I wake up on Thursday morning, take my phone from the bedside table, and check the time. It’s ten thirty a.m.
I like living upside down—staying awake until the small hours of the morning and then sleeping in. I like partying or just staying in bed with my computer and writing. Nevertheless, this inverse schedule isn’t good for me. I know that the boring routine I hate; small doses of alcohol, and a decent sleeping pattern, are what keep me balanced without the damn pills. I’m aware of all this. The problems usually begin when I stop caring. Then the nights become long and I can’t fall asleep, even when I try. I can wake up at four in the morning and climb the walls, unable to contain my high. And once I crash, whether it takes days or weeks, the darkness comes; grey despairing days swamp me, and I struggle to take each breath, struggle to hold onto life.
After I’m showered and dressed into some skinny jeans and an oversized shirt that falls of my shoulder, I make my first cup of coffee and go out to the garden to smoke a cigarette.
The house is quiet. Danny and John must be at work.
On the roofed patio, there are two sofas shaped in an L against the wall. I sit down on the smaller one, and put my coffee on the low glass table, kicking off my shoes. I stretch and lift my bare feet onto the cushions and light a cigarette, inhaling deeply. I’m dying to start painting, but before I do, I need to pop over to Primark to buy a cheap pair of pants and a shirt I won’t mind dirtying.
Above the skies are blue and clear. I love this city so much. And this visit I’m here without a time limit, unconcerned that with every passing moment my holiday here is ending. I look out at the sprawling garden. From the dark wooden deck, three steps lead down to the lawn, which is surrounded by a fence. Tall bushes cover the fence, and it’s barely visible.
I can breathe here.
I finish my coffee and cigarette and leave the house, put in my earphones, and listen to Amy Winehouse singing song after song, all the way to Oxford Street.
The store is packed. I choose a black tank top and a pair of knee-length brown cargo pants. By evening, they’ll be completely stained.
I go into the dressing room. Okay, so I’ve definitely lost weight. I look at myself in the mirror and realize the clothes I’ve chosen are at least one size too big. My fingers find their way to my collarbone. It protrudes more than usual. I can’t help the small smile that crosses my face. My hand slips down to my hipbone, which protrudes under the waistband of my panties.
So what if I’ve lost weight? It’s not a bad thing. I like being thin. I like my protruding bones, especially those holding up my pants and skirts.
I don’t understand it when guys think I’m pretty. Even now, as I stand in front of the mirror, I just don’t see it. Not pretty enough and certainly not thin enough.
I shove all the clothes back into the basket and get dressed quickly. Then, I buy everything one size smaller.
* * *
Back in the basement, I tie my curly hair up high so it won’t get dirty, and then check the time. It’s two p.m.—I’ve got all afternoon. There’s a music system in the corner and I put in my flash drive, turning up the volume, and press ‘repeat’. Pearl Jam’s “Black” starts playing. Then I take out a black tube of paint and a red one and start to dream…
While I paint, I allow myself to think of everything. My emotions spread all over my body and pour onto the canvas. I put down the paintbrush and smear the paint with my fingers. I love the sensation of the paint’s smooth, cold texture between them. I disappear into a world of my own and completely lose track of time. The song begins and ends, begins and ends…
What is it I want in life? To be loved, to be accepted for who I am, without those looks of shock and pity. I have bipolar disorder. Two words that have the power to scare people away. The things I’ve agreed to, the way I’ve been treated just to feel I belong. Belong to what? To where? I’m a ludicrous creature. Everyone around sees in me something I’m not. A show, a pretense. I hide the truth at all costs. I prefer selling them happy, energetic Talia, who’s uninhibited and carefree. However, the minute they discover the baggage I’m carrying, everything comes apart around me, and I find myself alone in the dark once again.
Who can love me? And why would anyone even want to?
* * *
“Hi!” Danny calls from the top of the stairs.
He’s home? Already? How long have I been here?
“I’m downstairs!” I call back, trying to shout over the music.
He clatters down the stairs and enters the basement with a smile.
“I see you like your present.” He kisses my head and checks out the painting. “Wow! You went wild!”
“A little…” I turn to him with my hands covered in paint. He jumps back in surprise.
“Don’t touch me!” He laughs, lifting up his hands in self-defense.
“What happened to your creative instinct?” I playfully shove my hands at him.
He runs behind the sofa. “I never had one.”
“What time is it anyway?” I ask.
“Five. How long have you been down here?”
“A while…”
I turn back to my painting.
“Don’t hide down here all evening.”
“Why? You can tell people you have a ghost in your basement. It could raise the value of the house.” I laugh. He goes back up the stairs and closes the door behind him and I return to my painting.
Red, black, and mixed feelings, the pain almost squeezes from my body and onto the canvas. I bite my lip as I wipe my fingers on the material, floating and losing track of time.
* * *
After my shower, I go into the empty kitchen. The smell of meat wafts through the house. I pour myself a glass of red wine from the table. I love red wine, especially Merlot. And beer. And drinking shots of tequila with my friends. And then dancing the night away. Well, I just love drinking and dancing. But I need to take care of myself after the last outburst. Music will just have to replace alcohol.
I go out to the patio. As usual, Danny’s tending the grill. No one else prepares the meat when he’s around. John is sitting on the wide sofa, smoking a cigarette. I smile at him, sit down on the small sofa, and lift my feet, bringing my knees close to my chest. I take a small sip of the wine, I haven’t really eaten much today, and if I want to avoid problems with Danny, I’d better make an effort to eat something at dinner.
“How was your first day in London?” John smiles at me.
Danny’s never really told me much about John’s past, but I know that his Catholic family reacted badly to his coming out. He was forced to leave his home and went through a terrible time. I try to imagine this impressive man sleeping under some bridge, but the image just doesn’t click with the John I know.
“I guess I’m still adjusting.” I light up a cigarette. “I still haven’t unpacked everything.”
I hate unpacking and can easily live out of my suitcase for a month. Maybe I really should make an effort and arrange my clothes in the closet.
“You have time.” John’s voice is quiet. “Danny and I meant what we said. You can stay for as long as you want.”
“Thank you.” I smile, feeling embarrassed.
The problem isn’t how long I can stay, but what it is I want from myself.
“Did you paint all day?”
“Yes, your gift is amazing.” I hug my knees. I forget how cold it can get here in May, and I haven’t dressed warmly enough. Now, as I sit outside on the sofa, a small chill goes through my body. John notices straight away.
“You’re cold, sweetheart.” He smiles.
“A little.”
“I’ll bring you something warm to wear.” He gets up and goes inside before I have time to stop him. His concern for me, the feeling that someone cares, is unfamiliar to me. I don’t know how to react to it. My mother would never get up for me, or for anyone except for herself. I lean my head back, close my eyes, and allow my thoughts to wander.
My mother’s shrill voice calls out my name. She’s knocking on the door and I can hear the anger in her tone.
“Talia! Open up!”
I’m sitting on the floor, my back against the door. I won’t let her in. She can stay out. Out of the room. Out of my life. She can stay as far away from me as possible. She doesn’t have to pretend she cares, there’s only one person she cares about and it’s herself. She just wants her quiet life back, God forbid anyone says anything on the matter. As long as Talia does as she’s told. As long as she takes her pills and doesn’t come home late and drunk, as long as people don’t talk. As long as Talia behaves like a good, quiet girl. Why can’t she be like everyone else? Why does she have to cause problems?
I am a problem. That’s what I am to her. A problem that needs to be solved—and quickly—so no one will discover her secret. Talia has a mental condition. That’s why she is like she is. It’s not her fault. She just needs to take her pills and decline quietly.
“Talia! Open the door immediately! Do you hear me?”
I hear her. I’ve been hearing her for years, telling me I am not good enough.
The knocking quiets down. She’s still standing on the other side of the door, I can feel her, feel her annoying presence. But I don’t open it. She can go to hell. I’m not going to open the door and let her back into my life.
“Put this on, darling.” John’s voice pulls me back to the chilly patio in London. I open my eyes even though the memory chases me.
John sees the look in my eyes. “Is everything okay?”
I take the large grey sweatshirt from him and put it on. “I’m fine,” I utter with a smile, making an effort to shake off the thoughts about my mother.
“What were you thinking about?”
“Home.”
“Danny said things weren’t good.” He sits on the sofa opposite me and leans back. “I hope you don’t mind he told me.”
“No, and in any case, I’m living in your house, you’re bound to hear everything. I’m glad you know.”
“Talia, sweetheart, you have to learn to leave things behind. Don’t let everything rattle you.”
John knows a thing or two about being rattled. He has great insights on life.
“I’m trying, you know. But it just keeps on haunting me.” I sigh quietly. I’m not going to tell him just how much it haunts me. I’m not going to bother him or Danny. If they knew about my dreams…
“It haunts us all. That’s the lesson, sweetheart, to live with it. You can’t go mad all the time.”
“I like going mad.” I laugh. “My mother claims I do it deliberately.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how much control I have over it.”
“Over what?” he asks, trying to add some clarity to the conversation.
“You know,” I smile. “The food, my situation, when I’m unbalanced.”
“Do you like living like that?”
“Sometimes,” I admit self-consciously. I like my high. It’s addictive. It allows me to delude myself that I can deal with everything. “I like being happy. Not that I succeed all the time.”
“What makes you happy?”
“Being here, painting, writing.”
“Good. You are here and you’re painting and writing. Why aren’t you happy?”
He smiles at me mischievously. He always knows how to get to the point.
“I’m working on it,” I mumble.
“Very good. Looks like our food is ready.”
I put out my cigarette and get up to go and set the table and contribute to the preparation of dinner.
* * *
An hour later, I’m in bed earlier than expected. My eyes are closed and I take a deep breath. This is London. Everything is possible.
“You’re crazy.” The dismissive tone addresses me once again; burning eyes stare at me unnervingly, causing me to shrink beneath my blanket. My heart races at a pace I can’t control.
“You’re insane.”
His back is turned to me, while he quickly pulls on his jeans and worn-out white T-shirt without even glancing at me.
“Why are you going?” I manage to mumble something. I’m panic-stricken. Why am I surprised? What did I think would happen once he found out?
“How dare you even ask?” His tone is shocked. “Hiding your secrets for two whole months. Well, that certainly explains a few things…”
I told him. The Big Secret. I told him all about it. The outbursts. The celebrations. The abyss. And just as I thought, now all I see is his back, while he sits on my bed, putting on his shoes as fast as he can.
“It doesn’t make any difference. I’m still the same girl.”
“I don’t know who you are. And I don’t intend to stick around to find out.”
Then he gets up and takes his wallet from my chest of drawers. The door opens, and slams it behind him. Uncontrollable tears come pouring down. I turn on my side, lift my knees to my chest, and curl into myself.
The time for darkness has arrived.
My heart is pounding wildly when I jerk awake, trying to regulate my breathing. Several moments pass before I get my bearings and realize where I am. My past. Here. In a room in London. Reminding me of why I ran away. Reminding me of how bad it can be. It’s half past four in the morning. I pull up the blanket and cover myself. I wonder again if the decision to come was a good one. I turn on my side and close my eyes. What are the chances of falling asleep now?
I don’t know who you are…and I don’t intend to stick around to find out… you’re insane…
Jesus! Why won’t they stop ringing the doorbell?
I wash my hands in the kitchen sink. It’s Friday, five o’clock in the afternoon. Danny and John are still at work and I wonder who is so persistent that they won’t stop ringing the bell.
I painted the entire morning, listening to music at full volume and letting it rock me, and my feelings, from one extreme to the other. Joy, sadness, anger. Later on, I bought ingredients for dinner and came home in order to cook my men a meal of chicken and potatoes, as a sign of gratitude for having me in their lives. The Sugababes were playing in the background as I danced in the kitchen. But now that damn doorbell won’t stop ringing.
I slowly open the door, surprised to see a tall man in a grey suit standing before me. For a second, I stop breathing as he stares at me with big, green eyes.
God help me.
“Hello.” He smiles widely. “You must be Talia.”
I am Talia. And he knows it. And that’s all I can think of when those mesmerizing eyes stare at me.
“I’m Ben. Is Danny home?”
It takes a moment for his words to sink in.
“No… he’s at work…” I murmur.
His hair is short and brown. Really short. I’m still hypnotized by his green eyes, which remind me of the fields at home.
“Really?” He seems surprised, and promptly pulls his phone out of his pants pocket. Before I can say anything, he’s dialing with his long fingers, smiling at me.
“Danny, I’m at yours…” He doesn’t take his eyes off of me. His gaze is penetrating. I swear he can see right into me, deep inside the mess. “Okay. If she’ll ever let me in…one second.”
He hands me the phone.
“Hi,” I answer timidly into the phone, still confused by his presence, his gaze.
An unfamiliar stranger is standing at our door, smiling his gorgeous smile at me.
“Hi. We’ve been held up for a few minutes at work. Do you mind letting Ben in and being friendly, like I know you can be, until we get there?”
Shit. My heart is racing. He wants me to let this guy inside the house.
“Okay,” I grumble quietly.
Thanks very much for giving me a heads-up. Now I have to entertain this man, who I don’t even know. I look up at him; his smile makes his eyes twinkle.
He is really gorgeous.
He extends his hand, waiting for me to return his phone and maybe to decide to let him in. I end the call and return it to him.
“Danny said you can come in.” I pull the door back, hesitatingly, and let him take a few steps into the house. “Are you a friend of his?”
“Amongst other things.” His answer is a bit vague.
I close the door and walk toward the kitchen, trying to calm my hammering heart. I can feel his gaze burning into my back and I glance down at the clothes I’m wearing—thank goodness I chose the purple dress. God only knows how embarrassing it would have been if I was wearing my grey, worn-out sweatpants.
He takes his wallet and phone out of his pants pocket and puts them on the island. Then he opens a button of his grey jacket, removes it, and hangs it on the back of the chair. He seems quite relaxed. I get the feeling this isn’t the first time he’s visited. I sneak a glance his way as he slips off his tie and opens the top button of his white shirt, which emphasizes his broad shoulders. They’re really broad. And he really looks like someone who could cause me trouble.
He doesn’t say a word as he walks behind me toward the fridge. The silence between us is awkward but the smell of his aftershave is incredible. My eyes follow him helplessly. He opens the fridge, takes out the bottle of wine I had bought, takes two wine glasses from the cupboard, and finds the corkscrew in the drawer without any difficulty. Then, he sits on the bar stool and opens the bottle. I can’t clear my thoughts, his presence causes my body to tense up.
He pours us both some wine, looks at me, and one corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile as he hands me the glass. I take it from him, standing silently by the marble countertop, confused.
Who is this guy? Why does he feel so at home here?
He raises his wine glass toward me and doesn’t wait for me to do the same.
“Welcome to London. So, what are you cooking for me?”
My jaw drops. I’m what? Cooking for him? Is this guy for real? He sees the stunned look on my face and his smile widens.
“Come on, You girls are all the same, you love cooking for us. It’s an evolutional thing.”
What. The. Hell?
“Are you kidding me?” I’m shocked, although I’m well acquainted with his type—the gorgeous guy who thinks he has the entire world at his feet. He’s a player. And, considering his looks, he must be really good at it. A real pro. I’ve met more than my share of men like him. I have to be careful.
“This is what you’re listening to?” He tilts his head, keeping his green-eyed gaze on me, as “Overload” plays on the stereo.
“I do the cooking, I choose the music.” His impudence surprises me. First he wants me to cook for him and now he’s criticizing my taste in music?
“I can’t believe Danny is late. I’m going to speak with his boss,” I complain angrily.
“Okay.” He puts his wine glass on the counter, crosses his arms, and smiles at me. Again. Damn, his smile is lovely.
“What?”
“I’m waiting.” He raises an eyebrow.
“Waiting for what?”
“You wanted to speak with Danny’s boss.”
“What are you talking about?” I stare at him, at a total loss.
“You really don’t know who I am?” He looks taken aback.
“No idea.” I’m embarrassed. Am I missing something?
“I’m Ben. Ben Storm.”
My jaw drops again. Did he just say his name is Ben Storm? The company Danny works for is called…Storm Buildings.
No way. This guy?
“Are you the owner of Danny’s company?” I don’t mean to sound so surprised. But I do.
He doesn’t look like the owner of anything. His grey suit may be the only thing about him that resembles anything managerial. With his close-cropped brown hair, he looks more like an infuriating bad boy. “Last time I checked, it was my company.” His laugh is totally adorable. “Yes, I’m the boss. I’m surprised we’ve never met before. Danny told me this isn’t your first visit.”
Danny’s boss. This rugged man, who looks like he’s just stepped out of a GQ magazine.
“It’s not my first visit…” I don’t know what to say. Danny’s boss?
“So, what are you cooking for me?” he asks again, completely ignoring the stunned look on my face. He seems to be enjoying my discomfort.
“Food.” I stare at him.
“Can I help?”
Really?
“You’d like to help? Because I’ll happily blame you if the food’s not good,” I tease him.
“Or be hugely impressed, when you find out how delicious it is.” The smile on his face widens.
“Do you know how to cook?” I study him as he unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them up neatly.
“I know how to cook.”
I don’t want to cook with this guy. I don’t even know what to think of him. He’s annoying and way too good-looking. I’m better off keeping my distance.
“I really don’t need any help. I’m done.” I lift my glass of wine off the counter. “I’m going outside to smoke.”
“You smoke?” He sounds appalled. “What a terrible habit.”
“You think?” I mumble. As if I didn’t know that.
I go to the patio, sink into the loveseat, light up a cigarette, and inhale deeply.
What’s the deal with this guy?
“So…” I glance toward the door. Ben comes out holding his glass of wine and sits on the larger sofa against the wall. I’m immediately on alert. I don’t know him and I know nothing about him. So why is my body reacting to him this way?
“What brings you to London?”
What brings me to London? That’s what I’m still trying to figure out.
“I needed a break,” I answer him seriously. I have no intention of telling him anything. I have no idea who he is, and in the meantime, all he does is piss me off while staring at me with his gorgeous green eyes.
“A break.” He repeats what I’ve said, and takes a sip of wine. “Basically, you ran off to London?”
Ran off? What’s this guy’s problem?
“I didn’t ‘run off’ anywhere. Danny was kind enough to invite me to stay with him and John. I simply decided to take them up on their generous offer,” I answer him defiantly.
“What do you do with yourself, to keep busy? Work?”
“I paint and write my blog. And I may just find a job.” I try to sound important. I hope he doesn’t find it as pathetic as I do.
“So you don’t do anything,” he murmurs.
Seriously!
“I do as I please, thank you very much. Not that it’s any of your business.” I take another sip of my wine.
“You’re a funny little girl.”
I’m what? The nerve of the guy.
“I’m not funny,” I snap at him. “And I’m twenty-six years old, thank you very much. Again.”
“I wasn’t referring to your age.” His voice is serious and quiet. Then what was he referring to?
“You’re infuriating.” I can’t stop myself. “How old are you?”
“Thirty,” he answers straightaway.
He’s thirty years old? And he has his own construction company? He manages to be both annoying and impressive. The sharp sensation of failure catches me off guard. A deep stabbing pain someplace around my middle. Here I am, sitting on the patio with this guy, who not only looks good—really good—but also owns his own construction company at the age of thirty.
“So, how does one manage to own his own company at the tender age of thirty?” I try to sweep away the hurt.
“I started early.” He smiles smugly.
“Define early.” I try to ignore the way his smile causes my heart to race.
“I’ve been working since I was fourteen.”
Since he was fourteen?
“Are you serious?” I try not sound shocked, but that’s exactly how I feel. “What kind of work did you do at that age?”
No wonder he’s so successful! I can’t even remember what I was doing when I was fourteen.
“Whatever there was.” He shrugs indifferently. “I mowed the neighbors’ lawn, washed cars, sold lemonade, and on weekends I would go with my parents to garage sales, buy things cheap and sell them at a profit. You wouldn’t believe what people sell for pennies.”
I can picture this boy standing behind a lemonade stand with his lovely smile. I’m sure it worked. It probably still did. God knows it’s working now on me.
“So how do you get from selling lemonade to a construction company at the age of thirty?”
“At the end of my street there was a house. A dump, actually. No one wanted it.”
“No one besides you, I gather?” I murmur.
“Yes. I was eighteen when I saw its potential so I persuaded my parents to give me a loan and I bought it. It took me a year to renovate it. I went all over to find good deals, leftover ceramics, stuff on exhibit, you name it.” He shrugs, rising his shoulders high. “Any work I could do myself I did, and what I couldn’t do, I persuaded someone else to do for me. My neighbor did some work for me on the house and I worked in his garden and washed his car as well. You get the picture.” He sounds pleased with himself, and with good reason.
“And once you were done?”
“I sold it—for a lot of money.”
He sold it?
“Wasn’t it difficult? Selling it after all the hard work you put into it?”
“Very. But with the money I earned I could buy the next house and then the next one…in any case, I own the house now.”
“You do? You bought it back?” I’m shocked.
“It was my first home.” He smiles triumphantly. “I invested my soul into that house. I couldn’t just give it up. I had to buy it back.”
He really does have a charming smile. “How did you persuade them to sell it to you? Didn’t it cost you a lot more than what you sold it for?”
“It didn’t matter to me. I simply gave them an offer they couldn’t refuse.”
God help me. For a second there, I managed to ignore his humiliating behavior in the kitchen. His company isn’t the only remarkable thing about him. I can’t ignore his air of confidence. It’s like he’s on a mission to conquer the world and he’s doing a pretty good job. I sneak another peek at him. Our eyes meet and I blush uncontrollably.
Jesus! How old am I—sixteen?
“So, have you known Danny and John long?” I try to keep the conversation going.
Come on, Talia, you landed in London a minute and a half ago, and this guy is so out of your league. Look at him! Look at you…
“John, I’ve known for how long? Five years?” He screws up his face in an attempt to remember. “And Danny since he came here.”
“It’s amazing that you work together and still manage to stay such good friends. I can imagine it’s a recipe for disaster.”
“Why?” He sounds surprised.
“What happens if you disagree on something?”
He gives a small, amused laugh. “We usually disagree. And that’s why I like them. They’re not scared to voice their opinion. Anyway, I get the final say.”
“I figured.”
Obviously he gets the final say. He’s the boss, after all.
I take another sip of wine. Who am I kidding? This guy is amazingly sexy. Luckily, he’s Danny’s boss. He’s about the last thing I need in my complicated life right now.
“You should probably slow down a bit.” He tilts his head slightly toward my wine. “You’re such a little thing…”
Enough with that word already! I’m not little. And I can drink one fucking glass of wine without anything happening to me.
A noise from the direction of the house causes us to turn our heads toward the door.
“Thank God,” I mumble with relief. My men are home. Danny will finally come to my rescue.
“We’re on the patio!” I shout out.
“Hi.” Danny smiles at us, peeking from behind the door. “Sorry we’re late. Was she being nice?” he asks, looking at Ben.
“Very. And amusing.” Ben turns to me, raising a quizzical brow.
He’s just a pretty face. Chill.
“If he doesn’t behave, he’ll stay hungry.” I narrow my eyes in anger, making an effort to hide the involuntary reactions taking hold of me. “I need to finish up in the kitchen.”
I stub out my cigarette and go inside. Danny and Ben follow me.
“Hi, John.” I smile at John, who’s sitting at the kitchen counter, busy closing his bag.
“Hi, darling. Need any help?”
“Just set the table.”
* * *
I’m sitting in front of my empty plate.
“You’re not eating?” Danny asks crossly.
I can’t. There’s a strange man in the house. I don’t know him and I can’t eat in front of him. I’m embarrassed, and frustrated. Why can’t I be normal?
“I’m not hungry…I promise I’ll eat later…” I answer.
Danny sighs in frustration. But he’s aware of the situation. He’s been through enough with me to know not to argue.
“I promise!” I just want him to leave it alone. It’s hard enough as it is.
“Don’t forget!” he scolds me.
I’m sure he won’t let me…
John and Ben are deep in conversation. I turn around and listen to them.
“He doesn’t want to go to the police.” Ben looks tense. It’s evident in his body language. His eyes are troubled, stormy like a gust of wind blowing through a wheat field.
“Can’t you persuade him?” John seems less concerned.
“No, he’s a stubborn mule,” Ben bites out, shaking his head. Whatever they’re talking about, he’s not happy about it.
“Then he’ll just have to deal with it. You can’t save them all,” John says with a resigned smile.
“I know,” Ben sighs.
It sounds serious. Who is he trying to save? My curiosity is piqued, but I don’t want to interfere. It’s rude.
“Eventually, he’ll have to decide what he wants, and all you can do is be there for him,” John says quietly. I have no idea what they’re talking about, but in any case, it sounds like good advice.
“I just hate to see him throw everything away now. After all his hard work.”
John smiles and raises his eyebrow at Ben. “His hard work or yours?”
“You know me well enough to know I had nothing to do with it,” Ben replies.
He takes a sip of wine and my eyes follow his lips as they cling to the rim of the glass.
Damn, Talia!
“The food is great.” Ben turns to me with a smile that takes me off guard and I blush again as our eyes meet.
I really need to stop looking at him.
* * *
Danny and John are cleaning up the kitchen. I sink again into the loveseat on the patio and close my eyes, humming to the music.
I inhale slightly from my cigarette. I don’t know what to think. The man with the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen acts as though…as though I’m Danny’s amusing little sister. My heart sinks.
I amuse him. I don’t know what Danny’s told him about me, and I certainly don’t want to tell him anything. He’s thirty years old, manages a construction company he’s built from scratch, and me? I am searching for myself in London after my latest crash. He really is the last thing I need in my life right now. So why can’t I get those eyes out of my head?
“Danny sent you something to eat.” At the sudden intrusion, I abruptly stop humming and open my eyes. Ben is standing there with a food-laden plate, and my heart skips a beat.
How embarrassing! Why did Danny have to do that? Couldn’t it have waited?
“Thanks. I’m not hungry, though.” I squirm uncomfortably. He places the plate down on the table, sits down on the big sofa, and stares at me again with that amused look, unaware of the situation.
“Danny said you’d say that.”
This is mortifying. My heart accelerates.
“I’m really not hungry,” I protest.
“You’ll get me into trouble with Danny.”
“If Danny has something to say to me, he can come and tell me himself.” I don’t even bother to hide my anger.
“Danny!” he calls out suddenly, and I jump. He grins.
Does he think this is funny?
Danny peeks out from behind the door.
“She’s stubborn, your baby sister.”
I knew it. Baby sister! I scowl between Ben and Danny.
“Come on, eat something,” Danny urges and his expression really, really pisses me off.
He’s gone too far. Why is he pretending to be unaware of the fact I have a problem? Pulsing with anger, I stand up and put out my cigarette. There’s a limit to what I’m prepared to take this evening! First his boss pisses me off in the kitchen, and then tells me about his company and makes me feel like shit about myself. And now this?
“Maybe you should all stop treating me like a little girl who needs constant supervision!” I stalk across the kitchen on the way to my bedroom. My heart pounds in my chest.
I can hear Ben saying, “Feisty…”
I throw myself on the bed and the rage inside me rises with such force that it surprises me. Then it all erupts in a huge sob. The tears come pouring down. I hug the pillow and sob into it. I feel mortified enough as it is. I don’t need anyone hearing me fall apart as well.
I’m angry and I’m hurt.
Why tonight of all nights did I have to be so awkward? Especially in front of that guy! Danny was being so stubborn, does he need me to explain to him again that I don’t choose to be like this? What does he want? For me to pretend I’m a good girl, who’ll sit at the table and eat the goddamn chicken and potatoes?
I hate being like this. And right now, I really hate me.
There’s a small knock at the bedroom door.
“Come in,” I answer through the tears, trying to stifle my sobs.
Danny comes in with a plate and puts it on the bedside cabinet by the bed. One look and he understands.
“Talia, we need to talk.” He sits on the edge of the bed. It’s not the first time he’s been with me in this situation.
“What do you want me to say?” I sniff.
“I need to know that you’re okay.”
“Then don’t try and shove food at me in front of total strangers,” I say, loud and clear. “That was really embarrassing.”
“As far as I’m concerned, take a plate and eat in your room.”
“And then what will everyone think?” I ask, perturbed.
“Who cares what they’ll think!” he exclaims. “Now, please, eat something. And stop crying.”
He kisses my head, gets up from the bed, and goes to leave the room. He glances back at me, and relief washes across his face when I take the plate and eat the salad and a few pieces of the chicken he’s warmed up. I know everyone thinks I’m thin, but I like being like this. I like being thin. And I like my protruding pelvic bones. It’s not as though you can see my ribs or anything.
So what if I am thin? They can all go to hell. I’m not going to gain weight for them.