London

What does a seventeen-year-old, single girl, who isn’t only a virgin, but who has never been kissed know about love? What does a seventeen-year-old who has never been on a date know about relationships? What could she possibly know about love, dating, men, and the occasional musical comparison to each?

Much, much more than one would expect.

My parents’ relationship wasn’t what one would consider good, and that’s putting it mildly. What they have both assured me was the best part—me—is a sign of that.

My name is London. It’s not your average name, and the meaning behind it should have been a warning to them that maybe their love wasn’t meant to be.

They didn’t have a lot of money, but they did well by the standards of the good ol’ American dream. For years, they saved money so they could someday take the trip of mom’s dreams to London of all places. With each failed fertility treatment, that trip became farther and farther away, and so did their desire to take the trip. In fact, that trip became less and less important, and so did their love. Their dreams changed, their paths changed.

No one knows I know the truth behind my name.

I once overheard my grandparents talking about the fact that my father, Troy, was thought to have been having an affair. Feeling guilty, he told my mom to take the London money and use it for their final shot at having me.

My name is London because the money saved for the trip ended up becoming the one treatment that resulted in a pregnancy that lasted past twenty weeks. When they told me the story, they said it was the best trip they had ever taken.

At four, I recall the muted arguments.

At five, I recall Mom reading to me for hours at night. I loved hearing the stories of princesses and princes and love. It was also then I realized my parents didn’t seem to have that kind of love. It was also then I asked my mom, “When will you find your prince, Mommy?”

Her answer was a smile that didn’t even come close to touching her eyes and the words, “I did, London. Your father.”

At six, I realized, when he had a glass of the amber liquid, he wasn’t nice, not even to me. Then I asked her the same question.

That time, she didn’t smile. She hugged me and asked, “When did you become smarter than me?”

A week later, we moved out.

Not long after that, Mom found her prince, and guess where he was from? England.

A year or so after that, my father got himself together and things were so good. Then the accident happened, and he died.

Brody, my stepfather, has and always will be a huge part of my life. And yes, I call him Dad.

My stepfather is a legend, and no, not self-proclaimed. He’s a legit rock and roll legend. The entire world knows his story. He rose from ruins to become something based on pure drive and the use of his God-given talent. He’s also pretty well-known for some sex tapes that were leaked, and his son—my brother Maddox, who is also a rock star—who Brody didn’t know about until Maddox was fifteen.

But this isn’t their story. It’s mine, and it’s about what I have learned about love.

My knowledge of love wasn’t because of growing up with two legends. It doesn’t come from my parents truly being a loving couple, or that my brother and his wife Harper are equally as loving. It doesn’t even come from the fact that I witnessed anything different from the rest of the world. Where my knowledge comes from is the ability to see the truth in it, to see the broken in it, to see the beauty in it, which means inevitably seeing the warning signs.

I feel my earbud being popped out of my ear and quickly hit save on my draft before closing my laptop.

“London,” my sister Lexington whispers.

I inhale a deep, calming breath, trying to rid the annoyance I have kept at bay for the past month. The annoyance that only a little sister can spring on, like nails on a chalkboard.

I look over and smile. “Yes, Lexi?”

She points out the window at the mall, Destiny USA in Syracuse. Then she points to our mom. “She’s being strong.”

I nod my agreement.

“But you should pay attention to her. She loves you, London.”

Lexington’s irritating know-it all statement precedes her blue-green eyes filling with tears.

Lexi’s tears don’t come often. She is a very happy and self-confident child. Even at the age of ten, she has that blind sort of confidence gained from a lifetime of love and near pain-free living.

Her tears are my weakness. The tears of anyone I love messes with my persistent—or as some may see it, tenacious and unfaltering—grip on the strength I have gained through a life of questions and life-altering lessons.

Weak, I am not. Swayed easily from my beliefs and morals, I am not. Well, not until I see tears.

Like water to Elphaba, Christine to the Phantom, and legacy to Hamilton, Lexington’s tears are all those things to me.

Her eyes now red, I’m unable to resist. I reach over and grab her hand, giving it a light squeeze and trying my best to smile.

“You should, too, then, okay?”

Her lips quiver a bit as she nods. Then one tear escapes her pretty blue-greens, a perfect combination of Mom’s and Brody’s eyes.

“I’m an hour away, Lexi. Just an hour.”

As the second tear spills down her cheek, she quickly licks it away as it hits her top lip. I am done for.

I look down at my seatbelt, reaching to unbuckle it as my hands shake in resounding fear.

When Lexi covers my hand with hers, I look up as she whispers, “You don’t have to.”

“The only reason she’s alive is because of her seatbelt,” I hear the paramedic’s voice in my head as if it were yesterday, and not ten years ago.

I lived through the accident that killed my father because I had mine on. He would have lived had he worn his.

Fear. Fear is crippling to us all. When the fear stems from an actual event, or a lesson, as I like to call them, causing a person not just the worry of what could happen, but stops them from doing what must be done in order to stop another chain of events that will inevitably cause more tears, a person needs to do what they have to.

I hit the orange button that pushes up the console between us. Then I scoot closer to Lexi and grab the seatbelt to secure me. Looking for the latch, feeling the onset of an anxiety attack, I find it in Lexington’s hand.

I push it in and wait for the click. Then I breathe in a sigh of relief as I put my arm behind my sister and she rests her head on my shoulder.

“You’ll be fine, Lex,” I whisper.

“So will you, London. You are fine.” She smiles up at me as, what I hope, the third and final tear falls.

I lay my head atop hers and nod. “We all will be. Change isn’t easy, but it’s sometimes for the best.”

“I know,” she sighs out.

I look up to see Brody’s eyes on me in the rearview mirror. He gives me a wink, and I give him a nod. He then turns up the radio and, as if on cue, The Brody Hines Band booms through the Bose system with the latest platinum selling single, “That’s My Girl.”

I smile at him, and when he smiles back, I think, That’s my dad.

When Brody pulls up to the curb at Lawrinson Hall, I pull every strength, plus a little bit of acting ability, out of my internal box of tricks and jump out. Dragging Lexington behind me, I get wrapped up in the excitement of the next chapter in my life, knowingly wrapping her in it, as well.

We are checking-in two hours early, another perk of being Brody’s “Girl.” That’s topped with the staff and administrators at Syracuse University not wanting a riot because Brody, the normally level-headed one, the ‘rent who doesn’t let fear and emotion cloud his judgment, told the college, “Over my dead and rotting corpse will I not be here when my girl takes her first step into adulthood because an overpriced education that will inevitably amount to her using her God-given talents to make a living, and not a piece of fucking paper legitimizing who she already is, stops me from being her dad. Figure it the fuck out or you can kiss her tuition and the new theatre construction goodbye.”

Mom and I just stood there, jaws on the floor, me seconds from yelling at him in typical teenage fashion, when he added, “Fuckers,” right before hanging up the phone.

Both of us were speechless when he stood up from his desk and turned toward us.

“I am all for being level-headed, until you fuck with what’s mine.” He pointed at me, and I stepped back. This was not normal Brody behavior. “You’re mine.”

“Brody,” Mom began, her voice a clear indication that she would be the level-headed one in the relationship this time.

“Em,” he almost growled as he walked toward the door. “Five minutes, and then you’ll be needed upstairs.”

Now, a normal child would think the ‘rents were about to have an “adult talk” in the bedroom, beyond the ears of their children. I knew better. They weren’t normal. In fact, I not only knew differently, but I knew they needed to work through their “emotions.” Therefore, as mom walked up the stairs very slowly, I walked toward the front door, grabbed my car keys, and then grabbed Lexi’s hand.

“We going to Maddox and Harper’s?” she asked, trying to keep up with my fast pace.

“Yep,” I answered.

“For how long?” she asked as she got in the back seat and allowed me to buckle her up.

“It’s gonna be awhile.”

When I started the car, “That’s My Girl” started to play.

“Daddy’s song to you, London,” Lexi shrieked.

“Yeah.” I smile.

“That’s My Girl” was written by my stepfather Brody, my dad, as a graduation gift because, as he said, “Nothing money can buy means more than you, London.”

Yeah, I’m his girl, and I couldn’t be prouder that he has wanted that since the first time he met me.

We are met at the curb by what is possibly the entire staff of Lawrinson Hall. As a result, the entire contents of my new room are unloaded in one trip and are up on the eighth floor in no time.

Mom busies herself by making my bed, setting up the air purifier, putting away my clothes—you know, doing mom things, but with a slight obsessiveness that worries even me.

Meanwhile, to keep Lexi’s tears at bay, she and I set up my desk.

Lexington loves to organize things, much like Mom. Normally, I would tell her to keep her paws off my technology, but not today.

When she has organized and reorganized at least five times, I look back to see Mom. She is still inside my shoebox sized closet, and Brody’s watching her closely.

When she begins to color coordinate the contents, I look at my watch, and then to Brody. He glances at me, then his watch. I then watch his chest rise as if he is trying to take in enough breath to sustain the oxygen needed for the two females who will no doubt lose their cool within the next two minutes.

He grips Mom’s shoulder firmly but gently, and she looks back at him. I watch their eyes meet, and then he gives her a slight nod. She shakes her head, and I hear Lexi sniffle.

Needing to stop the inevitable, I take Lexi’s hand and the two steps it takes to get from my desk to my closet.

“Fifty-three miles, Mom. It’s less than an hour’s drive,” I reiterate what I have said a million times since my acceptance letter from Syracuse University came in March.

March was the month when the hugs became longer, when every night became a face-to-face goodnight, and if I fell asleep before she said it, she woke me up just to tell me goodnight. Who does that?

My mom, Emma.

Brody would just stand in the doorway, taking turns smiling at her adoringly and smirking at me when I would roll my eyes as the hugs lasted longer each and every night.

Brody is standing beside her at his full height, shoulders squared, his usual smiling face hard as stone, and his lips are in a straight line. He’s being strong for her while she breaks.

When Mom hugs me a little tighter than usual, I whisper, “You promised me, Mom.” I am trying to act as if it’s no big deal that I’m now a freshman in college.

“I’m sorry, London, but I can’t let you do this,” she whispers her near silent cry.

I know she expects a fight—that’s what she has gotten for months now. I have been a complete and total brat because, like it or not, I am growing up, and it is time to become...me. I was trying the tough love thing on her because, well, she needed it, and I needed her to get it together for me, for Lexington, and yes, for Brody. I know this, she knows this. It’s nothing different than what any other family deals with.

But we aren’t any other family. No matter how much we want to be, we never have been.

“Remember the plan, Em?” Brody whispers from behind her.

We all remember the plan. They may not know it, but Lexi and I have used it as some sort of humorous outlet to soften the blow that this day would bring.

I look at Lexi and cross my eyes. When she laughs, I give her a big hug and whisper, “Number three, it’s time for you to take control of the ‘rents.”

“Number two, I can do that, just until you get home. Or if Maddox is around, because he’s number one.”

“Right.” I lean back and give her a stern nod.

She returns it then turns toward our parents. “It’s time to go. Get it together so these people don’t remember you all boo-boo faced when it’s my turn to bleed orange.” Lexi uses the catch phrase that all the Syracuse Orange fans use.

To this, we all laugh. I mean, it’s only half a joke to little Miss Know-it-all, but it’s still funny.

I allow one more quick hug, when mom starts up.

“You could be in an apartment with security.”

“There’s security, and I’m in a quad, with a private room and a locking door,” I remind her.

“You could be—”

Tough love, I think before I tell her, “You want me home for the first long weekend or to stay here?”

“London!” she gasps.

“Mom, please. This isn’t easy for me either.”

Her face scrunches up with realization and she squeaks out, “I love you more, London.” Then she looks at Lexington, “You ready?”

I watch them walk out the door to the quad leading to the hallway.

Lexington turns and looks at me, right before the dam breaks and her tears burst out. I crouch down and open my arms as she runs back to me.

Hugging her, I whisper, “You were supposed to be the strong one.”

“Mm-hmm,” she whispers, hugging me tighter.

“I love you more, Lexi,” I whisper, giving her another squeeze before she finally lets go.

“I know.” She smiles as I wipe away her tears. “Even when you’re being an angsty teen.”

“Yeah, even then.” I roll my eyes, fighting tears of my own.

Then she runs back to our parents.

I stand in the hallway, watching them walk out. I look at my watch again to see how much time I have left before I meet the three girls I will share this space with while not being London Fields anymore, but being Elle Fields.

---

After taking a walk around the floor, using the map given in the orientation package, I return to my room. I have over an hour before I meet the roomies.

Nervous excitement causes me to nearly give in to biting my nails, a habit I have worked hard on breaking. I laugh as I remember Lexi telling me to get tips on them when she saw me struggling not to scrape the gel polish off them with my teeth.

I told her I would not have any artificial parts on my body.

She laughed and said, “Like Logan’s girls?”

I couldn’t help laughing, too. Then I made sure she knew my nails had nothing to do with a boy.

What came out of her know-it-all little mouth? “Maybe not consciously.”

Consciously? What the heck does that even mean? Clearly, I’m aware of what it means, but how did she even know? At nine?

I laugh long and hard, then hear a deep laugh and nearly jump off my bed.

I look up to see a tall, hooded man at my door with a pizza. Then I look at my phone and sigh.

“Do you think the hoodie makes you unrecognizable?” I scold Maddox, though I can’t help smiling.

My stepbrother is six-feet-tall, with a wavy mess of dark brown hair. His face is never without stubble, and no way in hell could he be mistaken for a pizza delivery boy, regardless of what that stupid sweatshirt says.

“It doesn’t?” he asks, walking over and sitting on my bed.

“What are you doing?” I say with a chuckle.

“Wanted to check out the place, see where you’d be, and give you this.” He hands me the pizza before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a black box. “And this.”

I toss the pizza down and grab the box, ready to open it, then hesitating. “It can’t be flashy, or I won’t accept.”

“I don’t do flashy, London.” He smiles, pushing it back to me. “Open it.”

Inside the box is a very thin cuff bracelet. It’s silver and dainty. Inscribed on it are the words, Love Yourself More.

I look up at him, and he smirks.

“Secrets can be hidden from the ‘rents, London, but not from your big brother.” He wraps it around my wrist. “You never judged me. Even at my weakest, you kicked me in the ass with your words when I deserved it.” He finally clasps it and lets go, “Never hide anything from me, London, and I will always be your biggest fan. Just like you were mine from the first day we met.”