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Authors: Aphrodite Hunt
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the right thing , he assures himself.
His cellphone buzzes. He looks at the display, half-afraid it might be Abby.
It’s not. It’s Elise’s London SIM number.
“Hi,” she says brightly.
“Hi.”
“I just thought of something. I called the clinic, and asked them if you could jerk off in a more conducive environment . . . like your apartment. They said no problem, and – ”
“Elise, I broke up with Abby.”
Silence.
“Justin, I didn’t mean – ”
“No, it didn’t have anything to do with you.” Even as he said it, Justin realizes that it’s not totally true. Elise’s return had made him see with stark clarity what was real and what wasn’t. “It was between Abby and me.”
More silence.
“I’m sorry.”
He heaves a long-drawn sigh. “I can’t talk. I’m driving.”
And so he was. The dark highways stretch out ahead of him. He’s going nowhere in particular, driving around in circles. From Brent Cross to Westfield in Shepherd’s Bush. From Petticoat Lane to the hallowed walls of St. Pancras Station. As much as he told himself he didn’t really love Abby, it hurt. It hurt him to have to hurt her.
And he did care very much for her. Their relationship did mean something, even if it was not all they had hoped it would be.
“Do you want some company?” Elise asks.
He hesitates for a long time before saying, “OK.”
14
The pub in Knightsbridge is crowded and noisy. They are huddled in one corner, perched upon high stools. Their glasses and more than a few bottles are placed on the high table between them.
Justin’s shoulders are slumped. His rich chestnut hair is in disarray. A few tufts stick out here and there, and his cheeks are ruddy. But he still looks carelessly marvelous. Elise notices several women glancing over in his direction for more than a few times.
She’s not sorry he has broken up with Abby, of course. It’s for his own good. Abby was getting too possessive, too smothering, too overpowering. Elise would never want to see her ex-boyfriend, whom she once loved deeply, fall into a trap with someone who won’t let him breathe.
But she doesn’t say anything about Abby to him, of course. No point rubbing salt into an already festering wound.
She just let him talk all night. And she listened. He talked some more, and she listened.
“Justin,” she says gently, taking hold of his bunched fist below the table. “You’ve had enough. It’s time to go home now.”
“Can’t drive,” he slurs.
He’s right. She can, but she only knows how to drive on the wrong side of the road. For this country, that is.
“I’ll call you a cab,” she says.
For answer, his head droops over his neck, and he almost collapses on the table.
She takes hold of his shoulder and shakes him. “Justin?”
He tries to rouse himself, but he has trouble keeping his head up. She sighs.
She can’t leave him alone like this.
*
She has no idea where he lives. Correction: she has some idea, but she doesn’t have his address, and in his state, he is incoherent. She is not direction-equipped to drive in London anyway. So she takes him via taxi to the only place she knows – her inn.
She helps him past the reception, just glad to be out of the cold. He has not dressed right for the wintry weather. He is merely clad in a Burberry overcoat, the only outer later item he has brought with him. Underneath this, he wears only a black wifebeater and jeans.
The South Asian Indian receptionist smiles.
“Need help getting him to your room, Miss?” he inquires.
She’s a slight girl and Justin is a tall man. Already, he feels like deadweight with his right arm slung across her shoulders. He is barely standing up.
“Yes, please.”
Together, they half-drag, half-carry Justin to her warm little room on the second floor. The inn is actually a series of townhouses whose adjoining walls have been knocked down and made into one continuous building. As a result, there are plenty of
His cellphone buzzes. He looks at the display, half-afraid it might be Abby.
It’s not. It’s Elise’s London SIM number.
“Hi,” she says brightly.
“Hi.”
“I just thought of something. I called the clinic, and asked them if you could jerk off in a more conducive environment . . . like your apartment. They said no problem, and – ”
“Elise, I broke up with Abby.”
Silence.
“Justin, I didn’t mean – ”
“No, it didn’t have anything to do with you.” Even as he said it, Justin realizes that it’s not totally true. Elise’s return had made him see with stark clarity what was real and what wasn’t. “It was between Abby and me.”
More silence.
“I’m sorry.”
He heaves a long-drawn sigh. “I can’t talk. I’m driving.”
And so he was. The dark highways stretch out ahead of him. He’s going nowhere in particular, driving around in circles. From Brent Cross to Westfield in Shepherd’s Bush. From Petticoat Lane to the hallowed walls of St. Pancras Station. As much as he told himself he didn’t really love Abby, it hurt. It hurt him to have to hurt her.
And he did care very much for her. Their relationship did mean something, even if it was not all they had hoped it would be.
“Do you want some company?” Elise asks.
He hesitates for a long time before saying, “OK.”
14
The pub in Knightsbridge is crowded and noisy. They are huddled in one corner, perched upon high stools. Their glasses and more than a few bottles are placed on the high table between them.
Justin’s shoulders are slumped. His rich chestnut hair is in disarray. A few tufts stick out here and there, and his cheeks are ruddy. But he still looks carelessly marvelous. Elise notices several women glancing over in his direction for more than a few times.
She’s not sorry he has broken up with Abby, of course. It’s for his own good. Abby was getting too possessive, too smothering, too overpowering. Elise would never want to see her ex-boyfriend, whom she once loved deeply, fall into a trap with someone who won’t let him breathe.
But she doesn’t say anything about Abby to him, of course. No point rubbing salt into an already festering wound.
She just let him talk all night. And she listened. He talked some more, and she listened.
“Justin,” she says gently, taking hold of his bunched fist below the table. “You’ve had enough. It’s time to go home now.”
“Can’t drive,” he slurs.
He’s right. She can, but she only knows how to drive on the wrong side of the road. For this country, that is.
“I’ll call you a cab,” she says.
For answer, his head droops over his neck, and he almost collapses on the table.
She takes hold of his shoulder and shakes him. “Justin?”
He tries to rouse himself, but he has trouble keeping his head up. She sighs.
She can’t leave him alone like this.
*
She has no idea where he lives. Correction: she has some idea, but she doesn’t have his address, and in his state, he is incoherent. She is not direction-equipped to drive in London anyway. So she takes him via taxi to the only place she knows – her inn.
She helps him past the reception, just glad to be out of the cold. He has not dressed right for the wintry weather. He is merely clad in a Burberry overcoat, the only outer later item he has brought with him. Underneath this, he wears only a black wifebeater and jeans.
The South Asian Indian receptionist smiles.
“Need help getting him to your room, Miss?” he inquires.
She’s a slight girl and Justin is a tall man. Already, he feels like deadweight with his right arm slung across her shoulders. He is barely standing up.
“Yes, please.”
Together, they half-drag, half-carry Justin to her warm little room on the second floor. The inn is actually a series of townhouses whose adjoining walls have been knocked down and made into one continuous building. As a result, there are plenty of
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