Page 32 of Finding London

A year ago, a horrible girl named Jessica stole the notebook where I had written all my recollections. She started running around the house, and in a mocking voice, she read my private moments with my family to all the other kids. It tore me apart when they made fun of my prized memories.

I can still hear the shrill of her voice when she chanted with a whine, “Daddy calls me his little warrior, and warriors are brave.” She proceeded to rip the pages out of my book, leaving them scattered all over the house.

That was the saddest I’ve been since my parents’ deaths. Even the worst moments with Dwight didn’t compare to how much her actions broke me. I suppose I’m more equipped to take the physical pain. I have methods of blocking it out, and I know it won’t last forever. But nothing I could have done would have stopped the anguish I felt while listening to her words.

Emotional pain, at least for me, lasts forever. I’ll never escape it.

So, that’s my ritual. Every day, I write a page or two in my notebook. I keep my parents alive in that way, and then I make it so no one else can have access to it. No one deserves my thoughts. No one deserves to know how amazing my mom and dad were. My parents were mine, and I will keep them always. I will never let anyone tarnish their memory again.

And despite what Jessica thinks, I am brave and good. But she doesn’t know what that even means because she didn’t have perfect parents, like I did, to tell her. She’s never had anyone to love her. And because of that, I hope to someday forgive her for being so weak and breaking my heart with her cruelty.

But it won’t be today. I’m not that strong.

London

“I desperately want Loïc Berkeley, and I’m used to getting what I want.”

—London Wright

I relax back into the large tan chair as the massaging balls beneath the leather roll up and down my spine. The contraption working my tired muscles isn’t as divine as a real massage would be, but it’s a close second, especially when it’s paired with a pedicure. I let out a content sigh as a woman massages one of my feet with a soft scrub.

Just what the doctor ordered—and by doctor, I mean, me.

Paige and I love spa days. They’re very healing. When we feel a moment’s stress, our go-to fix is an old-fashioned mani-pedi—and by old-fashioned, I mean, one that takes place in the newest salon in town with the most attentive staff and state-of-the-art massage chairs. Oh, and free wine, not that piss water the cheap spas offer. This is real yummy imported wine.

Ah!

I shoot up, and my entire body cringes when the pedicurist rubs the rough brush across the sensitive skin on the bottom of my foot. My fingers grasp the sides of the chair. My knuckles go white from the force of my grip.

Paige chuckles next to me. “Your favorite part.”

I can’t reply or even give her a look. All my focus needs to be on enduring this small amount of torture on my way to perfectly painted nails and soft-heels heaven without drop-kicking the kind woman’s face in front of me. The struggle is real.

Yes, I know…First World problems.

She finally finishes assaulting my feet and starts to massage my calves with a lotion that smells like coconut, reminding me of the beach.

Ah, this is more like it.

I release the breath I was holding.

Reaching for my phone, I swipe across the screen even though I know I didn’t miss a message. But the pathetic girl in me checks anyway.

Nothing.

I set my phone back down in a huff.

“No message from Romeo?” Paige’s question is rhetorical. She knows as well as I do that my phone hasn’t chimed since I checked it ten minutes ago.

I sigh before answering her anyway, “Not yet.”

I suppose I should be worrying less about text messages and spa days and more about finding a job. When I left Kentucky two weeks ago, I was hell-bent on growing up, obtaining meaningful employment, and being a better person. But my valiant motivation was stripped from me the second Loïc’s lips met mine on that airplane. Now, my entire life’s mission is to continue tangling my lips—among other body parts—with Loïc’s.

He’s all I think about. We’ve been in each other’s presence a total of four times, yet I’m a total goner. I’m not so naive as to think that I’m in love with the guy. More accurately, I think it’s some sort of insane desire paired with an equal measure of obsession. It’s not entirely his looks either. Though I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that his good fortune in the appearance department had fueled my initial crush. I’m not certain if it was his tan skin, muscular arms, sexy bone structure, kissable lips, or those mesmerizing blue eyes. More than likely, it was the combination of each gorgeous attribute wrapped up like a fine little package of hotness in a military uniform. I only had to look his way once to be enraptured.

While all of that is still very much true and extremely lust-worthy in itself, he’s more than a pretty package. I think I knew that almost immediately. From the start, something about him called to me. It was as if I could feel his pain, read his heart, and appreciate his struggles. It was as if he was put before me forme, and I, for him. It was as if I was the person he required to heal his wounded spirit. I’ve had this knowing feeling, all along, deep within, telling me that he needed me.

Am I crazy to think that? Maybe I am.

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