Page 42 of Hateful Games

I must have been seven or eight when I attempted it. Dad would always be busy between meetings and conferences, not that I would’ve asked him. So, I would nag at Mom to sneak out with me and take me to the station so I could fulfill my fantasy.

Oh, the disappointment when I smacked my head instead of disappearing through the wall. I was so crushed, even though deep down I knew I was being silly.

How tough things must’ve been for me to concoct such delusions.

It made my mom so amused that she couldn’t stop laughing. She teased me adoringly and just so I didn’t feel stupid, she pretended to enter the wall, too, until we both looked like two loons to the public.

The next time we visited London, she planned one day for just us to spend doing all things Harry Potter. We went to the Platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross station, saw Harry Potter and the Cursed Child at the Palace Theatre and, of course, ended the perfect day on the streets of Leadenhall Market.

It was the single most unforgettable day of my life.

I swear, the only time I didn’t feel like my world was crumbling around me was whenever I was with her, especially during goofy moments like those. She was the only person, besides Jasmine, who I thought would always be in my corner.

It was enough for me.

However, I thought wrong.

“Okay, so when you said sightseeing, this isn’t what I pictured at all.”

Miya’s amused voice yanks me out of my reverie.

“Man, was I fooled,” she says sarcastically, eyeing the long rows and lines of bookshelves.

Surprisingly, it’s been two fun and entertainment-filled days of wandering and trotting all over the winding streets of London with its Victorian architecture. Even though skyscrapers dominate the sky, the old historian essence is still very much alive.

Yesterday, we went to the Borough Market, exploring all the yummy street food—my favorite. Day before that, I bought tickets for the Harry Potter and the Cursed Child show at the Palace Theatre. No way was I missing that.

Wisely, she didn’t bring up any topic surrounding our families’ history. As though she regrets revealing as much as she did the first day. It works against me because the purpose of inviting her to hang out together was to investigate about our elders’ rivalry.

If I don’t get her to talk, I’ll still remain in the dark.

A sitting duck once I’m irrevocably attached to their family.

I made a vow to myself after that day in my father’s office that I will never be blindsided.

Today, we’re at the Cecil Court, the valley of many old bookstores. That for me is equivalent to a kid in a candy store with no budget.

I am happily surfing, lost walking up and down aisles. Half tempted to buy everything and build my own library at home. I’m already halfway there. While Miya is quietly trotting alongside me, looking bored and out of place as I study her.

“What were you expecting?” I ask while putting another book in the basket. I stopped counting when I picked my tenth one. “Sneaking into nightclubs, barhopping, and getting drunk on the streets?”

“Well, I’m definitely craving alcohol right now,” she replies with a chuckle, her cheeks rosy from the sun. “Also, when normal people say sightseeing, they mean going to the London Eye, shopping, snapping pictures, and definitely the pubs and the clubs.”

Another revelation I learned is that Miya is a certified party girl.

For one, all her stories began with, ‘Oh, the time I got so drunk,’ or ‘How I saw this beefy guy chugging beer’.

“Hey! It can’t be that bad,” I reply. “Don’t you ever read occasionally?”

“God no!” Her eyes widen in horror before joking, “My arse can’t sit still for a few minutes, let alone for the whole book. You’ll find me passed out.”

“Typical.” I roll my eyes. “I believe everybody is a reader. They just haven’t found their genre yet.”

“It’s not happening today. I’ll tell you that much.”

“Come on, let’s pay for these before your arse passes out on me.” I retort in a fake British accent, making her chortle. The sound draws the attention of lingering patrons who are submerged in reading, and they scowl at us. I quickly grab her arm and stride toward the front counter while mumbling, “Or you’ll probably get us kicked out.”

“What for? It’s just a store.”

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