5. “Shameless” - Camila Cabelo
“Shameless” - Camila Cabelo
Walker
The Wesbourne Archives is only ten city blocks from the candle shop, but in this heat, my blazer has become unbearable.
I wore it to make a good impression for my first visit since coming back, but I’m regretting that choice now.
I shrug out of it, drape it over my arm, and wish for the hundredth time that I had ordered a car while I was standing in the checkout line.
My candles clunk together in my tote bag. I’m going to be even more furious if one of them breaks before I get back to the house. One more reason to pick up my car from my mum’s house as soon as possible.
I’ll spend a few hours at the Archives, then take an Uber over there once it’s too late for her to invite me to stay for dinner. Half an hour to do my duty as her daughter ought to be enough.
I turn the corner, and the imposing structure of the Archives looms above me, all Gothic architecture showing off against the bright midday sun.
Stained glass fills the tall arched windows reaching for the pinnacle of the building, leading many tourists to assume it’s a cathedral.
A set of stone steps leads to the front doors .
Quiet hums through the building as soon as the door whooshes shut behind me. It could be a church, paying homage to the sacred texts within its walls. I’ve never been more grateful to be inside air-conditioning before. Sweating is truly overrated.
The receptionist at the front desk greets me with a cool smile. I wish now that I had endured the blazer. I look like a university student on tour.
“Hello.” I smile and hope my accent assures her that I do, in fact, belong here. She sits behind her giant desk like a sentry, barring access to the antique tomes on the other side of the massive arch to all but those blessed with a membership.
I slide my card from my wallet and across the desk to her. “I’m afraid mine has expired, but I’d like to get a renewal, please.”
She pulls it toward her and studies it. She looks like she’s midforties, her chin-length hair tucked neatly behind her ears. “Of course. Let me get an application for you.” She scoots my card back to me and reaches for a file.
I take the pages from her, relieved she hasn’t passed me a QR code to scan and asked me to “please fill out the form on our website.” I retreat to the chairs clustered near the door and quickly fill out the application.
When I’m done, I take it back to the desk. The receptionist pores over it, making sure I’ve filled everything in.
“I triple-checked each line,” I tell her.
She gives me a tight smile and continues perusing the entire three pages.
I lightly tap my fingers on the desk and refrain from rolling my eyes. Calm down , I tell myself. This will only take a few minutes. I’ll be running my fingers over antique spines soon.
After a small eternity, she says, “Okay. Everything looks good. I’ll send this in for you, and you should have your new card in a few weeks.”
“Thank y— What?” I say, shifting my tote bag higher on my shoulder. “Did you say in a few weeks ?”
“That is correct.” She taps the pages on the desk to straighten them. I grit my teeth. They were already perfectly straight when I handed them to her. “Our application board reviews them and—”
“I’m sorry.” I lean my arms on the desk. “I’m only here for a few weeks before I need to return to Oxford.”
If she’s impressed to hear where I’m studying, she doesn’t let it show. “That’s too bad. I’m sure you would have enjoyed a visit while you’re here.” She takes a few steps away from the desk like she’s about to head to the back room.
“Wait,” I say. “You don’t understand.” My voice is coming out breathless. I force myself to inhale slowly and release it on the count of five. “I’m here from Oxford specifically to do research for my dissertation.”
She gives me what I imagine is supposed to be an apologetic smile, but it comes out looking like I don’t give a fuck what the hell you’re doing here . “There’s nothing I can do. Sorry.”
“I just need a renewal.” I slide my card back to her. “This one expired less than a year ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, looking anything but. “We’re under new administration, and our policy states that foreign applications should expect two to three weeks for processing.”
“I’m not a foreigner!” It’s an almost-shout. Her eyes widen at my outburst. I lower my voice. “I’m from Wesbourne.” I pull my wallet out again to show her my driver’s license. “I’m only living in England while I get my master’s degree. Which I can’t get unless I submit a dissertation.”
She gives my license a rudimentary glance before shaking her head. “There’s really nothing I can do. ”
My hands clench the edge of the desk, turning my knuckles white. “Can’t you call someone? The chairman of the board? If you give him my name, I’m sure he—”
“Ma’am, please.” She holds up her hand. Her nails are short, no-nonsense like mine, and the only jewelry she’s wearing is a gold band on her third finger. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
The arched doorway behind her leads to worlds of information I need to get my hands on.
I can already smell the dusty pages and cracked leather.
I’m sure I look like a crazy person trying to break into a sold-out concert without a ticket.
I lick my lips and turn back to her. “Is there anything I can do to have my application fast-tracked?”
She must decide I’m pathetic enough to take pity on, because her expression softens a bit, but she still shakes her head. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to wait.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. An extra two or three weeks in Wesbourne with literally nothing to do? The longer I stay, the higher the risk of running into him grows. I cannot do it. I take a deep breath and slip my license back into my wallet. “Thanks anyway.” I turn for the door.
I’m two steps from the blistering heat outside when she says, “If you’re from here, maybe you have a family member with a membership?”
I halt in my tracks, my loafers squeaking on the tile. A tiny seed of hope blossoms in my chest. I thank her over my shoulder and push out into the sunshine. I’ve already pulled up the Uber app by the time I reach the bottom of the steps.
Let’s hope my mum’s membership hasn’t expired.
* * *
I’m not blessed with a quiet Uber driver this time. As we make our way through the curving streets of the Hills neighborhoods, he gives me a running commentary on everything he sees.
“Oh shit, look at that place. It’s like a miniature palace.” He’s referring to Colombia Castle, which, despite the name, looks nothing like Wesbourne Palace.
“Have you ever seen grass that green? Here’s me thinking we’re in a fucking drought. Guess that’s only for us peasants.” He cackles, clearly lumping me in with said peasants. “Do I curse too much? My girlfriend says I do.”
I don’t answer him, just mentally count off the minutes until we arrive at my mum’s house and I can escape this barbarian.
“Holy motherfucker!” We pass Pierce’s family’s home, set back behind a row of trees and more than one wrought iron gate, but rising high enough on the hill to be visible over all of it. “How much money do you think a person needs to live in a place like that?”
Billions , I want to tell him, just to watch the shock on his face.
After a few more turns, we pull onto the street leading to my mother’s home. When it comes into view around the last bend, I heave a sigh of relief. I may not be excited to see my mum, but I sure as heck can’t wait to get away from this clown.
He pulls up to the security gate and punches in the code I give him. The gates swing open, revealing the white Spanish Revival mansion I called home for twenty-two years. “You the maid or something?” he says as I open my car door.
I throw him a smirk through his open window. “Just the daughter.” I walk toward the front door, relishing the way his mouth falls open. God, I love the effect money has on some people.
Before I make it to the front steps, the sound of another car engine grows close enough to grab my attention. It’s the kind of low rumbling that can only come from a fast car.
My heart trips over itself. I recognize that car as easily as the person driving it .
I stop with my foot on the bottom step as Lux climbs out of her vintage Ferrari Spyder. She’s like a walking advert for a luxury brand. White car, white dress, white sunglasses perched on white-blonde hair.
“Walker Jean Halifax,” she says slowly, in that lilting voice I’ve missed so much. “In the flesh.”
“Hello, Lux.” I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder.
She clears the distance between us. Perfectly manicured hands grab my face as she plants a kiss on each cheek. The familiar scent of roses wafts over us like an expensive, hazy cloud.
“You’ve been a very naughty girl,” she says, leaning back to get a good look at me, hands sliding to my shoulders. “And I don’t mean that in a good way. How could you have stayed away so long?”
She isn’t looking for any real answers. Those are never given in the portico of a house, not even your mother’s.
“I’ve been busy,” I say.
“We are going to remedy that, and soon.” She drops her hands.
Oh boy. “What are you doing here?” I say to divert her.
She slides her sunglasses off and dangles them from her fingertips. “I was coming to visit your mum, to find out where you’re hiding, and here you are.”
I try to conceal my grimace. I can’t tell if she catches it, because her face retains the same restrained animation as always, like she’s waiting for the punchline of a joke. “I’m not hiding,” I say weakly.
“You must come to poker night,” she says. “It hasn’t been the same without you.”
This time I know my grimace shows. “I don’t think so.”
“I won’t take no for an answer.” She twirls her glasses around. The gold Gucci logo catches the afternoon rays of the sun, throwing blinding flashes of light into my eyes.
“I’m sorry, Lux, but it’s not going to happen. ”
“It’s been two whole years since you’ve gotten revenge on anyone—surely there’s someone you want to take down.”
I briefly close my eyes as a smile floats at the corners of my lips. It has been an eternity since I’ve dreamed of a revenge plot. I haven’t had the resources or the inclination since leaving Wesbourne.
An image of the lady from the candle shop sails across my mind, and I sneer.
“Aha!” Lux says, thrusting her glasses forward. “I knew there was someone you wanted to sabotage.”
“Not really.” As much as I’d love to stink up that woman’s car for stealing my candles, the satisfaction of doing so would be completely obliterated by seeing everyone again. Making excuses. Fake smiling. Avoiding him.
“Come on.” She grabs my arm. “We’ll even give you a complimentary victim. We can ditch the game and move straight to the plot.”
I hold back a laugh. Lux would ditch the game for the plot every night. Not much of a consolation trophy.
While seeing her isn’t as awkward as I expected, there is nothing that could induce me to attend poker night.
Lux has a way of putting people at ease, which is the only reason I can tolerate having this conversation with her right now.
Put me in a room with the rest of them, and it would be like watching someone desperately try to unclog the toilet at someone else’s house.
I miss them, sure. But not enough to put myself through that.
Not enough to be around him.
“I appreciate the gesture,” I say. “But I’m still going to have to decline.”
A knot forms between her expertly arched brows. “I don’t know what to say when someone tells me no.”
I burst out laughing then, and it feels so good, so cathartic. Two seconds later, Lux is joining me, her musical voice mingling with mine in a sound that is so familiar it hurts.
“God, Lux. I needed that,” I say when I manage to get ahold of myself. “You have no idea.”
“Something tells me it didn’t change your mind, though.”
I tug the side of my mouth up into an apologetic smile. “No, sorry. I’m only here for a short visit.”
It’s not technically a lie, since my plan is still to get my mum’s card and complete my research on my original schedule.
She purses her lips together, resigned to her own defeat. “You’ll let me know if you do change your mind. You still have my number, right?”
How do I tell her that I blocked and deleted all of their numbers after they wouldn’t stop texting me? “I have a new phone,” I say. It was easier than being haunted by memories every time I opened my photo gallery or saw the way Maeve had organized my apps by color.
Lux holds out her hand, palm up, and I dig my phone from my bag and give it to her. She immediately snaps a selfie, then taps at the screen with her ridiculously long nails—white, of course—before handing it back.
“Even if you don’t change your mind, call me and we can grab drinks.” She presses two more kisses to my face. “I miss you.”
“Okay,” I say, even though I have no intention of doing so.
Running into her at the airport was a fluke, a strange one-off that I managed to escape by the skin of my teeth.
Talking to her on my mum’s front steps like nothing happened has been comparable to getting a tooth extracted—tolerable if necessary.
Chatting over drinks and explaining why I left?
Not happening, no matter how much I miss her.
“Bye,” she calls as she slides into her tiny convertible and reaches one long, slender arm up to wave. She blows a kiss, then peels out of the driveway, leaving only car exhaust and rose water in her wake.
If things go the way they should, that will be the last time I see Lux Colombia-Clarke.