24. Indie
INDIE
AUGUST
When I was seventeen, flat broke, and desperately needing free entertainment when I wasn’t flipping burgers or scrubbing toilets, I spent a lot of time at the library.
I would read anything I could get my hands on like I was Matilda. Books about native North American birds or the Salem Witch Trials or classics like Wuthering Heights.
And when I started having terrible stomach cramping, I gravitated toward medical journals to try to solve the problem myself because I had no money to visit a doctor’s office.
My searches in the medical journals came up empty, kind of like the original WebMD, where all my research ended with the conclusion that I should probably prepare a funeral because I was dying. Tomorrow.
But it was near that section of the library where the old VHS tapes were stored, like some wonderful, lost relic of the past.
At the apartment I was renting—which was really just a spare bedroom in this old lady’s house that I found on Craigslist—the person who had rented before me left behind a television with a VHS player built in.
So I started checking out VHS tapes from the library along with my books. This is most likely where my love of 80s music comes from, because most of the movies were from the 80s—Top Gun, The Lost Boys, Fast Times at Ridgemont High—and I couldn’t get enough of them.
I cleared through the library in no time.
Then one day, I found Moulin Rouge! on the shelves.
The colors, the outfits, and the songs were so bright and passionate.
Admittedly, Nicole Kidman as Satine made me feel really good about myself since she was my height and so desirable. And Ewan McGregor as Christian made me swoon and cry and swoon and cry.
It’s one of my favorite movies, and I would return it to the library only to rent it again and watch it over and over.
Teddy knows this. It’s one of the first movies we ever watched together, cuddled on my bed, watching on my laptop.
I’d seen it so many times that I knew exactly what was going to happen, but he hadn’t.
When the iconic line about the greatest thing you’ll ever learn was said, Teddy burst into tears and pulled me closer to him.
I had felt so warm, so connected to him in that moment, that he felt vulnerable enough not only to cry in front of me, but to cry while appreciating my favorite movie. It felt like being seen.
That’s what being loved by Teddy felt like.
Love makes everything feel true—even when it isn’t.
The softness I’ve been feeling toward Teddy ebbs and flows.
It ebbed after the pastries, the letter, and the warm memories that softened all the ice I was trying to keep around my heart.
It flowed and calcified when I was alone in the British Museum, looking at beautiful, historic, stolen artifacts from around the world. All I could think about was mistreatment, about taking and taking and taking without giving anything in return. Anger tinged every emotion I felt.
It ebbed after I ate lunch, which usually always brightens my mood.
It flowed again when I walked past all the happy couples eating together, looking annoyingly in love.
By the time I made it back to the hotel to nap, shower, and get changed for dinner, I felt emotionally exhausted.
But William was at the front desk, calling my name once more.
“Is everything okay?” I ask once I reach him.
William gives me an awkward smile before looking up while speaking, like he’s trying to get his words right.
“So, the hotel does a…” he stutters, eyes darting left and right before lighting up. “A lottery! Yes, a lottery for our guests for…” He glances back down to the desk in front of him and squints. “…a ticket for a show in the West End.”
Suspicion creeps up my spine. William really isn’t great at subterfuge.
“Really,” I say, sarcastically, though with no actual venom behind it. “And let me guess—am I the lucky winner?”
“Why yes, you are, Dr. Miller,” William says, picking up an envelope and handing it to me. “You are a lucky woman—our lucky woman, I mean. The hotel’s lucky woman. Of course.”
I narrow my eyes, glancing back and forth between him and the envelope that looks suspiciously like the one from this morning—thick, cream-colored, and without a hotel monogram on it.
“Are you sure the tall jackass didn’t tell you to give this to me?” I ask baldly.
William blanches.
“What?” he squeaks, his voice way too high-pitched for honesty. My brow raises. “No, that’s… no, it’s courtesy of the hotel. Of course.”
Snorting, I shake my head, but take the envelope anyway. “Right. Well, thank the hotel for me, then.”
“Of course, Dr. Miller,” William says, sighing in relief. “Is there anything else you need from me?”
“No, William, but thank you.”
When I’m in the elevator going up to my room, I open the envelope and let out a string of curses toward my ex-boyfriend that has the older woman sharing the lift with me looking over in surprise.
“Sorry,” I mutter, my face heating.
She snorts.
“You’ll have to do better than that to scare this old biddy,” she says, her attitude reminding me a lot of a British Ellie. No nonsense, sarcastic, but with an air of kindness. “You Americans have no creativity with your profanity. It’s absolutely tragic, darling.”
A smile curves my lips, and when we arrive at her floor, she turns to me before she goes.
“Try bloody buggering wanker next time,” she says, looking very sage. “I think that should about cover it.”
“Thank you,” I say, sharing a smile with her before the elevator doors close. Glancing back down at the envelope, I huff. The absolute audacity, gall, and the fucking loving thought behind the ticket in my hand enrages me.
As William said, it’s a ticket for a show in the West End.
Moulin Rouge! The Musical
“Teddy, you son of a bitch,” I mutter, before snorting. “Literally.”
The show was absolutely incredible, one of the most spectacular things I’ve ever seen. I’ve never been to a live musical before, though I had been considering doing a bucket-list show in NYC since I would be so close in Cape May. I never even considered stopping for a show while I was here.
The show was overstimulating in the best way possible. The songs, mixed with the set of bright reds, deep blues, vibrant magentas, luminous golds, and the familiar love story that has always felt like a pleasant cardiac event.
It made me cry, laugh, and smile so hard my cheeks hurt. It was the most amazing time, and something I will remember for the rest of my life.
Now, I’m sitting in a cocktail bar down the street from my hotel, decompressing with a drink to try to even out my tangled emotions toward the man who made that experience possible. He bought me a ticket—one single ticket, without expectation of him joining me—for the musical of my favorite movie.
A movie that means so much to me. A movie that got me through some of the toughest years of my life. It’s special, and it means something.
And it’s also just a gesture. Just like the pastries were. But both gestures were loaded with history.
Gifts. Pretty words. Action. Atonement.
The back and forth makes me dizzy once more, so I slam the rest of my French Martini back as the bartender comes over with a sweet smile on her face.
“Another, love?”
“Yes, please,” I say, returning her smile.
She winks, grabbing my empty glass.
A smooth, British-accented voice cuts in from behind me. “Put it on my tab, Lara. My usual, too, please.”
Turning, I meet the blue eyes of a very handsome honey-blond stranger. He’s not very tall, maybe around my height, and more lithe in build, wearing a very expensive-looking black suit and matching tie.
The smile on his devastating face reads trouble. He’s more pretty than handsome, but still incredibly attractive. And it seems like he knows it as he takes the seat next to me.
“Thank you,” I mutter, folding my hands together and resting them on the bar.
His eyes are still on me, and I shift under the weight of them. When I glance over, I feel his eyes trailing down my form, and I look down at the outfit I chose. Another purchase from Harrods.
It’s black, off the shoulder, and lands around my mid-calf. When I tried it on for the girls, being shoved into the dressing room by Genevieve, their eyes lit up. Then I turned around, and they started hooting and hollering like hyenas.
It exposes my entire back, down to my lumbar spine.
And I sure feel a bit exposed right now under this man’s gaze, but not in an unpleasant way. There’s no sexual leering. He looks like he’s appreciating fine art.
“You’re welcome,” he says, nodding to Lara when she drops off our drinks. “Where in America are you from?”
I make a face, and he looks amused.
“What?”
I shake my head. “Is boldness a trait in British men?”
“Not particularly,” he smirks. “I’m a rare type.”
I hum.
“Usually, you introduce yourself to someone first before you ask them personal questions about their location,” I raise an eyebrow, and he chuckles, looking chagrined.
“My sincere apologies, Miss—”
“Doctor,” I correct on instinct, briefly worried that I sound uppity, then realizing that the debt I’ve acquired, hours spent studying, and the gendered bullshit of the world allow me a little uppityness with my title. “Dr. Indie Miller.”
His eyes brighten, the smooth smile growing on his face.
“Dr. Indie Miller,” he repeats. He holds out his hand, and when I place mine in his, he bends to kiss the back of it. Charming. “Sebastian Campbell. There, now we’re introduced.”
I roll my eyes and take a long sip of my drink, the liquor making me feel buzzy and warm.
“I don’t really have a set place I’m from, but I’ve been living in the Chicago area since I finished med school.”
“What kind of doctor are you?”
“Oncologist.”
“Cancer,” he says, nodding. “Impressive.”
“And you?”
He shrugs. “Oh, I’m just a boring old barrister. Not as exciting as your career.”
I tilt my head back and forth. “Cancer isn’t really exciting.”
“Poor choice of words,” he says, wincing. “I was speaking more from admiration. It’s quite a noble career you have.”