The Weight of Life Page 3

  Jude laughed, that deep, rich sound reminding me so much of home that my stomach hurt. There was something about having a twin, that invisible thread keeping you connected no matter how far you were separated by physical distance. “Do I need to go to London and force you into the wild?”

  “Would you?” That would make it all so much easier on me, to have my brother here, nudging me along.

  “I was thinking about it, actually. Mom and Dad wanted to go, too.”

  I made a face and rubbed my forehead. “Could you just … lose them, maybe? Airports are big. It’d be believable.”

  Jude laughed again. “You know how they are. They won’t want me to fly alone.”

  “Yeah,” I said softly. The same heart condition that had killed Colin was present in Jude, which meant that my brother could meet the same fate. It wasn’t a thought I entertained too much, because I didn’t delight in melancholy things, but it wasn’t something I could easily forget. “Bring Trista. That’s what girlfriends are for.”

  “I’m not sure if she’ll be up for it, so it might have to be Mom and Dad.”

  “Ugh,” I sighed. “The fact that I’m debating dipping into my nearly-empty savings to buy a plane ticket and escort you here myself—instead of them—should tell you just how excited I am about having them around.”

  “It’ll be great. You can show us all the places you’ve been and the things you’ve seen and maybe it’ll bring you guys together a little bit.”

  My brother and I had different parenting experiences. But I supposed that it wasn’t terribly surprising that having one sick child and one healthy child meant the latter would be forgotten, often. I never held it against my brother—of course not. If anything, the fact that I was born with a whole heart had been like a constant reminder to not waste time, to not take things for granted. So, in my parents’ minds I was Mila, the reckless wanderer. The girl born with wings and a spirit for life that exhausted those around her. I’d played my part well, until a friend in high school psychoanalyzed me and said my antics were cries to my parents for attention. I didn’t need attention; I needed to live for me and for Jude.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I told Jude, sounding more resigned than I should’ve. Poor Jude always felt like he was stuck in the middle between us, a position I didn’t envy in the least. And while they would tsk and sigh and say, “Did you hear your sister did…” inserting whatever ridiculous thing I’d done that week—I’d never tell Jude, “Thanks for having a heart condition—I’m basically an orphan when you’re around.” Even thinking it made me cringe a little, because it was such a terrible and insensitive thing to think. “When do you think?”

  “Probably near the end of your month there. So, tell me, what did you do last night?”

  I made a face that if he’d seen, he would’ve known that I was debating on what to reveal, exactly. “Well,” I began, closing my eyes briefly to try and remember what I was doing before I nearly fell off the bridge. “I wandered down a few streets. Bought some trinkets in—or is it at?—Piccadilly Circus. And then I got on the tube and got off on the wrong stop, somewhere around Westminster Bridge, which was pretty perfect timing, actually, because I made it just before the hour struck.” I chewed on my thumbnail some more. “And then I ran into this guy—Ames. He has a bar. Or pub. Or whatever. Anyway, it’s this dark, kind of moody place with a really cool name.”

  “Oh yeah?” I could hear Jude shuffling papers and knew the inevitable was coming. “Did you take notes?”

  “Sure did,” I lied through my teeth, eyeing my empty notebook with a bit of annoyance that I hadn’t thought to bring it out once.

  “What’s it called?”

  “Free Refills. In Camden.” I impressed myself for remembering, which wasn’t saying too much. And because I was remembering, I grabbed my notebook and jotted down the name and area of London, and a quick note: Good sangria. “I…might go back.”

  “Great. Maybe this Ames fellow can give you a few places to visit while you’re in town. I’d like you to see things that aren’t in every guidebook. Big Ben is great, but it’s not going to bring a lot of traffic to our site—everyone’s seen Big Ben. You know?”

  I nodded and rolled to my side, staring at my coffee maker longingly. I hadn’t yet had a cup, even though it was noon, but the talk about Ames’ bar had me thinking about that sangria I’d had. “I’ll ask him,” I said, already deciding that I would go back—if nothing else but to pick his brain a little. “Be careful on your hike today, okay?”

  “I will. Bye, Mila-moo.”

  After hanging up, I sighed and stretched my back. I’d be seeing Ames again, and this time I’d have to take better notes about the bar, and create a list of things to see in London to appease Jude and my own natural curiosity.

  After looking up Free Refills online, I had the hotel call a taxi and packed my backpack purse with my things, before setting off to Camden.

  Chapter Four

  She was back.

  It was the first thought I had when she breezed through the door, her dark hair like a storm around her from the wind outside. She had large, purple sunglasses on her face that she pushed up to hold back her hair when she saw me. She just stood in the doorway, smiling at me like she was happy to see me—why?—one hand on her backpack and the other held up in a wave. “Hello,” she said, and I briefly debated pretending I didn’t see her.

  She was beautiful. Actually, the word itself didn’t suffice. But I wasn’t keen on admiring beautiful things at the moment, so her beauty was gratingly annoying, like nails down a chalkboard.

  I looked down at the rag I was scrubbing the bar with as she approached and plopped herself onto a stool, which she spun around on for a moment before stopping. “It’s quiet,” she commented, looking around.

  “It’s Sunday,” I replied flatly.

  “Oh, right. Sorry, I’m a little discombobulated on my days since I’m not on a normal schedule right now.” She just smiled at me, all bright and bold, and I looked at her like the alien she was.

  “Do you want a drink?”

  She pursed her lips, leaning over the bar as she stared at the chalkboard signs above my head and tapped on her chin with one purple nail. “I suppose that’s the reason most people come into a bar, right?”

  Even though she was obviously being sarcastic, I didn’t sense any kind of anger or annoyance in her tone. In fact, she was the absolute opposite—all sunshine and fucking rainbows, like I’d made her day just by being here. In my own damn pub.

  “Some do,” I agreed. “But many come for the company.”

  She laughed, that sound that made me set my jaw. Her presence was so very jarring—that tsunami of brightness she spun into a room was so against who I was.

  It didn’t help that she reminded me so much of her. And just that brief, flicker of thought had me rubbing the cool metal of my ring with my thumb.

  “People come here? For company?”

  I narrowed my eyes on her. She didn’t move in the slightest. “Yes.”

  She gave me that full-toothed smile and I wanted to ask her if she’d ever even touched any kind of unpleasantness in her life, because if she had, I didn’t know how she could smile like that—all bright, and gratingly inviting. “Well, that makes sense, because you’re so damned cheery. Calm down,” she said with a dramatic eye roll as she slung her backpack onto the bar and settled in. “Can I have a beer?” she asked sweetly.

  Who was this creature? Completely unperturbed by my surliness, not the slightest bit put off by my attitude. I slapped a coaster on the bar and grabbed a pint glass, pulling the handle on the tap. I eyed her the whole time, watched as she pulled a purple-covered notebook out of her backpack and a purple, glittery pen, too. I found the juxtaposition of all that purple and her clothing interesting. In comparison to the purple, she was dressed rather plainly—in ripped blue jeans and a white, flowy top. The only purple on her was her fingernails and the sunglasses holding back her hair. I tried t
o remember what she’d been wearing the night before, when I’d met her, but all I could come up with was the way her face had looked when I’d held her over the side of Westminster Bridge.

  Perhaps I resented her a little. I knew how devastating, how crippling, grief could be. And to see her sitting on my stool, practically radiating life, was more than a little jarring. I knew it wasn’t kind of me to think so, but because I wasn’t going out of my way to show her kindness, I didn’t mind one bit.

  I hadn’t even asked her what kind of beer she’d wanted; I just poured her the one I favored. It was dark, and not a beer that most tourists—of the female variety especially—tried and liked. It gave me a little bit of excitement to imagine her tasting it and then wanting to spit it immediately out.

  She uncapped her purple pen and tapped on the notebook as she looked around. I didn’t dare ask her what she was doing as to not encourage her into conversation.

  Placing the beer on her coaster, I could hardly contain my anticipation of watching her absolutely fucking hate it.

  But as if she knew I was waiting to see how badly she hated it, she let it sit there as she studied me. “How are you doing today, Ames?”

  It unsettled me, hearing her say my name like that. Much as it had the night before. Truth was, the beer had loosened me a little bit then, enough to engage with her in light conversation. But I couldn’t explain why I’d chased her out of the pub and shoved her money back into her hands. Or even why I’d practically invited her back for a second visit.

  So I couldn’t be too annoyed that she’d shown up, taking me up on my regretted words.

  But I was annoyed. Because it wasn’t just the way she said my name that unsettled me. It was that annoying little hum, like an appliance turning on, reminding me how much Mila reminded me of Mahlon. My Mal.

  I rubbed my finger over the ring again, a habit I did so often that I had a light callous right where finger met palm. “What are you doing?” I blurted out.

  She pulled the beer away from her mouth and raised one eyebrow. “I’m drinking a beer in your bar.”

  “Pub.”

  “Right.” She tapped her pen on the notebook, scribbled something. “What’s with the name?” she asked as she traced the logo on her napkin.

  “That’s a story for Asher.”

  “Asher?”

  “My father-in-law.”

  Her gaze darted to my hand, which I held atop the bar—no shame in showing what I wore on my left hand. “Oh,” she said softly, nodding. “It makes sense.” She gave me a rueful smile and wrote something else before closing the cover on the notebook and setting it aside.

  “What makes sense?”

  Before she could answer, the door opened and Sam walked through, shaking his head like a wet dog. Water splattered all over the place, but he just grinned at me. “Ames,” he said in his loud, boisterous voice. “Good to see you.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Sam.” I nodded at him and started pouring the same beer I’d poured for Mila, a beer I knew he favored. I snuck glances at her, but she was looking at Sam with great interest. There was something sharp about the way she observed people, like she wasn’t just listening, but sorting them out—their quirks, their mannerisms.

  “Well, hello again,” Sam said, reaching toward her for a handshake. “You’re back?”

  “Yes,” she looked briefly at me, “I am. He didn’t scare me away, surprisingly.”

  I placed Sam’s beer on the bar with less finesse than usual, and foam spilled up over the top and onto his napkin.

  “The fuck, A?” Sam shook his hand, which was covered in foam and gave me a strange look.

  “Sorry.” I rubbed my hands on the towel tucked in my waist as Sam returned his attention to Mila.

  “You’re drinking a beer this time?”

  Nodding, she dipped her finger just barely into the glass and pulled it back out. “Wine’s for when the sun goes down.”

  “Is that so?” Sam leaned in toward her, and I knew immediately what he was doing. He was a terrible flirt, but had seemed almost immune to Mila the night before. Now, he was practically a bloody peacock, preening for her attention.

  “Well, sure.” She ran her hands over the curved corners of the coaster—and why the fuck was I staring at her hands? I could do with a distraction. “Wine at night sets the mood.”

  “And what mood’s that?” he asked, leaning in further toward her.

  She gave him a little smile, and her hair slipped over her shoulder just so. “Whatever mood you’re after, I suppose.” I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination, but that delicate voice of hers took on a lower, more melodic note. And furthermore, I wasn’t sure why I was so damn interested in their conversation. I moved to the other end of the bar top, and wiped at an invisible stain, forcing their voices from my mind.

  Objectively, I could say Sam was probably an attractive fellow, with his dark blond hair in a little bun—one I’d often threatened cutting off. When we used to do pub crawls, Sam was often trailed by a bevy of women willing to sacrifice their evening to him. I never envied that kind of attention, because I had Mal. And perhaps because I didn’t have that now, I could rationalize a kind of jealousy for how easily Sam captured attention.

  By the time I could no longer realistically pretend that the bar was as filthy as I made it seem, I moved back toward them and did my best to ignore them.

  Loudly, as if he was trying to get my attention, Sam said, “Ah, I like you!” Sam wagged a finger at her and looked at me. “She’s interesting, isn’t she?”

  I gave no comment, just returned to running my rag down the bar.

  “This is a good little bar,” she said, sipping her beer—which, to my surprise, was nearly gone already.

  “Pub,” I corrected her. Both Sam and Mila looked at me, and I busied myself with refilling the snack bowls before making a show of giving Sam one of them—and disregarding Mila completely.

  Sam noticed, the arse. He pushed his bowl between he and Mila and leaned toward her. “Looks like Ames is fresh out—of pretzels or manners, no way to know for sure, but you can share with me, if you’d like.”

  “That’d be lovely,” she purred, dipping her hand in the bowl at the same time that Sam did. I did my best to glare at him too, but realized too late that there was no reason for me to be glaring. She was just some American tourist—I’d never see her again. If she fell off any other bridges, she’d be someone else’s problem; not mine.

  But it did bother me to see Sam flirting with her, and it bothered me even more to see Mila reciprocating. I stepped away, roughly wiping down the end of the bar I’d already wiped down, my ear open to their conversation despite my best efforts to pretend I was deaf to it.

  “How do you know Ames?”

  “Went to primary school with him, actually. Friends most of our lives, except for the bits he traveled the world.”

  “Funny, he doesn’t strike me as a guy who would travel the world,” she said. I felt her looking at me and forced myself not to tense.

  “If you’d known him even eight years ago, you wouldn’t think he was the sort of guy to run a pub, either.”

  “What do you do, Sam?” she asked, swiping her tongue over her top lip, capturing the little droplets of beer that clung to it after her sip.

  Why the fuck was I watching her lips?

  I scrubbed harder across the bar, its gleaming surface mocking me in my annoyance. I moved a couple inches closer to them, busying myself with unnecessarily polishing of the keg handles.

  “I’m an artist. Paintings, mostly, but some pottery too, to work my muscles.” He held his hands out for her inspection.

  My jaw ached from clenching it, as I watched her take his hands in her tiny ones, and lean closer to examine them. “Wow. Your hands are a hundred different colors.” The fact that she actually sounded awed by that pissed me off. “What do you paint? Landscapes? People?”

  “Nudes.”

  I expected Mila to blush,
or laugh, or do anything except the exact fucking thing she did, which was, “That’s brilliant,” with a softness in her voice that I hadn’t heard yet.

  “It’s something,” I muttered, but my voice carried across the near-empty pub and they both turned to look at me.

  “What’d you mean by that?” Sam asked. Both appeared riveted by my answer.

  Fucking Sam. He knew I thought he was talented. Perhaps I didn’t say it in so many words, but it didn’t take an art critic to see the skill that he possessed when holding a paintbrush. And he knew that I admired his talent, but he was putting me on the spot for a show in front of Mila. Arse.

  I motioned a hand at him. “You’re talented, you know it. You hardly need me to stroke your ego.”

  Sam pressed a fist to his chest and his eyes softened. The affection of his look was ruined when he opened his mouth and said in his most sarcastic tone, “Wow, A. Really hit me in the feels with that compliment.”

  I had half a mind to toss my dirty rag at him, but I knew I needed to calm myself.

  Mila did not affect me.

  Maybe if I told myself enough times, I’d actually believe it myself.

  Shrugging, I said, “What do I know about art, right?”

  “Well, I’d love to see your work.” Mila sipped her beer and seemed more animated than before.

  “Maybe I’ll show you sometime.”

  “I’d like that. Have you seen his nudes?” she asked me.

  I wasn’t one to feel embarrassment—but something about the way she asked it, so casually, with that voice all soft and innocent, made my neck go warm.

  Damn Sam. I wished he would shut his bloody mouth, and he bloody well knew my thoughts based on the grin he gave me.

  “He hasn’t—I think he might be a little bit of a prude.” I glared at Sam for the remark, who then added, “He’s a good guy—if a bit daft sometimes. What do you do?”

  If I hadn’t been standing a meter away, listening to their conversation, I wouldn’t have believed what I heard—but there it was. Mila, speaking in a French accent, said, “I’m here working, actually. For a month or so.”