Chapter One
“Zoe, you know that I love you and support your life choices, but please don’t meet up with this person.”
My best friend gasps. She only saw Rupert’s picture ten seconds ago, but her heartbreak is palpable. “Why? He looks like a poet who works in finance. He has a tortured past and a trust fund. And he’s six-five!” She rams her phone into my face, and I barely manage to dodge it.
“There’s no shot he’s six-five,” and that statement has so many red flags, I don’t know which to tackle first.” I push the phone away, careful not to swipe anything on her freshly opened dating app. “His facial hair is aggressive, and not in a good way.”
“A man with a mustache isn’t for the weak.”
“He looks like all your exes,” I tell her. “You’re reaching for the past.”
Zoe groans at my assessment. “Will you pull your psych degree out of your vag for one minute and embrace the opportunities in front of us?”
I look around as requested. We’re in a dark, dank hallway of Hampton Court Palace. It’s raining outside, and barely any better inside. The only people in our vicinity are an elderly tour group, and every one of them has a wet cough.
“Which opportunities are you referring to? We’re in a museum on a Tuesday. We’re also the only people in here who can use the stairs without assistance.”
“You know what I mean,” Zoe counters. “We’re in England. We’re twenty-four. We’re on a much-needed girls’ trip and you’d rather be back in the room crocheting instead of meeting people and having fun.”
Okay, this is where I draw the line.
“That is offensive,” I retort. “I don’t crochet, I embroider. And I happen to be at a critical point in my needlework.”
Zoe shakes her head like a woman in mourning. “When you say shit like that, I swear a cold breeze washes over me. I can feel the wrinkles of despair taking shape on your tits.” Zoe was a creative writing major. She has a way with words.
“That’s a stunning visual. On that note, me and my sad, saggy tits are continuing on with the tour.”
I make my way farther down the hall, discreetly adjusting the passport carry-case that I’ve been wearing under my shirt for the past eight days. It’s more or less unisex lingerie for international travel documents, and I regret nothing.
Zoe catches up to me a second later, linking her arm through mine. “Lily, stop. I’m not trying to nag you. I just want you to take a break. You’ve studied and worked nonstop for the past seven years.”
“Iamtaking a break,” I assure her, glancing around until my gaze lands on an ornate painting. “And I’m having fun. Look, a portrait of a rich guy in a ruffled flea collar, and he has a mustache. Do you think he could join us tonight instead?”
“Depends on the age gap you’re looking for,” she replies, waggling her eyebrows.
I walked right into that one. “You are a troubled woman.”
“I know,” she says, giving my arm a squeeze. “I like that about me.”
She nudges my side with her hip, and I can’t hide my smile. Zoe is the spicy queso to my chips. She’s a fearless, filter-less human chihuahua who will bite the kneecaps off anyone who dares to wrong me. In other words, she’s the light of my life.
“Compromise. I’ll tell Rupert to bring a friend and we’ll all meet up at a pub. If they suck, we’ll ditch them.” I give her a semi-intrigued look and she goes on. “I just want you to put yourself out there again.”
I take a deep breath, and Zoe makes her please-say-yes sad face, which she knows I can’t resist. “Fine,” I eventually answer. “But only because I’m touch starved and even a cordial handshake would sexually sustain me for the next six months.”
“Yes!” Zoe cheers. “I’m going to make sure you have the best handshake of your life tonight!” I chuckle at her elation as we stop walking. “Now, I’m going to the chapel to beg forgiveness for the sins we’redefinitely notcommitting tonight.” She unweaves her arm from mine, granting herself free rein to thrust her hips in her favorite dry-humping gesture.
“Should you really be doing that outside a place of worship?”
“Probably not. Learn some fun facts for me.” She nudges her chin toward the headphones that are weaved around my neck, just above my fiery red hair.
I dutifully reposition the headset over my ears. “No. I refuse.”
“See you in ten!” She disappears past a pair of thick wooden doors, and I turn to focus on the vast corridor in front of me. Heavy green curtains dangle down the tall, paneled walls. They’re decorated with a delicate floral pattern, but it reminds me more of subtle snakeskin, seeming more sneaky than regal. Centuries-old artwork is framed over the fabric, varying in scale from massive to miniature. The cathedral windows lined opposite the paintings are my favorite. Speckled with the still-falling rain, they’re gorgeously melancholy, and I have the insatiable urge to don my comfiest wool sweater and fill a journal with prose of female rage.
Alas, the palace closes at five thirty.
Stepping forward, I press play to resume my paused audio tour, and the steady British narrator picks up where she left off.
