Honeymoon Alone: A Novel Read online

  “Fair enough.” I take another sip of my beer. “When did Jessie move to Paris?”

  Oliver stops smiling, clenching his jaw, and I can feel it. The big brother overprotective vibe, I mean. It’s easy to spot, having two big brothers who used to look exactly like that whenever a guy showed any kind of interest in me. Which wasn’t all that often, but it did happen on occasion.

  “She moved there for Giancarlo, didn’t she?” I prod, smirking a little.

  He nods, looking none too pleased about that. “About two years ago,” he says.

  “Two years ago?” I asked, surprised. Even Charles only took a couple of months to adjust to any of my past boyfriends. “Maybe it’s time you started liking the guy,” I suggest. “He seemed really sweet.”

  “Sure,” he says sarcastically. “I’ll just start liking him. He’s about seven years older than Jess. She left school to be with him, promising that she’d go back as soon as summer ended. Well – three summers have come and gone,” he exclaims, shaking his head in disappointment and some fury. I recognize that pretty well, too.

  “They seem happy,” I point out gently. “But you’re right to want what’s best for her,” I add, to which he looks at me, an imperceptible look on his face. “She should finish school. From what I can tell, your opinion obviously matters a lot to her.”

  “It used to,” he says quietly. “My dad died when I was about nineteen,” he says plainly, his face devoid of emotion. He seems practiced at keeping his emotions safely masked. “Jessie was…” he cocks his head back to think. “Twelve?”

  “And your mom?”

  He looks down, his mask faltering – just a bit. “She passed away a few years ago.”

  “It’s just the two of you?” I ask quietly. My heart goes out to him. And I understand instantly why he worries about his sister as much as he does.

  He nods and shrugs, like he’s trying to shrug it all off and pull that mask back on. But it’s not back on. Not really. He looks at me and I can see it all clearly.

  “I suppose I was meant to be like a father figure at that point. Turn her out right,” he says sardonically. “But I don’t think I did too good a job. This guy she lives with…he’s a painter.” At my nonplussed look, he leans forward. “A painter,” he repeats raising his voice a tad, as if I just hadn’t heard him the first time. Still, I say nothing. “An Italian living in Paris. He’s a bloody artistic nomad and he’s dragged Jessie along. He took advantage of her ideals about romance, her longing for stability.”

  “Maybe,” I interrupt, “his focus on his own dream will be good for her. Maybe she’ll decide what she wants to do and go for it. And maybe he’ll support her as she’s supported him because maybe, just maybe, those two are actually in love.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “So, I should just applaud them for being so…so bold and daring as to shuck every practical path out of their way? I should pat him on the shoulders, shake his hand, say ‘good job, man. School really wasn’t her bag, anyway?’” His emotions are beginning to seep through in an explosive way and I find myself laughing. At his look, I clap a hand to my mouth, but my eyes betray me.

  “Sorry,” I say, my face returning to normal. “But no – I obviously do not think you should applaud them and turn your back.” A small laugh escapes my lips. “Just the opposite. Don’t turn your back. Do what you do best. Annoy the crap out of her.”

  That at least earns a smile – well, the hint of one anyway – as he leans back, waiting for more.

  “She might roll her eyes at you for telling her what to do but I promise you, as a younger sister myself – she’ll appreciate you for always wanting what’s best for her.”

  He still says absolutely nothing for a long moment. “You know,” he says. But I never get to hear what he’s about to say because the band interrupts the moment with an announcement that it’s time for a little bit of holiday fun.

  Oliver smiles, cheering up instantly from the conversation before. He looks at the band and then back at me. “This is why I brought you here.”

  I take a sip of my beer and look at him, “The band?”

  They begin to play a few notes of “The First Noel” and I lean into Oliver. “Do they know Christmas was a few days ago?”

  “They do this kind of Irish holiday jam every year. I figured you might like it.”

  I turn in my seat and face the band. They have the attention of the whole restaurant now, as the piano starts playing.

  “It’s pretty,” I whisper, my eyes still glued to the band. The pianist samples little pieces of different Christmas songs as a female vocalist hums quietly into the microphone. A bit of the melody from “Silent Night” gives way to “It Came upon a Midnight Clear” and the songs remind me of home for a moment.

  My mind goes blank as the band suddenly comes alive. I mean really – drums, harmonica, flutes, piano – the song has taken on a sort of Ye Olde Irish Jig vibe and the whole pub seems celebratory. Oliver takes a sip of his beer and smiles at me as a female vocalist sings to the piano player.

  I laugh and look at Oliver. “I love this!” I sway a bit like the rest of the room, elated at the atmosphere. The flowing beer, the laughter, the camaraderie—

  I suddenly jump as the whole pub – and I mean everyone around me, except Oliver – joins in the jubilant chorus that I don’t recognize. Oliver puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder and laughs.

  It’s like I’ve suddenly gone to an Irish house party. Oliver joins in the next chorus, though not with the enthusiasm around him. That wouldn’t be fitting for him at all. But he leans into me and says the words clearly so I understand them. By the last chorus, I’m able to join in, while waving my beer around like everyone else.

  “That was the coolest thing. Ever. Period. Bar none,” I exclaim once we step outside the pub and begin walking. My ears are still ringing. The outside seems like a quiet wintry vacuum compared to Filthy McGee’s. It’s so dead out here. So subdued. Inside, even the candles were dancing at each table. In there, the air was charged and alive. A natural high seemed to take over the whole place. I can’t seem to wipe the smile off my face.

  “They do that act every night between December twenty-third and January third each year,” Oliver explains as he zips up his coat. He still seems to be on a natural high, too, if his smile is any indication. I’ve never seen him so truly relaxed since we met. “Minus Christmas day itself, naturally. It’s their claim to fame.”

  Cars slosh on by and I gaze up at a street lantern, seeing the flurries hitting the glass bulb. It’s snowing again. “I feel like I’m wearing out the words ‘thank you,’” I say, turning towards him as we begin walking carefully along, toward the hotel. “I mean, every time I turn around, you’ve surprised me with something really amazing.”

  He waves a hand dismissively as if to say it’s all no big deal, that he does this for everyone. But something in his expression reveals far more than he’d ever dare tell. He does seem a bit pleased at my confession.

  We walk along, quietly, but my heels are having a lot of trouble on the crooked cobblestones. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn the new boots out today. It really is slippery and I knew I’d be touring around, though I didn’t plan on the Oliver tour, which definitely involved more walking than I’d planned to do. We’re both walking at a snail’s pace. It must look kind of funny to the people who keep bursting out of nearby pubs and whooshing past us. “Oof,” I squeal as I nearly lose my balance completely this time. Oliver firmly grasps my elbow and I lean into him, thankful for the support.

  “Maybe a taxi would be good,” he says casually. He’s probably done the math and realized that at this pace it’ll take approximately six hours to walk the five blocks to The Chaizer.

  “I can walk quickly,” I protest, rolling my eyes. I yank my arm free from his grasp and take one very confident step ahead, and instantly slip on the icy ground. Oliver grabs me, his grip on my arms tight and reassuring. He laughs and looks down at my boots.
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  “These aren’t exactly snow boots.” He steadies me and glances quickly up at the flurries. “Not really made for ice,” he adds. He stares down at me, suddenly looking almost nervous.

  “They’re new,” I explain feeling a cold rush course through me. “I thought they looked good with these jeans.”

  “They do,” he agrees. His eyes widen like he didn’t mean to say that. His eyes have this look in them now, a look I’ve never seen before.

  Now in addition to being all off-balance, I can barely breathe. It’s the cold, obviously. Except, coincidentally, the moment Oliver’s grip on me tightened, my heart rate skyrocketed and my breathing became more shallow. And, of course, that does nothing to help me gain steady footing on the icy ground, which is made clear when I trip yet again while trying to continue our walk. Oliver uses his other hand – the one not already supporting me – to steady me. I look up at him. His eyes look intensely, darkly brown. And serious. As he gazes down at me, those dark eyes capture mine. My throat has gone completely dry as my heart hammers against my ribs as if it’s trying to break free. It’s freezing out here and yet my cheeks are burning.

  Oliver touches my cheek with his hand, tilting my face upward just slightly as he quickly bows his head. Before any coherent thoughts, objections, suggestions, or excuses can even begin to form, he’s kissing me. I close my eyes and kiss him back, putting one of my hands on his face, noticing how rough his stubble is and how soft his lips are. I can hear cars passing by, people down the street hollering and my own breathing. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer. He quietly groans as the kiss deepens.

  This is what we should’ve been doing all along. Not fighting or lying or avoiding. Just kissing. Right from that first moment.

  Oliver suddenly pulls back like he’s been burned. He extracts my arms from around his neck and just holds them, staring at me wide-eyed, remorse etched on his face. He shakes his head sort of numbly.

  “I’m sorry,” he eventually says, barely audibly. His hair is sticking out every which way thanks to me. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  I shake my head. “Oliver, it’s okay—“

  But he just shakes his head again and steadies me, a business-like look on his face. He looks so torn and he won’t meet my eye, no matter how hard I try to get his attention. When he’s sure I can stand without his support, he walks a few feet away towards the sidewalk and holds his arm up, hailing a nearby taxi.

  He mumbles something to the driver, hands him something and opens the backseat door. I cautiously walk toward the cab.

  Realizing himself, he takes a step toward me. “Do you need—“

  I hold a hand up, stopping him. I am embarrassed enough. I don’t need his help walking to the taxi that is ten feet away! It’s not the quickest of walks or the most elegant, but I manage. I get in the cab and look up at him expectantly.

  “I’m heading in another direction,” Oliver explains. He barely looks at me as he says it.

  “Oh,” I say with a slight wobble in my voice. I clear my throat and look at him, eyebrows raised in a ‘whatever’ kind of way. He’s finally managed to really look at me and I can see the questions, the uncertainty, the apology and the doubt in his eyes. “See you later then,” I say, closing the door. The moment we pull away, I close my eyes and rest my head against the seat.

  What was that? The moment the question forms, the answer does too. It was quite simply the best kiss I’ve ever had in my life.

  I crease my eyebrows and concentrate on removing all thoughts of Oliver from my mind. The scenery outside is very pretty. Let me just breathe in and out rhythmically and focus on that. Yes, good idea. Snowy London streets, closed shop-fronts, young people dancing around gaily—

  Except…my lips still tingle. It’s hard not to think about a man when your lips still tingle from the kiss he laid on you four minutes ago.

  The moment I picture it – because I can’t help it – I smile to myself against my better judgment. That was a good kiss.

  “That sodding bastard.”

  The taxi driver laughs suddenly and I close my hand over my mouth. “Sorry.” I squeak out. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I swear I’m not crazy.”

  “Quite all right, miss.”

  “Incidentally,” I say, looking at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “How was my use of the local vernacular?”

  He stares at me through the rearview mirror and his eyes are still shining with laughter he seems to be holding in. “Very good, miss.”

  I nod proudly. Serves Oliver right.

  * * *

  The honeymoon is almost over

  Posted by: @Marian at 9:18 PM on december 31 on TheGrayBlog

  I only have a couple of minutes until we head out for drinks. I can see everyone’s been writing on here, but I’ll have to read it when I get back. Just wanted to drop a word to say we are excited to see everyone soon…but sad to see our honeymoon end. We are having a blast. Everyone should go to Greece, especially Mykonos and Santorini. We are so tanned (sunburned) and about ten pounds heavier to boot thanks to our new-found love for Baklava.

  Lucky for you, we’ve been keeping a journal. So far, we’ve written 32 pages.. When we get back, we’d like to have a family dinner and read it to everyone.

  Ugh, Tom got the weirdest email alert from his credit card company that his Visa was charged in London. That was our second honeymoon option. I don’t know. Seems a funny coincidence. But he cancelled it and reported it stolen so we should be all set.

  Don’t mess with the Boltons.

  Love to all.

  XOXOXOX

  Marian

  * * *

  ary finally returns to the flat. The next morning. And oh, does he have a smirk on his face as he closes the door behind him. Sitting in front of the crackling fire, applying curl cream to my wet hair, I look at him knowingly. I’ve only been awake for an hour and already it looks like this is going to be a good day complete with a juicy, romantic story.

  “How was your date?” I ask innocently, as he takes his coat off. I jump to my feet excitedly and stare at him.

  He laughs and walks into the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets. I’m not sure if he’s actually hungry or just avoiding the question.

  “You know that we don’t actually live here,” I point out.

  That earns me a look. His confused gaze meets my playful one.

  “I just mean, you won’t find food in those cabinets.”

  He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl and sits at one of the chairs at the kitchenette table and looks at the apple like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world before finally biting into it.

  “I know that look,” I prod. “I’ve even worn that look myself a time or two. Things went well. Really well.”

  He leans back in his chair as he finally looks at me, chewing, but not saying a word.

  “Of course it went well,” I add. “It turned into an all-nighter.”

  He cocks his head to the side and looks thoughtful, like he’s considering my words very carefully, measuring the truth in them.

  This is insane. If he were Mary, he’d be halfway through the story already. “Cary.” I can’t handle it anymore. “Talk to me.”

  He smiles at me and allows the truth to make its way to his eyes. “Things went well,” he concedes. He runs a hand tiredly over his cheek. “But I’m not a girl, so I might not gab about every little detail like you undoubtedly—“

  “Just a rough idea of what you did, who said what, and how the night played out would be fine,” I say defensively. I grab my makeup and sit next to the coffee table cross-legged, setting up my mirror. “Want to grab breakfast?”

  “Shower, shave, then food,” he says like an automaton.

  I wave him off. “Go.” As soon as I hear the water running, I turn my attention back to my makeup. As I pull the cap off my mascara, there’s a knock at the door.

  In the ten steps it takes to get to the door,
the knock gets more insistent. Maybe it’s Oliver. I mean – after last night, running off like he basically did, he should try to knock down my door and…and apologize what was basically a Kiss and Run! And then he should admit that he can’t get kissing me out of his mind! I open the door, my stomach in knots of excitement—

  But it’s not Oliver.

  It’s Kiki. And she looks a bit frazzled. She normally looks so elegant, so classic. Gracefully beautiful like a ballet dancer or a movie star from the golden days of cinema.

  Today she looks like she’s on day five of using the nicotine patch.

  “You okay?” I ask her, furrowing my eyebrows in concern. I stand aside so she can enter.

  Once the door is closed, she looks around the room. “Is your husband here?” she asks tentatively.

  “Yes,” I say slowly, glancing towards the bathroom, where the muffled sound of Cary’s singing and water can easily be heard through the closed door. “He’s showering.”

  “I won’t be long,” she explains. She smiles and for a moment, she looks a little bit more like herself. Like the woman that I met in our hall that first day, who I had lunch with after our run-in at the Tower of London, who I shopped with. I guess she’s become a bit like a friend. And I don’t really like seeing her looking so…off.

  “Kiki, take as long as you need. We’re just going to grab breakfast when he’s done. Feel free to come.”

  “Thank you, Lucy,” she says genuinely, softly. In her eyes, I can almost detect a mixed range of emotions. Sadness, gratitude, fear….

  Maybe she had a fight with Dan or something. “Can I just use your phone actually?” she eventually asks.

  “Sure,” I say, gesturing toward the phone in the kitchen.

  She smiles appreciatively and sits at the table very primly, her hand on the receiver but not moving to make the call she came here to make. She looks up at me after a moment. “It’s just kind of private,” she says shyly.