It’s only been a little over two months since Philip passed, and I almost-kissed his best friend and now I drunk-made-out with A.D. Hemmings.
And yet...
I swallow, acknowledging a hard truth.
Those moments felt so wonderful. As with the dancing last night, I was tenaciously connecting to a part of myself again.
I’m confused.
Sad.
Ashamed as I shed hot tears.
I know what my mother would say if she were here.Shame is a useless emotion.
She always said shame, jealousy, envy, anger did nothing to make us better human beings.
I scan my mind, trying to remember what she said about lust, and I’m drawing a blank.
I don’t look at my phone because I don’t want to see if August tried to contact me.
“Lizzie, dear, are you alright?” Ms. Fernsby asks through the bedroom door.
“I think I just need some sleep.”
“Well... let me know if you need anything. Heathie will be fine.”
Holding the bird urn in my hands, I think about the dreams where I’m chasing Philip. He keeps eluding me—in my mind, at the séance—and my longing feels like physical pain.
@BluestockingBadass:Starting @ADHemmingsBlood Ties.Noticing the interchangeable sex and car scene adjectives.Sleek. Supple.The Bentley’s burgundy paintshineswith the same intensity of Penny’s auburn hair. And Wales’s rolling hillsrise and fallas gracefully as Emilia’s breasts. Oh please...
19
When I wake up, my eyes throb, bone-dry, and a fishy aftertaste from the oysters lingers on my tongue. I need to brush my teeth. How long did I sleep? It’s dark outside. Street light breaks in through the curtain; Heathcliff must be in bed, as the house is quiet. I rub my eyes and stare down at my wrinkled long black sundress.
I’m terrified to look at my phone on the nightstand.
On one hand, I’m worried there will be nothing from August—he might have thought I’m a widow-freak, and I’ll never hear from him again. On the other hand, I’m afraid he actually did message me, and what the hell do I say? It was one awkward exit.
Several messages are on my screen. The first couple are from Mirabel, wanting to talk. She can wait. It also looks like she tried to call once at 4:00 p.m. London time. Dad tried to call me soon after.
I scroll down. Oh gosh. August did message me right after I left.
August:Buggers, Elizabeth. I didn’t mean to upset you. You are lovely, and, well... there was the champagne and the oysters. And we had such a roaring good time last night. I’m deeply sorry if I hurt you. Please give me a call and let me know how you’re doing.
There’s one more message from him, from two hours later.
August:Do you bloody hate me?
I wipe my eyes, eyeliner smudges on my hand. I can’t leave him hanging.
No, August. Thank you for a very nice lunch. I’m sorry about the way I left. I was getting confused. Let’s meet up tomorrow.?My day’s free.
He responds immediately.I’m so glad. I’ve been worried about you all day. How about the Triton fountain, Russell Park, at ten o’clock??
Perfect! I’ll see you then!
Whew. So that fire’s put out for now.
