The Weight of Life Page 5

  “It does. He was an ordinary lad, young too, and thought of someone other than himself in his last moments.” He rapped his knuckles on the seat below him and looked thoughtful. “It was tragic, don’t mistake my meaning. But … he saved someone who needed saving.” He watched me carefully, eyes hooded in the shadow of the awning over us. “What do you think?”

  I breathed out a laugh and turned to him. “Of this?”

  “Of anything.”

  “Well.” I swallowed the nerves that gripped my tongue. “I think this is a very interesting memorial.”

  “Interesting how?”

  “It’s just not something you see. Not often, at least.” I gestured toward a tablet dedicated to a Sarah Smith. “’Died of terrible injuries received when attempting in her inflammable dress to extinguish the flames which had enveloped her companion.’” Over one hundred and fifty years earlier. Before ceiling sprinklers, and fire trucks. “I suppose ‘interesting’ is too weak a word. She was a regular person.” I glanced at Ames and wanted to look away immediately, but I found myself unable to. “She was a regular person, who died saving a friend. It happens all the time, I’m sure, but rarely is it acknowledged.”

  “Almost never,” he agreed. “We have memorials dedicated to war heroes and kings and queens, but what about them?” He waved a hand across the tiles. “What about the everyday heroes?”

  “Do you want a memorial for yourself?”

  “I’m not a hero. So, no,” he replied immediately. He blinked and his brow furrowed for a moment, and I found myself transported back to when I’d first seen him, on the bridge, when I’d locked eyes with him and felt something shift within me—like the center of my gravity had changed, like the ground I stood on had turned into quicksand. “Do you?” he asked, bringing me back to the present.

  “No.” But I thought of Colin, with his grave filled with dirt—his ashes in the wind. It didn’t feel right going to his grave—he wasn’t there. Not in body, nor in spirit. A stone in a graveyard of a thousand others made the whole thing impersonal. There was nothing in that graveyard besides his name etched into that rock that made me think of him. So I’d never gone. I didn’t want to stand at an empty grave, and look at a gray stone that bore his name but nothing else that was really him—his smile, his gregarious personality, his love for fitness and mountains and the way his hair had flown in the air when he’d stood on top of the many mountains he’d conquered in his twenty-five years on earth.

  Colin, a man whose death had unburdened others with the organs he was able to donate. I closed my eyes, thinking of him, and feeling no small sense of betrayal for being in such a profoundly meaningful place with a man who was not him. I wondered if it’d ever get easier living with this heartache that gripped me like a vise.

  “My boyfriend died,” I said, not looking at Ames. “And I didn’t … see him, before he passed.” I swallowed, the memory of seeing his face lose color still so vibrant that I could hear my sobs, feel the tremble in my hands as he collapsed into them. “He has a gravestone, but it doesn’t feel right—he’s not even there.” Closing my eyes, I realized exactly what I was saying—and to whom. Ames was a stranger, and here I was, telling him a secret that I hadn’t even shared with my brother.

  I turned and met his eyes, giving him a rueful smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be a downer.”

  He let out a breath, and it was as if he’d lost ten pounds of burden. “Don’t be sorry.”

  But I just nodded and hoped my face made it clear that I was already regretting the things I’d said, and didn’t want to continue. He shifted a little, opened his mouth like he was going to say something. I’m not sure how long I waited for him to say it, and how long it took for him to decide not to say it, but we stayed in that suspended silence for a few moments longer, before I averted my eyes.

  He was braced on the beam, with veins roping over his forearm and his biceps pushing through the constraints of his tee. He was very fit, which surprised me for the manager of a bar. I didn’t imagine that slinging drinks had given him all of the muscles he wore, which made me all the more curious about him.

  He’s married, I reminded myself again and forced myself to stop staring at him.

  “Ready to eat?” he asked, and I just nodded, following him to a bench behind us that overlooked the tablets. “I guess I didn’t ask if you were allergic to anything—but Lotte made goujon sandwiches.”

  The name of the sandwich gave me the slightest pause. “I’m not sure what goujons are, but I’m game to try them. Unless they’re live bugs.”

  Ames held the parchment paper wrapped sandwich in hand as he looked at me, eyebrows drawn together. “Not a fan of live bugs?” When I shook my head, he sighed, defeated. “Don’t yuck my yum, Mila.”

  “Are you serious?”

  He tossed the sandwich at me and I threw my hands up in the air to keep from catching it.

  “Oh, you believed me?” He laughed lightly, and then handed me a bottle of water.

  “You laughed,” I said, feigning astonishment. “I don’t think I’ve seen your lips do anything except frown.”

  He looked up at me in surprise, and I felt my stomach go all light and wild again, my eyes dipping to his lips and then away. Fuck. His lips were so full, and wide, and he.was.married. I couldn’t believe I was allowing myself to find him attractive. That I was indulging in those long stares, knowing he belonged to someone else.

  I turned away and laughed at myself as I took the water bottle.

  “What’s so funny?”

  I went for a lie. “You run a bar—”

  “Pub.”

  “And you brought us water. Not beer.”

  He paused for a moment. “I don’t want to get pissed.”

  “One beer gets you drunk? You’re a cheap date.” As soon as the words left my lips, I mentally slapped myself across the forehead. Married. The ring around his finger made that plain enough. I held the sandwich in my lap, my fingers picking at the sides of the wrapping. “What are goujons?”

  “Goujons are slices of chicken breaded in cornflakes and baked. And no, one beer doesn’t get me drunk.”

  “Oh, okay. So, they’re like chicken tenders.” I opened my wrapper without hesitation then, and took a big bite. Somehow, they were still a bit warm, and when combined with the crusty bread and the healthy dollop of mayo, they were absolutely perfect. “Wow. These…” I pointed at the sandwich, “are incredible.”

  “Lotte’s a good cook,” he agreed. “Her mum’s recipe.”

  We were quiet for a bit after that as we sat beside each other on the bench in the shade. People milled around us, but none went to look at the tablets which were directly in our line of sight. “Why’d you say yes?” I asked him abruptly, when my sandwich was reduced to just a few crumbs in my wrapper.

  “Yes to what?”

  “Bringing me here.” I looked sideways at him and did my nervous habit, tucking my hands under the backs of my thighs. “You don’t seem to particularly like me. I’m not sure why you’d want to go out of your way on your day off to bring me here.”

  “It’s not my day off. I have to work this evening.”

  “You know what I meant. And you avoided my question.”

  “Technically, you didn’t ask me a question.”

  “I did! I asked why you said yes.”

  “I’ll tell you this: I don’t regret saying yes now.”

  It wasn’t the answer to my question, but it made my brain hum.

  He stood up and crumpled his wrapper into a ball and then took mine. Silently, he walked the garbage to the can and dumped them into it before returning to where I sat.

  “Ready to go?” he asked, completely avoiding my question.

  I sighed, resigned, and brushed the crumbs off my lap. His hand entered my vision and I looked up at him as he waited for me to grab it and pull me to standing.

  With a thousand voices screaming in my ear, I did just that, and felt the same magnetic pull
I’d felt the night we met, when he’d held me after pulling me over the railing. It was as if, in that moment, the world didn’t make sense anymore—everything was upside down and inside out. I was too close to him, breathing in the air he was exhaling, our faces just inches from one another. The shadow of a leaf crossed over his face, making his eyes look all the more bright and alluring and even as the shadow danced in the wind, I found myself undistracted, staring into his eyes as if they were speaking when his lips weren’t.

  His eyes dipped to my lips and like a kick to the chest, I remembered exactly why this was a terrible idea.

  He’s married.

  I pulled my hand from his and gave him a smile I didn’t mean before I turned around. “Thanks for the tour and the lunch. I appreciate you going out of your way. Catch you later.”

  And then I was gone.

  Chapter Six

  I was pacing my hotel room. Well, as much as I could pace in approximately ten square feet of floor space.

  Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I saw the mess that was my current hairstyle—a result of hours of pulling on it and pushing it away from my face, and then burying my face in my hands so the hair formed a curtain over my fingers.

  What the hell had I been thinking? Going with Ames to that park?

  “Ugh,” I growled and with fast and furious hands, I pulled my hair up into a ponytail. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I had no right.

  I didn’t even try to pretend that images of Colin weren’t flooding through my mind. Colin, the former boyfriend of another woman—a man I’d unwittingly fallen in love with. A man who wasn’t always a good man—to his girlfriend or to the girl he was sneaking around with: me. But I loved him, even with his flaws. He wasn’t easy, we weren’t easy, but I wanted him. All the time.

  It was the strangest thing, to think of him in past tense. He’d been my boyfriend the last two years of his life before he’d passed away three months earlier, and we’d been in a comfortable place—past the mistakes we’d both made, adventuring and looking toward bigger things—that’s who Colin was. Always looking ahead. He didn’t live for today, he lived for tomorrow.

  The night Jude brought him by our apartment for the first time, there’d been something about him that made me watch him all night. He’d sneaked glances at me too, from across the room, peeking over the top of his red plastic cup. When the party had moved into the apartment’s courtyard, I’d found myself sitting on the steps beside him, trying to play it cool and failing miserably.

  Days later, after nights at the drive-in and days riding in the back of our friends’ pickup trucks, shoulders bumping as we went off-roading, he’d kissed me. And then I’d found out about his girlfriend.

  I wasn’t a perfect person. Far from it. It sounds pathetic and clichéd to say that I tried to back off, tried to distance myself from him when I’d learned about his girlfriend. But, to add to the list of clichés I’d been racking up with Colin, he was different—special. And it wasn’t until his girlfriend moved in with us that the truth came out. In the worst possible way.

  All the guilt I still harbored over it didn’t make the healing part any easier. Even though Colin’s former girlfriend moved on—to my brother of all people—I knew there must have been a part of her that hated me. With good reason.

  Which made the situation with Ames even worse. I would not be that woman again. Colin’s death had put my own life into perspective, how reckless I’d been and how many mistakes I’d made with little regard for others. I didn’t want to make anyone a victim of my decisions again.

  I stopped pacing to sit on the edge of my bed and picked up my phone. The message from my parents was still unread, but I could see a preview of it—and those words alone made me sigh. But if I didn’t reply they’d tell Jude, and I didn’t need him to be our referee for the hundredth time.

  Mom: We got tickets to London! Did Jude tell you? We’ll be there on the twentieth.

  I glanced at the clock on my open laptop. Two weeks until they came. I felt guilt for the apprehension that filled me knowing I’d be seeing them soon.

  My parents weren’t terrible people. They had no idea what went on in my life, or why I was the way that I was, but they weren’t unkind or neglectful. If anything, my brother’s heart condition took most of their attention off of me, which was a much-needed reprieve. I texted Jude.

  Me: You and the parentals in two weeks, huh? Can’t wait.

  Jude: It’s a shame that text can’t properly convey your sarcasm.

  Me: I’m excited to see you…

  Jude: But not them. I know.

  I flopped onto my back on the bed and stared up at my ceiling. Thoughts of Ames, how the green that surrounded us in that park had made his eyes all the more bright, were making my stomach hurt. Was I imagining the way he looked at me? Was it not what it seemed after all?

  I spied the coaster I’d swiped from Free Refills, laying on my nightstand and picked it up. Running my fingers over the rounded edges, I thought about going back. Not to encourage him, or even me. But because there was something about Ames that pulled me in. It could have very well been a friendly feeling, though the feelings that were stirred up in the park three days earlier weren’t just friendly.

  After leaving the park abruptly, I’d gone back to my hotel and had hermited for two days, starting my blog post of Postman’s Park before realizing I’d taken very inadequate mental notes. I’d returned the day before, to get better photos, and to take notes that weren’t saturated with Ames.

  I’d been in London for nearly a week, but I felt like I’d seen so little of it.

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my backpack purse and left my hotel room, heading for Free Refills.

  When I pushed open the door, I expected—and had prepared myself—to see Ames behind the counter, rubbing a rag over the glossy wood. But instead, I saw Lotte, his sister-in-law.

  “Oh, hey,” she said with a smile, pausing in drying some glasses. She pointed at me and squinted a moment. “Mila, right?”

  “Yes. Lotte?” It was a funny-sounding name, and echoed of something young—which she definitely looked. Her pale blonde hair framed a paler face, blue eyes wide and lips a rosy pink.

  “Yep. Well, my name’s Charlotte, but you can call me Lotte, if you want.”

  The nickname suddenly made sense. I realized I’d paused just inside the door and hadn’t made any steps toward the bar, when she beckoned me. “Have you had our sangria? I made a fresh pitcher this morning. It’s a good batch.”

  “Yes.” I gave her a tentative smile, remembering that this was the sister of the woman whose husband had looked at my lips when we were just a breath apart. “I’d love some, thanks.”

  When she turned, I surreptitiously looked around for any sight of Ames—which there was none. I pulled out a barstool and slid onto the seat, watching as she bit on her lip in concentration when she poured the sangria into a glass, and then stuck a drink stirrer that was skewered with thin slices of fruit. “There you go,” she said proudly, setting the drink on a coaster in front of me.

  “It looks fantastic,” I told her, and took a generous sip. “Forbidden fruit sangria, right?”

  “Yep.” She twirled a finger around. “Kinda goes with the whole theme here.”

  “The theme?”

  She grabbed the next glass and started polishing the water spots off of it. “Yes, the theme. It was my parents’ idea. They thought they were clever.”

  I was going to ask, but I was distracted by the M charm around her neck. It suited her beautifully, the charm coming to rest right in the hollow of her neck where her collarbones met. “That’s pretty,” I said, pointing at it.

  She wrapped two long, delicate fingers around the silver M and smiled. “Thanks. It’s for my sister. Ames got it for me.”

  Was that the sister married to Ames? The sangria, while delicious, turned to lead in my belly. “He seems nice,” I said, immediately realizing how trite
that sounded.

  “He’s a lifesaver. Hungry?”

  The change in subject gave me mental whiplash, but I rolled with it as best as I could. “I had a sandwich earlier, but I could snack on something.”

  “Hm. With sangria, you might be wanting a dessert. I’ve got some apple cheesecake in the fridge?”

  “That’d be wonderful.” When she went back to grab the cheesecake, a sound came from the other side of door at the back of the bar and my nerves caused me to start twisting my hands in my lap.

  “Here you go,” she said a second later and placed the prettiest little cheesecake on a pale green plate in front of me. There was a drizzle of what looked like caramel over slices of green and red apple alternating on the top.

  “It’s almost too pretty to eat,” I told her with a grateful smile.

  “But you have to. It’s the last slice. Don’t tell Ames—it’s his favorite.”

  She said that just as I put the first bite in my mouth and I worked to chew and swallow without betraying anything on my face. “Speaking of him, where is he?”

  “Oh, he’s clearing the leaves from the garden.” She gestured toward the door that I’d heard noise from.

  “It’s really quiet in here,” I commented, noticing only two filled tables and one other person at the bar.

  “We usually don’t get the crowd until late at night. This is usual.” She draped the rag over her shoulder and braced her hands on the bar. “Ames said he took you to Postman’s Park the other day. Did you like it?”

  “Yes, it was lovely.” Lovely. A word I found myself using more and more since coming to England. “Really a pretty spot in the middle of the city.”

  “Yes, it is. But he never mentioned where you’re from back in the States.”

  “Colorado. Lots of mountains, some plains, rivers and valleys.”

  “Oh wow. I bet it’s just beautiful there.” She rested her elbows on the bar and leaned forward, looking at me dreamily. “I’d love to go to the States.”