29. Chapter Twenty-Eight London
Chapter Twenty-Eight: London
T he urge to hit something, or some one , intensifies with each shallow, ragged breath I take.
But whose face meeting my fist would solve the chaos spiralling apart around me?
I’m not a fighter. Never have been.
But something inside me has broken open, and the only thing I can think to staunch this gaping wound is pain of the physical variety.
Divorce.
They’re getting a divorce.
My siblings’ squabbling fills our parents’ hotel room.
Brooklyn looks as shocked as I feel, while Perry is angry, and Troy indifferent.
Savannah, though… Even though we haven’t been close since she moved out, she’s still my sister.
I’ve seen how much effort she put into this day.
I can’t imagine a worse way for her to start her new life with her husband than by finding out about our parents’ divorce in such a scandalous way .
I want to go up to her, to put my arm around her, but her new husband is already holding her as she sobs. “How could you do this to me? To us? At my wedding ?”
Dad doesn’t wear his usual stoic, defensive wall of anger and indignation. He looks shocked. Unguarded. I guess he was caught red-handed.
Before I know what I’m doing, I sprint. My feet move on their own, taking me back through the door where I came from.
I shove at it blindly before realizing I need to pull, not push.
Inside the ballroom, still unseeing, I stumble through the crowd of people.
I’m sure they’re talking about me—about us—about our family—but I can’t listen. Not right now.
All I can do is look for something to numb the spreading pain in my chest.
I reach the bar and slide two hundred-dollar bills out of my wallet before passing them to the bartender. “A bottle of wine.”
“White or red?” To his credit, he doesn’t ask for my ID or mention the scandal that’s just erupted in my family.
“White.”
He pulls out a bottle of Pinot Grigio after taking my money. I assume the bottle costs much less than that, but I don’t wait to take the change. I just need something to make this hurt go away. To stop devastating me. To stop feeling like a failure with each aching throb of my heart.
The bartender uncorks the bottle for me and hands it to me, along with a glass. I leave the wine glass on the counter and exit the ballroom through a different door, nearly stumbling into the doorjamb as I take a swig that burns my lips.
Not as numb as I’d like to be, but maybe the wine will fix that.
I’ve never turned to drinking to fix my problems. I drink as a social lubricant, when there are things to celebrate.
Right now, though, I can’t think of any reason to drink except to mourn .
Halfway through the bottle, my throat on fire, I lie on an abandoned chaise lounge in a dark, shadowy corridor of the hotel. No one has come by to disturb me. Not that anything could disturb me more than what’s happened today.
Footsteps echo down the hall just as I’ve finished the thought. I set down the bottle carefully next to me. As I look up, I realize the wine didn’t numb the agony in my chest one bit.
It hits me afresh as I look Gloria in the eyes. Then my gaze darts away. I’m not worthy of looking her in the eyes. I’m not even worthy of the concern I read in her expression, her furrowed brows and pursed lips.
“London?” Her heels click to a stop next to me, and she stays a few feet from me. As if I’m an injured animal with its foot caught in a trap, prone to lashing out unpredictably.
“How did you find me?” My voice sounds hoarse to my own ears. Probably from the wine. I touch my cheek, feeling something sticky, and realizing it’s the salt of my tears. Maybe I’m hoarse from crying.
“The bartender told me he saw you leave, and I’ve been looking ever since,” she says. “Are you… I mean…”
She trails off. Lawyers aren’t often speechless, which makes me marvel at how messed-up this situation is that it renders her wordless.
“I’m sorry.” I stand up, trying not to look as unsteady as I feel. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” Her voice is sharper than I expected it to be, like my apology is a slap across the face.
“I abandoned you there. I left you alone. With… them .” I can’t bring myself to say the words ‘my family.’ They feel like a slur. Something ugly and vulgar. “I’m sorry I brought you here. I shouldn’t have asked you to come.”
I grab onto the arm of the chaise to keep from falling over.
“You don’t have to stay. You can go home if you want. I know you’re tired… and this isn’t the romantic night I hoped we would have… ”
“London, I’m not leaving you.” Her tone is sharper still, the edge of a blade peeling back all my lies and excuses and defenses. Until I have nothing left to hide behind.
“You should.” My voice seems to bounce off the walls and slam back against me. Against her. She flinches, her shoulders curling in. “I’m not worth it.”
“You’re drunk.” She doesn’t say it with disgust like I’d expect her to. “Let me help you get home. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Please don’t pretend this is just something I can sleep off like a hangover.” I pick up the bottle again, when all I want is to reach for her.
But I can’t. I’ll taint her. Weigh her down with my baggage and my burdens. She doesn’t deserve that. She deserves to live life free and unencumbered and happy.
Not with me.
“I’m not saying that. You’re not thinking clearly right now, and you’re definitely in no state to drive.” She frowns at me.
Screw it. I take another swig of wine, before putting it down again as the acrid taste sears my mouth. “My parents will get a divorce whether I drive or not.”
“London, please… you’re scaring me.” The faint tremble of her lips and the waver in her voice stops me dead in my tracks.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, because it’s all I know how to say. “I’m not driving tonight. Okay?”
“Okay,” she says. She looks so small standing in front of me, despite her three-inch heels. So vulnerable. So trusting. So fragile. “Then let me get my car from the valet. I’ll take you home.”
Home . Where is that? Is that where you have a mom and dad who love each other?
Siblings who bicker, but at the end of the day, still care about and support one another?
A sense of peace and belonging? Hugs and kisses over scraped knees and parents who dry your tears?
Where everyone pitches in to help each other out, and no one complains about each other’s bad habits and quirks, except in good fun?
Wherever home is, I was never given a map to get there.
The weight of the day crashes down on me, and I lean back further on the chaise lounge. Tilting my head back, I stare up at Gloria, hoping she’ll sit next to me. To be with me, when no one else is. To be with me, even when I don’t want to be with myself.
She does, wrapping her arm around my waist and resting her head on my shoulder. As if she needs my comfort.
Maybe she does. Maybe seeing my family today was too much for her. I’ve been selfish, thinking only of my own hurt. I’ve discarded any thought for how my parents and siblings must feel. How Gloria must feel, since she knows no one here but me.
“I shouldn’t have left like that,” I murmur. I let myself touch her, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. The warmth of her fills me with an inexplicable sense of peace and relief that nothing else can. “I shouldn’t have left you like that. Please, let me apologize. Let me make it up to you.”
She sniffs. “I’m supposed to be making you feel better.”
“You are. You always make me feel better.” I tug her into me, and she curls into my side, letting me pull her into a hug that seems to sort out all the jumbled pieces of my heart. “Just by being you.”
She presses a gentle kiss to my neck. “Let’s go home.”
“You’re my home, Gloria,” I whisper into her hair.
A few hours later, we’re in Gloria’s apartment, curled up on her couch beneath a blanket while she snoozes next to me.
A black and white Cary Grant film plays on mute on the TV.
Twinkling fairy lights strung up around the walls and the faded posters of boy bands and pop stars are homey and comforting.
I’m glad we’re not at my place right now.
The reminders of my family would be too painful.
We fell asleep on the couch watching old movies. I woke up a few minutes ago, my mind racing with thoughts I can’t outrun.
Your parents are getting a divorce because you didn’t try hard enough. You didn’t hold them together. You let your guard down.
No one cares about them the way you do. It’s all on you. Keeping the family together is on you, and you failed.
It’s over now. Stop trying to fix them. There’s no fixing this.
I clap my hands over my ears as if it will drown out the voices rattling around my skull.
I focus on the sensation of Gloria tucked against me.
Her gentle breaths form a meditative rhythm, guiding my thoughts into a less panicked cadence.
The smell of her hair washes over me, and I want to bury myself in this moment and never come out again.
To encase us in blissful ignorance and pretend Savannah’s wedding never happened.
She hasn’t looked at me with pity yet, which I appreciate.
But I fear she will. That she won’t stay with me because she loves me.
She’ll stay because she sees the secrets I keep from everyone: that I’m broken.
Unable to keep myself together, much less keep the peace in my family.
And she’ll want to fix me, to piece me back together.
I can’t stand that thought.
I shift on the couch, the tightness in my neck and shoulders reminding me that the small sofa was made to sit upright on, not to sleep on. Gloria lets out a small sigh. I wonder what she’s dreaming about.