Page 12 of Rise (Symbols of Love 1)

“Well, I finished my Master’s in Manchester 5 years ago, and I work for a firm in Canary Wharf. And I live here, in Ladbroke Grove.” I smile up at him and start to respond when the air is punctuated by a loud trilling sound. He stops and reaches into his back pocket to snag his phone. His “hello” is almost musical and I have to stop myself from taking a step in his direction. He looks at me again, his eyes glittering and so fucking beautiful.

And that tingle from earlier becomes a thrum.

He steps even closer. “Your taxi’s around the corner.”

Disappointment, unexpected and acute, lances through me at the thought that our time together is over.

He reaches into the front pocket of his pants and pulls out a small pen and snatches the receipt off the takeaway bag. He puts his foot up on the edge of the short wall that runs along the outside of the station and uses his knee as a desk. He scribbles something on the paper and hands it to me.

I take it from him and try to avoid touching his hands—my body is like a live wire at this point. I fail. Our fingers touch so slightly it feels like a whisper, and I am only sure it happened because I feel that charge again.

I glance down at the paper and see he has written his name and number on it.

I look up at him unable to hide my smile. Before I can say anything, he says, “Call me if you need a tour guide… or a friend who won’t leave you stranded.” His hand reaches out and retraces the path my own hand traveled minutes before, up the side and into the nape of my neck. I stop breathing. His fingers barely graze the skin below my ear before they fall away.

I see the headlights of a car and know it’s my taxi. Before I realize what I am doing, I pull up on my toes and place a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for stopping to help me.” As I start to descend, his hand snakes around my waist and he hugs me. He dips his head to my ear and rumbles, “Don’t thank me. Call me”

And my taxi pulls up, he opens the door for me to climb in and greet the driver. I look back up to say a final goodnight, but he is gone.

August 7, 2014

Well, that was unexpected. I turn and rush toward my flat but my mind is stuck on the woman I have just put into a cab. She is beautiful, her body—those tits and that ass—is traffic stopping.

As I’d approached her on my way home from picking up a late take out, her ass was the first thing I noticed. Perfectly overflowing handfuls hugged by dark denim and topping legs told me this girl was a runner. I could hear her mumbling to herself and I felt compelled to stop. She turned so fast she almost fell, but good Lord, when I saw her face, I forgot all about my dinner and my brother waiting for me at home. I couldn’t believe my fucking luck. It was Louis’ friend’s mate from the other day. When we bumped into them that day, I was totally floored by her. She looked like an Egyptian goddess. But we hadn’t had much time and Louis didn’t know her story. I didn’t think I’d see her again.

Tonight though, her lips—plump, perfectly bow shaped and painted with a light nude lip gloss—were parted in surprise. Her eyes, which in the lamp lit street glinted almost gold, were wide set with lashes I was sure I’d discover were fake. Her skin was flawless and the color of my favorite Chai tea latte from Starbucks. She has a little freckle on her left nostril, and I had to stop myself from kissing it when I said bye to her.

I shake my head. I’m a fool. I don’t have the time or the desire to get involved with anyone right now. Why did I give her my number? My life is complicated enough.

As I unlock the door to the flat, my reality comes into sharp relief. The place is a mess. Boxes are piled in the corners, shopping bags overflowing with clothes litter the floor, and my brother is snoring loudly on my couch.

I sigh and go into the kitchen to heat up my food and eat. Just as I close the microwave door, I hear the noise which has now created a Pavlovian response of panic every time I hear it.

I run down the hall to my bedroom. When I open the door, the baby’s crying seems to increase in volume exponentially and for a moment, I just stare at this red faced, squalling baby I was awarded custody of yesterday.

I scoop him up and almost immediately, he stops crying. My brother, Kyle, stumbles into the room, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “What happened?”

I take him in. He and I are often mistaken for twins. Yet, in fact, he is four years younger than I am. He’s been with me since yesterday morning and has been a bedrock of support since my life went to shit the last eight months. He also stayed with the baby all day so I could go to work and put in my paperwork to take a leave of absence and run a few errands.

Eight months ago, our younger sister—who had been missing for five years—showed up at a London hospital, heavily pregnant, stoned, and filthy. They ran her fingerprints and were able to identify her from the very long criminal record she had on file already. They contacted us and it has been a living nightmare since.

She had been arrested while in the hospital and charged with Child Endangerment, solicitation, and fraud. Due to her drug use, social services told us her custodial rights would be terminated at the birth of the child, and that she would be entering a thirty-day detox program before being remanded to prison to await trial. The child would become a ward of the local authority and would be placed into the foster care system.

Kyle and I immediately contacted a lawyer to find out what our rights were. We couldn’t let our sister’s baby be put into the foster care system. It wasn’t easy. We are two single men and we don’t exactly have the best experiences with Social Services ourselves. We hired a good lawyer and made a compelling case for custody, and yesterday, I was awarded guardianship and custody of little Henry Phillips. He has our last name because Ashley, my sister, had no idea who the father is.

He’s been with us since he was released from the hospital. He was born addicted to the drugs my sister has been ingesting while she was pregnant and will probably have some developmental delays because of it.

This came on the heels of my early and unexpected rise in my company. I studied architecture and had gained a position in a small, but genius firm of architects and property investors in Canary Wharf, which has become the new heart of London’s economic growth. Because the firm is small, it is a true meritocracy and my designs had been used as part of a bid of a new performance hall near Royal Albert Hall. Our firm had won the contract and they gave me full credit for the design.

I went from a junior associate to one of the most sought after architects in London. I had just started to feel that my life was finally going to start feeling less like an uphill climb.

And then suddenly, I was reminded of just where I come from, what my legacy is, and that I’d never escape it. I look down at Henry. I won’t let him fall prey to the same fate as me. Giving him the upbringing he deserves is my number one priority right now.

So, I really don’t have time to be lusting after a beautiful American. Especially one with a Cartier watch on her wrist and tiny diamond studs in her ears. Who cares if her lips promise sinfully good blow job and her nipples got hard just from us looking at each other?

I’m a mess, and if I am lucky, she smelled the baby piss on the shirt I hadn’t bothered to change before I ran out to get dinner, and realizes that. If I have any angels on my side at all, she’ll lose my number, and I’ll never see her again.

August 23, 2014

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