Page 25

“I come here a lot,” she says, and her hand slips out of mine as she moves toward the building. “It was built to punish people, but now it’s a place of peace.”

It’s a warm summer night, but she stands with her arms wrapped around herself like she’s cold as she gazes at the building.

“What are you thinking?” I wonder aloud.

“About forgiveness. About my dad.”

I’m struck by the similarity of our thoughts. I’ve been thinking a lot about my father, too. I haven’t spoken to him in three months. He’s stopped calling and only communicates through email and only about work.

“I’d give anything to have him back. But I’m afraid he wouldn’t want me even if he was here. I was a terrible daughter most of the time. And when he needed me the most, I was too weak to help him. I didn’t set the fire that killed him, but it’s my fault he’s dead.”

I’m struck by several things at once: Her normally animated voice is completely colorless. And she’s telling me about her family.

She knows so much about me already, and I barely know anything about her. Unlike me, whose whole adult life is chronicled online, the only place she appears online is her chambers and Inn Websites and her Instagram account.

“It can’t be your fault.” Before I can add anything else, there’s a telltale squeaking of brakes and a gust of wind as the bus blows by us toward the stop at the end of the road. She turns and starts to run for it. “Come on, we can catch it,” she shouts over her shoulder. She’s running fast and reaches the bus a few steps ahead of me just as its doors are closing. “Wait!” She leaps from the sidewalk and onto the bus and uses her arms to stop thedoors. When I catch up, she’s panting and grinning. “Slow poke,” she teases and dashes up the stairs.

My Gucci loafers are hardly made for walking and definitely not made for running, and when I drop into the seat next to her, I wince and stretch my slightly sore knee.

“And that’s why I always have trainers in my bag. Gotta be ready to run at any moment.” She turns in her seat and looks out of the window as the bus rambles off the bridge and swings onto Kennington Road. “Have you been to Vauxhall? If not, you should. It’s?—”

The light on the bus is harshly bright in contrast to the dark night lit only by the moon and an occasional streetlamp, and it takes me a minute to adjust. When I do, the redness in her eyes says what her lighthearted voice doesn’t. I put a hand on her arm to interrupt her. “You were saying something before the bus came, about your dad? What did you do that you feel guilty for?”

CHAPTER 8

PERSUASION

Jules

I’ve been staringat my hands since he asked about my dad, and he’s been sitting waiting patiently for several minutes before I can pull my thoughts together.

I don’t know what I was thinking when I started talking about my dad in front of that museum. I’d had too much to drink, too much to eat, and was happier than I could remember being when we approached the Tate. I wasn’t going to say anything, but there was a tug of something as I walked by that made me stop. I didn’t realize it was guilt, and I answered Omar’s question.

I know if my father were here, he’d be standing by my side. I know he wouldn’t blame me for leaving him the way I did. And as soon as I said it, I heard his voice in my head saying, “Don’t be silly.” And wished I could take it back.

I started my tourist guide routine as soon as Omar sat down, hoping he wouldn’t press me on it. I should have known better than to rely on a fair-weather friend like hope.

I don’t know him well enough to tell him the whole truth. But I don’t want to lie to him, either. So I tell him the truth as I know it.

“The night my father died, there was a fire, and I woke up in time to get out of my room. I ran to his and tried to wake him up. But when I couldn’t, I ran out of the house to get help. The roof over our bedrooms collapsed minutes after I got outside. While I was still calling for help. I left him to die alone in that house. I have nightmares that he woke up when the ceiling caved in on him and was scared and wondering where I was and that he died terrified and heartbroken while I was outside, safe. And tonight, I was so happy. And I didn’t think about him once this whole evening. But that museum always reminds me of him, and I felt ashamed that I was so happy when I should be dead, too.” I brush at a tickle on my cheek and am surprised when my hand comes away wet. “I didn’t think I had any tears left.”

He takes my hand in his and squeezes it. “I’m so sorry. How old were you?”

“Twelve,” I say and have to swallow a sob and turn my face toward the window to brush away more tears.

“Jesus. I’m so sorry. You were a baby.”

“It’s more than half my life, you’d think I could make it through a date without crying, right?” I try to effect a laugh, but it sounds like a strangled cough. He lets go of my hand and drapes his arm over my shoulder, pulling me into the curve of his side. It’s been ages since anyone has held me like this, but my body remembers, and I find a comfortable crook to nestle against. I bury my face in his shirt and sit up. “You wear neroli oil.”

“Yeah, I do. Is that on Google, too?” he asks with a chuckle.

“No, my dad was a chandler—a candlemaker. And he grew most of the plants he used to scent them. But his favorite was the oil from his hothouse bitter orange trees—which is where nerolicomes from—and he put it in everything: soaps, cremes, lotions. He even tried making cocktails from it. It smells much better than it tastes.” I laugh at the memory of him spitting it out after one sip.

I let my eyes drift shut as the bus sways down Brixton Lane toward home and let the orgy of citrus, green grass, and air with a whisper of honey take me back to the last time I remember being truly happy.

Until tonight.

I’m sure my tears and melodrama have ruined any hope of this turning into a night of lost virtue and orgasms. The bus is one light away from the stop outside the station, and I sit up and unglue myself from his side to take a deep breath and compose myself. “I’m so sorry, Omar. I didn’t mean to spoil the mood.”