Chapter 70 Lord Edward
The world is sharper this morning. My leg aches, though to my surprise, it’s not actually that much worse than when I was taking every pill I could get my hands on.
It’s other things that feel different. My hands, shaking in my pockets. My eyes, sleep-deprived but clear. My sense of smell somehow more acute. Hunger in my belly, making me realize that for months now I’ve been eating simply because someone put a plate in front of me, not because I wanted food.
I drag my luggage into JFK, another weary traveler on his way.
Around me are businesspeople walking determinedly toward their gates.
Harried-looking parents clinging to their children’s hands, worried they might lose them in the crowd.
No private plane today. On short notice, Anne was unable to arrange it.
Just thinking my sister’s name makes my stomach twist. I imagine Anne and my father, their heads bent close in the drawing room as they discuss their reasons not to tell me I wasn’t the one driving.
It’s for his own good.
Is it? How would they know what’s good for me when they’ve never, not once, asked me what I want?
He’d never have gone to rehab if not for this arrangement.
Do they really care if I’m sober? I think Anne wouldn’t mind if I woke up each day sloshed as long as I woke up on time.
This is the only way he’ll come back home, marry an appropriate girl.
There’s the truth. They wanted to control me.
I feel a rush of anger, but it’s no longer directed at Amelia or Dr. Mackenzie or Dr. Rush.
I should, I suppose, be angry at Harper’s parents, for keeping their end of Anne’s arrangement even after they knew the truth of what happened that night. They would have let me live with terrible guilt for hurting their daughter, the woman I loved. But they thought they were protecting her.
Maybe it wasn’t even me they were protecting Harper from—I always thought they liked me fine—or even prosecution for the accident she caused.
Instead, maybe once they met Anne and saw what she was willing to do to keep up appearances, they wanted to keep their daughter as far from my family as humanly possible.
I don’t suppose I can blame them for that.
Before Harper, I didn’t think I had the right to be unhappy.
Not only because of the privilege I was born into—though certainly that was part of it—but also because of the narratives woven around my family.
Dad and Anne acted as though I ought to have been grateful that my mother left, like I had no right to miss a woman they found dreadful.
Everyone I met respected my father, and it seemed my entire country adored my elegant, charitable sister.
If they were disappointed in me, it was because I was failing to meet the high standards they set.
If I didn’t fit in, it was due to shortcomings on my part, not theirs.
I roll my shoulders down my back, sensing eyes on me. Across the terminal, a young woman is holding up her phone, pretending to take a selfie when really she’s sneaking a picture of me. I imagine I can hear the whirring snaps of paparazzi cameras.
But I’m not angry at the fan, or the phantom paps, either. Today, my anger is directed only at two people.
I walk toward the first-class security line, fingering my passport, proof of my British citizenship, my family name. Lord Edward of Exeter, son of a duke, brother of a future duchess.
Son of, brother of; who am I alone?
Someone taps me on the back, shaking me from my mental fog. I think back to last night, lying in the snow, when Harper’s phone call roused me. I might have gone on lying there forever had the phone not rung.
I turn, expecting to meet a stranger who’s recognized me. Perhaps the girl taking fake selfies crossed the terminal to meet me. But an older man in a wrinkled suit simply asks, “Excuse me, but are you in line?”
I look at the security line in front of me, metal detectors and bored TSA agents. Beyond that, shops with row after row of magazines, tabloids filled with stories about people like me.
I imagine my face splashed across a cover, the headline reading: Lord Edward’s Untold Story.
Much to my surprise, the idea doesn’t fill me with shame. At once, I understand that I wanted to conceal the truth not because of my actual injury, but because of how it happened. I was ashamed of what I’d done.
But it turns out I didn’t do it at all.
“Excuse me,” the businessman prompts.
I move out of the man’s way and pull my phone from my pocket, my fingers hovering over Harper’s new number. I may not have been the one driving that night, but that doesn’t mean I’m blameless.
Before I can make a call, my phone buzzes in my hand, once, twice, three times. I brace myself for a series of texts from Anne outlining her latest strategy to handle the press.
But the texts aren’t from Anne. They’re from Amelia.
I need some fresh air, so I pocket my phone and walk with my new lopsided gait toward the sliding glass door into the cold.
There’s so much noise: cab drivers vying for space, families saying hello or goodbye to their loved ones.
Amelia told me once that she loves the airport because everyone there has somewhere they need to be, some mission they’re undertaking.
I take a long breath. I’ve waited long enough. It’s time for me to go home.