The Weight of Life Read online

  “I’ll take your word for it. He seems like he regrets hauling me up over that railing.” Not my finest moment, to be sure—which made me want to fidget with my hair, embarrassed.

  “Ah.” Sam grabbed the handle of the door that had closed behind Ames and pulled it open for me. “Well, he might.”

  I laughed, but I wasn’t sure if it was all that funny. “And so … what? You invited me along to torture him?”

  “Precisely.” He gave a curt nod of his head, and placed a hand on my back as I walked over the threshold and into the bar.

  It was like something I’d seen in a movie. Shotgun style, it sported mirroring dark brick walls on the two longest sides. Along the left wall was the bar, with white-washed crates mounted on it, holding all kinds of bottles of liquor. A long, L-shaped lacquered bar wrapped around the wall, accompanied by stools with red, plush-looking seats.

  On the opposite side of the bar were several wooden tables pushed up against the brick, accompanied by the stools at the bar. And dotted down its center were plush arm chairs, with steel, circular tables between them.

  It was cozy, and warm, but also surprisingly stylish. With the wood-planked ceiling and the industrial, exposed lightbulb lights that hung from it, it was a perfect mixture of new world finding its place in the old world.

  “Are you going to sit?” Ames asked, interrupting me from my gawking.

  He lowered himself to a stool with Sam on his left, who was leaning over the counter to talk to the adorable, blonde bartender. I had to choose between sitting next to Sam or next to Ames, and I surprised Ames and I both when I chose the seat next to him.

  I shrugged out of my jacket and folded it to lay on the empty seat beside me before I turned to Ames. He’d removed his hoodie, revealing a dark gray tee that was fitted—distractingly so. His arms were more muscular than I’d realized, his body toned and fit. From his profile, he had a very … aristocratic look about his face. From the excellent lines of his jaw, his full lips, and his almond-shaped eyes, it was a face I’d seen a dozen times, in history books, painted with great exaggeration. And maybe I’d seen the same face in a book with a happily-ever-after, too. Prince Charming didn’t scowl as much as him, though.

  “This is your bar?” I asked, hoping to invite him in with some conversation.

  “I manage this pub, yes.”

  When I started to ask another question, the blonde bartender popped—literally, it seemed—in front of us.

  “Oh, hey Ames. Missed us so much that you couldn’t bear a night out?” She propped her elbow on the bar, gave him a teasing smile, while her blonde bob danced around her chin. “Want the usual?”

  He nodded and she turned to me. “Oh, hello,” she said, and tilted her head sideways. Her eyes were large, and the brightest blue I’d ever seen. She wore dark makeup heavily around them, making the lightness of their color all the more shocking. “What can I get you?”

  Her accent was slightly different than the guys’. It had a lilt to it, almost musical.

  Giving her a smile, I glanced quickly up at the chalkboard on the wall behind her. The first thing that caught my eye was called “Forbidden Fruit Sangria,” with a cartoon-looking apple for the “a” at the end of “sangria.”

  “I’d like the sangria,” I told her.

  “Excellent choice,” she said, and ducked, her hair flying up in a mess of strands before she straightened and it all fell back into place perfectly. I found myself touching my own hair, which was past my bra strap at this point, and feeling a strange kind of longing for a hairstyle that didn’t need constant tending to.

  I watched as she moved behind the bar like a little fairy, darting back and forth. Sam had already gotten up and moved to a table filled with young twenty-somethings, and appeared to be flirting with them, judging by the giggles that erupted from that direction.

  Which left me alone at the bar with Ames, who was doing his best to avoid engaging in conversation with me.

  “I’m not sure I properly thanked you,” I said, the silence between us becoming unbearable. “For, you know, saving me.”

  He was silent for a long moment, making me wonder if he’d even heard me. But then he turned his head and stared at me in a way that made my stomach all light again, that balloon of helium expanding inside of me. “Yeah.”

  Instantly, the balloon deflated, along with whatever hopes I’d had of having a conversation with him. “Are you angry with me?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound self-conscious. Because I wasn’t. I knew my faults, wore them proudly in fact, but if someone was angry with me, I wanted to know why. And, considering I’d spoken only a handful of sentences to Ames, with none of them being incendiary in the slightest, I wanted to know what it was about me, that made him so … unfriendly.

  “No.”

  I wasn’t ready to give up yet. “Are you annoyed with me?”

  “No.”

  “Do you wish I’d leave?”

  That question gave him pause. But when he spoke, I believed him. “No.”

  “Are you always this chatty?”

  “More so, in fact.”

  The bartender set the drinks down in front of us. Mine was beautiful, a pale yellow with slices of lime, lemon, apple, and pear floating across the top. And before I lifted it to my mouth, I could already smell each fruit. “Well, this looks and smells amazing.” I smiled gratefully at the bartender, whose black name badge read “Jennie” in gold letters. “Thanks, Jennie.”

  She nodded at me, her smile wider at my using her name. “Hope you like it.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could feel the weight of Ames’ gaze on me. He was waiting to see how I’d take to the sangria, I knew. And suddenly, I felt self-conscious. Turning to him, I said, “It’s rude to stare.”

  He blinked once, his blue-green eyes clearing, but looked completely unperturbed by what I’d said. “In some cultures, maybe. You’re American.”

  I swirled the little stick that adorned the wine glass. “Can’t put anything past you,” I joked. The medley of fruit spun faster and faster, until it was just a blur of colored flesh and pulp.

  “Why are you in London?”

  Because he’d asked me an actual question, I rewarded him with a sip of the sangria. Lemon burst on my tongue. “Well, at the moment, I’m drinking sangria in a beautiful little bar beside a man who might or might not wish me gone.” I spun the fruit again and looked at him. “What are you doing in London?”

  His eyes went flat. “I live here.” I didn’t miss the duh tone in his voice when he answered that.

  “But you don’t sound like you’re originally from here.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “Well,” I started, and then cleared my throat. “You don’t sound like this, all posh and lyrical,” I said, in an Estuary English accent. Lowering my voice a bit, I said with a more Cockney accent, “And you don’t sound like this, having a handful of unpronounced letters.” His eyes widened slightly, which was essentially praise to me, so I wiggled a little in my seat. “And it doesn’t sound Welsh, or Scottish, either, more of a mix of Estuary and…” I spun my finger in a circle as I thought, “I’m not sure what it is, but it’s not from here.” And that missing bit of his accent was probably one reason I enjoyed hearing him speak so much.

  “You imitate accents?”

  He completely avoided my almost-question. “I’m a voice actress.”

  “Hm.” He sipped his beer and then looked straight forward. “You need to work on your Estuary. Sounds muddled.”

  I smiled, because he was trying to insult me. “I will. So, where are you from?”

  He turned back to me and looked thoughtful for a moment, as if he was trying to decide whether to tell me or not. I licked my lips and his gaze dipped for a moment before he met my eyes again. “My family is French.”

  I wasn’t sure why that little fact made him infinitely more attractive, almost uncomfortably so. But the way his lips had pursed as he’d sai
d it, made me think about how … sexy that language was. “Say something in French.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He laughed, catching me off guard. “I just did.”

  “’No’ is ‘no’ in French?” My shoulders slumped. “How disappointing.”

  “Well, it’s spelled n-o-n, but yes. Pronounced the same.”

  I rolled my eyes and took a sip of the sangria. “Thanks for humoring me with your dazzling French.”

  “Anytime.” The laugh softened his mouth, making me feel a little tipsier than I knew I was. He was good-looking in a way that made my stomach hurt a little, especially when he was looking at me with his whole focus.

  Someone bumped into me from behind and I turned to see Sam leaning over us. “Oh, the sangria. Like it?”

  I nodded. “It’s so refreshing.”

  Sam clapped Ames on the back. “Ames’ creation. He’s quite proud of it, so feel free to layer on the praise.”

  Ames glared at him, and I marveled at how interesting their friendship was. Ames had clearly seemed much more relaxed when it had just been him and Sam on the bridge, but something about Sam’s behavior now was grating to him.

  “I’ll do my best.” I gave Sam my best smile and saw Ames shift in his seat out of the corner of my eye.

  “So, what are you doing in London, Mila? When you’re not falling off bridges, that is.”

  “I like that you pluralized my experience this evening. And I’m mostly exploring.” I didn’t feel like getting into the fact that I was technically here working, especially not when I was sitting beside the manager of a bar—a bar I might end up reviewing for work. “Just seeing all the sights, I guess.”

  “What have you seen so far?”

  I nibbled on my lip. “I’ve seen Big Ben and Westminster Bridge.”

  “Over and under it.” Ames’ quiet joke made me laugh, but he was staring straight ahead. Without looking directly at me, it still felt like he was watching me.

  “Ah, brilliant. What’s next on your list of things to see?” Sam asked.

  “I was thinking about being a true tourist and taking a double-decker tour—on the big red busses.”

  “Bring a poncho. The weather looks a bit dodgy tomorrow.”

  “I don’t mind a little rain.”

  “Your choice,” Sam said, straightening. “But London is more than big red busses and muggings.” He elbowed Ames, who seemed to know exactly where this conversation was going, because he looked like I’d expect an animal up for slaughter would look. “Ames was a tourist himself ten years ago. I bet he’d love to show you around.”

  As funny as it was seeing Ames uncomfortable, it wasn’t a goal of mine to continue it. “Thanks, but I’ll manage. I’m a perpetual tourist.”

  “If you do need a tour guide, I’d be happy to help. And when I say ‘I’d’ I actually mean ‘he’d’.” He pointed at Ames whose jaw was set in a line, his eyes daggers.

  Jennie came by and pointed at my near-empty glass. “Want a refill?”

  “Pub closes in ten minutes,” Ames said, cutting her off.

  “Now that’s a lie.” Sam laughed and clapped Ames on the back again.

  My phone buzzed and I looked at it, seeing a text from my brother. I would actually need to get some work done on the trip, and I couldn’t accomplish much with any more sangria. “Thanks, but I should get going anyway. What do I owe for these three drinks?”

  “You’re not buying theirs,” Jennie scoffed. “Yours is four pounds.”

  “Nothing,” Ames said immediately after, causing Jennie and Sam to look at him. But I wouldn’t accept his generosity. I felt in that moment like I’d overstayed my welcome—my presence had caused Ames some kind of stress and the adrenaline of the moment on the bridge had made me suddenly sleepy.

  “Thanks, but I’d like to buy theirs, too.” Ignoring Ames protest at paying for my drink, I pulled out twenty pounds and placed it on the bar, hoping that was sufficient for the beers when Jennie seemed reluctant to tell me their cost.

  I downed the rest of my sangria and slid the twenty-pound note on the bar top.

  “Thank you, Jennie, for the great service.” Giving Sam a smile goodbye, I slid off the stool and walked to the door before turning around just in the doorway. “Thank you, Ames.” He lifted his head, eyes connecting with mine from across the room. “For not letting go.” I gave him a small smile just before I pushed out the door.

  The night seemed much darker on these narrower streets, and despite Sam’s friendliness, I felt lonelier than when I’d first arrived in the United Kingdom. I pulled my jacket tighter around me and walked in a direction I didn’t know—I just knew I needed distance from the feeling of unwelcomeness. I rubbed my hands to conjure some warmth.

  I’d made it to the next block before I heard, “Wait.” He spoke it at a normal volume, but the way his voice bellowed, it held the command of a shout. I turned to see Ames approaching me. He’d forgotten his jacket in his haste to follow me, and seeing him in the dark like this made him much more real than he’d appeared to me on the bridge.

  “Take it.” He pushed the money back into my hands.

  I shook my head and tried to give it back to him, but he wrapped both his hands around mine, the crumpled-up money cradled in my hands. The feeling of his skin warming my hands stopped me dead in my tracks and I looked at him under the fuzzy bit of light above us. “I owed you a beer,” I said in quiet protest.

  “You owe me nothing.” Almost imperceptibly, his fingers tightened around mine before letting go. “If you come again, however,” he began, shoving his hands in his pockets. I held my breath, waiting for his response. He backed away, but kept his eyes locked on mine. “I’ll charge you for a refill.”

  It wasn’t particularly funny, but it caused me to laugh regardless. It was the strangest invitation I’d ever received, because I knew that despite whatever misgivings he had toward me, he wouldn’t mind if I came by again. I just didn’t know why or if I actually would.

  “Okay.” A warmth bloomed in my chest, spreading outwardly. He was feet away from me, hands still shoved in his pockets. “It was nice to meet you, Ames.”

  “It was … something,” he paused, like he didn’t want to say my name aloud. But then he shook his head in a way that seemed like he found me funny. “Mila.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you again.” I took a step back and my boots scuffed on the pavement.

  He stayed in my vision until I turned around and hurried away.

  Chapter Three

  When I walked away from Ames, and the super cool pub he managed, I faced the prospect of my tiny, windowless hotel room with more than a little trepidation. Despite being windowless, it wasn’t awful. If I lay on the bed and stretched my arms, I could touch the padded wall at the far end of the room and the glass enclosure that held the shower, toilet, and sink.

  It was the oddest room I’d ever stayed in, and for someone like me—it was far too silent.

  When I’d left Colorado, I’d been surrounded by the things that reminded me of Colin, the man who had collapsed in my arms. The man who had made me promise, a hundred times throughout our relationship, not to see him should he end up spending his final days in a hospital.

  And in keeping the promise I made to him, in staying away when his heart stopped beating, I’d successfully broken a part of my own heart.

  The main reason I slept horribly was because the high I’d felt in leaving the bar had dissipated once I’d arrived at my lonely little room. Perhaps part of that high was thanks to that whole nearly-drowning incident. But it was also the first time since leaving the States that I’d been able to forget a little bit about the heaviness I’d carried across the Atlantic with me. It’d been three months since Colin had been buried, but it felt like many more. My restlessness tonight, tossing and turning and tangling myself in these sheets, blurred into all the others where I could hear Colin as though he were only a few feet away but always out
of reach.

  Finally, in the morning, after a terrible night of sleep, I opened my eyes to stare at the ceiling.

  “This isn’t what Colin would have wanted for you.” I could hear my brother’s words as if he was sitting beside me, reassuring me as he had so many times. “He’d want you to keep spreading your happiness, Mila.” The promises Jude spoke did little to buoy me, even as I’d agreed to his offer to go to London in his stead. We both knew he didn’t need me to go there for him. As his twin sister, I could see right through him. But neither of us called each other on it, and so I agreed to hop on a plane to London for five weeks, to do the things he wanted me to do for the travel blog, with a few off-the-beaten-path things as well.

  I’d grabbed a handful of pamphlets from the local restaurants and my hotel, and now I stared at them, spread out across my unmade bed, unable to choose what to do next. I’d seen Big Ben, had fish and chips, and had managed to get lost more than once—though I wasn’t sure that last one qualified on anyone’s must-do bucket list.

  As if he could hear me thinking of him, my phone buzzed atop a pamphlet for a double-decker bus tour with my brother’s face lighting up the screen. I briefly debated not answering it, not wanting to hear his disappointment in my complete lack of work ethic these last few days. But I knew that’d only concern him more, so I answered it after the third ring.

  “Hello, brother dearest.”

  “Mila-moo,” he said, his nickname for me. “What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into in London?”

  “Surprisingly, none thus far.” I decided to leave off the part about me hanging over the Westminster Bridge for now, as I flopped onto my back on the bed. “But the day is still young. Speaking of,” I leaned over to look at the clock, “it’s noon here. It’s gotta be six in Colorado, right? That’s early.”

  “We’re going on a hike today,” Jude explained, and I knew the “we” was him and his girlfriend, Trista. “What’s on your shortlist of plans today?”

  I chewed on my thumbnail as I eyed the brochures. “Um…”