me in the car on the way home from the hospital. “I’m sorry about your mom.”
He sighs deeply, lifts his arm off my shoulder, and presses his palms to his thighs, staring unseeingly at them. “Me, too. She and my dad split when I was thirteen. And it was my fault.”
“Oh, come on. How can that be?” I ask, taken aback to hear him say it with so much certainty. “You were thirteen.”
“One weekend, she took me to soccer practice and got drunk while she waited for me in the car. She was an alcoholic. It had been a problem for as long as I could remember. But that was the first time she’d been clearly too drunk to drive. So she asked me to.”
“Is that legal?”
“No. But I’d driven a few golf carts, and it was either that or call my dad. So I did. And about a mile from home, I side-swiped someone on their bike. Knocked him clean off. When I got out to check on him, his eyes were closed. I thought he was dead. I’ve never been so scared before or since. I forced myself to stick my finger under his nose to feel for air.” He closes his eyes and shudders.
I cover my mouth to muffle my gasp of shock and put a gentle hand on his back. “When I looked back at the car, she’d moved herself into the driver’s seat and yelled for me to get in the other side. Then she called the police. She took responsibility. Told them she’d hit him. She was arrested for driving under the influence. The biker broke an arm and had a concussion but otherwise was fine.”
“Was your mother charged?”
“Yes, with a felony DUI.” He stops and takes a deep breath, his eyes closed. His hand grips the seat in front of us so tightly that his knuckles are white. “My dad hired her a good lawyer. She plead guilty, didn’t get jail time, but was ordered to rehab and was slapped with a pretty hefty fine. While she was gone, my father filed for divorce. It was the final straw for him. I went to visit her once and told her I wanted to tell my dad. She shouldn’t have to pay for something I did. She said she’d talk to him herself. But when she came to the house, he wouldn’t even let her in. He threatened to call the police if she didn’t leave. So she did. I just stood there. Watching. And didn’t say a word.”
“Why? I mean, do you think it would have made a difference?”
“I don’t know. I won’t ever know. I was too scared to tell him then. The day their divorce was final, my father told us she’d left the state and didn’t want to be contacted by us again. And I knew it was because of me.”
“Oh no.” I can’t hold back that reaction. I’m traumatized just listening to it. I can’t imagine how he felt living through that. I know what it’s like to pay for something that wasn’t of your doing. But his mother was no victim.
He lets out a big breath, and his head falls forward so he’s looking at the floor of the bus. “I didn’t know where she was for almost fifteen years. But when I found her again, I did everything in my power to make it up to her. She died before I really could. I don’t know what’s worse, my guilt or my grief. But I had to get away. So I took a year-long leave of absence from my company. I came here to renovate this house I bought before I left. But the distance hasn’t done what I hoped.”
I don’t know what to say. But I don’t think he’s looking for advice or platitudes. So I wrap my arms around him awkwardly from the side and hug him as hard as I can.
He hugs me back. “I’ve never told anyone that story.”
“Thank you for telling me. I promise it won’t go any further.”
The bus hisses to a stop, and he lifts his head to look out of the window. “This is your stop. Let me walk you home.”
We get off the bus and walk in silence all the way to Rattray Road. He follows me through the gate and up the stairs to my front door. I put the key in the lock, and he covers my hand with his.
“Can we have dinner tomorrow?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” I smile, relieved that he wants to despite the chaos of this evening.
“Do you have any dietary restrictions?”
“Uh, yeah—I’m vegan.” I say it with the trepidation all people who eat a less than conventional diet feel when asking for an accommodation to be made. “But I can eat anywhere as long as they have a salad.”
He shakes his head. “No, I’ll find a vegan place.”
“I can recommend some places if you’d like,” I offer and relax into a smile.
“I’m good. Unless you have an absolute favorite or a place you’ve been wanting to try.” He raises an eyebrow in question.
“Surprise me,” I quip. But my grin dies when our eyes meet, and his burn with indecision. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I think I’m going to say good night here.”
“Oh, okay. Of course you must be completely knackered. Thank you for walking me home.” I turn to open my door and hide my disappointment.
Despite the maneuvering I’ve done to get him here, I don’t want to manipulate this moment. The decisiveness and commitment to his choices that he displays on the field is one of the things I find most attractive about him. If he came all this way and can’t find the inspiration to step inside, then I don’t want him to. The fantasy I have about the day I lose my virginity doesn’t include me having to coerce my partner.
I push the door open and turn to face him with a smile. He doesn’t return my smile. He doesn’t move in for a kiss. He just stands there, looking torn.
So I say goodnight and force myself to close the door.