Page 51 of Loving London

I throw on a sundress. “Sounds like a perfect Saturday to me. Are you still reading that one without the HEA?”

“No. I finished that one.”

“I still can’t believe you read it, knowing he was going to die.” I lean down to buckle my sandals.

“I know. It was brutal, but it had, like, almost all five stars. So, I had to see what all the fuss was about.”

“Is the one you’re reading a cliffy?”

Kate shakes her head. “It’d better not be. It’s a stand-alone.”

“My heart hasn’t healed from the last book you lent me.” I dramatically clutch my heart to prove my point.

“I know, but it was, like, the best book hangover ever, right?”

“Oh, totally.” I grin, grabbing my purse and cell phone. “Let’s pick back up on ourGrey’s Anatomymarathon tonight.”

“I can’t,” Kate says. “My heart can’t take it. Denny died, London. Ugh, too sad.”

“I know, but sometimes, it’s nice to have a good cry, isn’t it?”

I head toward the door, and Kate follows.

“Um, no. It’s sad,” she disagrees.

“Yeah, right. That’s why you just read a book where you knew the hero would die. Admit it. It’s cathartic to cry your eyes out every now and then.”

“Whatever.” She chuckles.

“All right, I’m out.Grey’sand sushi tonight. It’s a date.”

I find a seat in the auditorium and scroll through my phone. I read the email Brad sent me, making sure I understand the essence of what he wants for the article.

The talk is being run by a group of veterans who travel around the country, trying to bring light to current issues regarding veterans and some of the obstacles they face when they return from war.

I pull my laptop out and open it up. I’ve tried taking notes on my phone, an iPad, and with straight-up pen and paper. But I’ve found that typing out my notes is the easiest for me. I set up my recorder as well, which is always handy if I need to go back and listen to something again.

A colonel who served in Vietnam comes out first. He’s wearing the Purple Heart he received from the President of the United States for his acts of bravery during the war. The colonel takes a seat in the center of the stage and tells the crowd about a specific mission where over two hundred men went in but only forty-four men survived. His job was to fly a helicopter through enemy fire to rescue the injured men.

I’m glad I’m recording his speech because it’s so interesting that I’m having a hard time typing out notes.

When he finishes, he receives a standing ovation.

I close my laptop and put it back in my purse. I can tell this is going to be so fascinating that I’m going to have to just listen again and take notes from the recording later.

I lift my head after situating my purse to see the next soldier walking out onstage. I gasp loudly as I grab ahold of the armrests of the chair, hoping the contact will center me.

Therehestands, after all this time. My heart beats loudly in my chest, so boldly that I can hear the drumming resonating throughout my body. Or maybe I can’t hear it at all over the piercing hum screeching from my ears. I don’t know what I hear or feel. I can’t focus. I can’t think.

I suck in jagged raw breaths. My body’s acute awareness of him brings a torrent of emotions, making it hard for me to find oxygen. The sorrow that courses through me burns with a tangible pain.

There he is…

Loïc.

A flood of warm tears streams down my face, falling onto my lap. I’ve completely lost the ability to control my body’s reaction to seeing Loïc for the first time in so long—twenty months, to be exact.

I know exactly how long it’s been since I’ve seen his face. I know because not a day goes by when I don’t think of him, mourn for him, and miss him. Not a night goes by when I don’t dream of him. Not a second goes by when I don’t love him.

---