Bombshell (The Rivals Book 3) Read online

  “Oh, and the Royal wedding is coming, so we can get all the commemorative merchandise and maybe we can even—”

  “You are so British sometimes,” Ava says, staring at her. “But, I guess that means I can still seduce Alexander before he’s married.”

  “Good luck with that,” Poppy says.

  “I have high standards.” The two dissolve into a debate about the Royal family that I quickly tune out. Weddings. Happiness. Love. Even sex. All of it makes me feel sick. But maybe the city being obsessed with a stupid wedding will mean the museums and book stores will be empty.

  But all that really matters is that wherever Sterling went there’s no way he’s there. I need to put some distance between us. An ocean is a good place to start, and suddenly, I want to be gone already—away from Valmont and him and the minefield of memories he’s left behind. “Can we leave tonight?”

  10

  Adair

  God bless the British stiff upper lip.

  Back in Valmont, if you say you’re having a shitty day, people stop what they’re doing and urge you to tell them about it—until it feels like you’re living out every crappy thing all over again. But in London, I’m finding that people got used to living with pain about a dozen generations back. There’s no wallowing allowed.

  I don’t know what I’d do without Poppy, but ever since Sterling left, whenever she sees me looking sad her eyes well with tears. It gets old.

  We arrive at our hotel from Heathrow late, and my friends crash as soon as they see the beds. But I’m not ready to sleep. And the only place to get a meal is a late-night cafe across from our hotel, nearly empty in the half hour before closing. My waitress, a young British-Indian girl with dyed-purple pixie hair and a knowing smile, takes one look at me and diagnoses the problem. “You looked like you needed this,” she says, pausing to drop off a slice of four-tiered chocolate cake along with the coffee and sandwich I ordered.

  “Is it that obvious?” I say, my head swimming with the disorienting effects of jet lag.

  “Yeah,” she says, dropping the bill on the table. “Remember, love. Never let them see you bleed.” Then she is off, disappearing to work on whatever it is waitresses do at closing time.

  I decide to take her advice to heart. Wherever Sterling Ford is in the world, if he could somehow close his eyes and see me in London, I don’t want him to see me pining for him or losing one glorious moment of this trip. I want him to see an Adair MacLaine who has moved on to a better life. I want to stay beyond his reach, and beyond my own regret. Which is so much easier to do here than in Valmont.

  After coffee and cake, I leave an outrageous tip for the waitress and wander around London for an hour or so. I’ve travelled abroad before, of course, but that was with my family, who subscribe to the idea that people in other countries have nice things worth enjoying, sure—but it would be better if you didn’t have to talk to any of them. I was never allowed to wander, never allowed to sate my curiosity for what was around the corner. It was almost more infuriating than not going at all.

  London is the perfect mix of old and new. Our hotel is small but luxurious, located in the poshest area of Belgravia. I’m not sure it’s exactly where I’d want to be for a long stay, but I already know I want to live here. Maybe not for my entire life, but I’m willing to be convinced.

  By the time I can no longer fight off how tired I am, I take an Uber back to our hotel, and—for the first time in weeks—fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The worst thing that happens the next couple of days is that none of us can agree on what kind of fun to have. Ava prefers to sleep late and go clubbing. Poppy prefers to be up early, and can’t stop talking about going to Saville Row to shop for clothes for Cyrus. I want to see some museums and libraries, but I quickly discover that going to either of those things with people who don’t want to be there is worse than not going at all.

  We hit the breaking point on the fourth of our five days in London. Poppy sets it off by trying to literally drag Ava out of bed, still drunk from the night before. I wasn’t happy about getting up at 7am, either, but I’ve never quite figured out how to say no to my best friend.

  It’s not a problem for Ava, though, and within a minute all three of us are talking over each other and saying all the things we had so far managed to leave unsaid. It gets dark, but before anyone says anything friendship-ending, Ava actually comes up with the solution: today will be a “split up” day. Poppy doesn’t like it, but I’m pretty sure it’s just because she wants to keep an eye on me.

  I already know everything I want to do, and it starts with a trip to Notting Hill, which is everything I saw in the Hugh Grant movie, and more.

  London tends toward the posh and sophisticated. It’s easy imagining every man in a suit going to a high-pressure City job. And I’m the least well-dressed woman on every block I walk down. Notting Hill is the opposite of all that. More than anything, it reminds me of the Nashville Farmer’s Market. A mind-boggling amount of tents choke the city streets, selling everything from antique books to tie-dyed shirts and hemp beanies. Mouth-watering smells waft by from every direction, and at the exact moment I no longer smell delicious food, another cluster of street vendors making Afro-Caribbean chicken and rice appears, and I cave to temptation.

  I’m not quite sure why I’ve kept Sterling’s copy of The Great Gatsby in my backpack. I threw it in my bag at the last second of packing, I think because I wanted something to look at if I decided I still needed to understand where it all went wrong. And it’s just stayed there ever since. I’ve had twenty chances to take it out, and every time I forget it’s there I see it again and hear the waitress’s advice about not letting them see you bleed.

  I can’t help myself, though. With my paper plate rapidly disintegrating from the effects of steaming hot rice and chicken jus, I pull out the dog-eared paperback and flip to a page at random. Sterling’s clean, neat scrawl fills about half the margin on both pages, and it’s almost as interesting to read his notes as it is to read Fitzgerald himself.

  One passage reads: “It understood you just as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.”

  And in the margin beside it: “Never understood this. Probably b/c I don’t care what impression I convey. Except maybe to Francie. Some of the looks I get from her are *almost* like this. But is that because I don’t want her to suffer from worry about me—which amounts to doing her a kindness? Or because I’ve never had anyone whose opinion of me was better than my own (which is saying a lot, but also nothing at all)?”

  Sterling’s note is heart-breaking and infuriating all at once. On one hand, I wonder how he doesn’t even seem to be aware of using the margins of The Great Gatsby like a journal. But how else would he process things? A poor, abused kid who lost his family, bounced around the foster system, and never had anyone to relate to? Sterling was a scared little kid when he wrote this, but it might have been less than a year ago for all I know. Sterling never seems vulnerable in person. But the boy who wrote in the margins of this book didn’t go away because he grew into the body of a Greek god. I wonder if everything I knew of Sterling was just a facade built to protect the boy who wrote these notes. I wonder if it’s so easy. I wonder if it’s fair to judge from a note in a margin.

  Suddenly, I get the feeling eyes are on me, and I shudder slightly. If Sterling could see me now he would definitely see me pining. Did he leave the book for me like an apology? Like, Hey, Lucky. I know I did you wrong. But maybe if you read this and try to figure out what happened, you’ll realize I’m not complete shit.

  Or is it something else entirely? Am I Daisy to his Tom? Would that make Sterling’s blackmail of my father actually a test of me? If I’m Daisy, I’ll pick heartbreak if it means privilege. Sterling wanted to know if I meant it when I said I didn’t care about my family’s money, and so he did what
he did…?

  I throw the book on the ground and a disgusted, frustrated scream escapes me. I hear people around me gasp—my floppy upper lip must offend them. I grab my bag and take two full steps away from the picnic table I’ve been sitting at. The Great Gatsby lies there on the ground, but it asks me a question as plainly as if it were speaking:

  Do you want to leave it all behind? It’s as easy as leaving me here in the dirt.

  I think I do want to leave it—more than I’ve ever wanted anything, including Sterling himself—but it doesn’t stop me from stooping to pick it up, shoving it roughly into the bottom of my bag.

  I feel the tears streaming down my cheeks, and I look for a restroom—anywhere I could have a bit of privacy, really. But there is only a gilded box on the corner, trailed by a line of fifteen people waiting to pay for the privilege of peeing. Why is there never a restroom on this godforsaken continent?

  I wipe the corners of my eyes with my sleeve and hold my head high. This immediately puts the people around me at ease—so much so that a few of the women nod to me in solidarity as I pass.

  Never let them see you bleed.

  Taking an Uber is easier, but I decide to try a black cab—mostly so I can say I did. Poppy and Ava hunkered down in a pub talking to a few Scottish guys here on holiday, but I need to be alone with my thoughts. I tell the driver to take me to the British Museum, because somehow you’re always alone in a museum even when it’s full. We’re stuck in London traffic almost immediately. I think it’s worse due to the upcoming Royal wedding. My phone rings, and the screen tells me it’s Malcolm. I don’t want to answer—I don’t particularly want to think about Valmont at all—but there’s no telling what my brother or father might do if they felt like I was 2,000 miles away and unreachable.

  As soon as I connect, I’m surprised to hear both Malcolm and Ginny on the line.

  “We’re pregnant!” they say in unison.

  “Wha—I...oh my god!” I splutter, blinking rapidly. The cabbie turns, a bushy eyebrow raised, as if concerned I’m having some type of fit. I smile sweetly.

  “I know,” Ginny says. “The only thing more cliché than a Valentine wedding is a honeymoon baby.”

  “It’s wonderful news, honestly. I just wasn’t expecting it.”

  “Neither were we,” Malcolm says followed by a slight grunt that suggests he’s been elbowed in the ribs. “But we’re very excited.”

  “I think your brother is a little shell shocked. We hadn’t even discussed having a baby yet, but I guess life happens while you’re too busy to notice,” Ginny chirps. I can hear the look on her face: wide smile, starry eyes. She’d never talked much about kids before. It’s not that I didn’t expect them to have children. I just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. “We’re due sometime in late October, early November, so don’t get any ideas about staying in London. I expect Aunt Adair to be at all my showers.”

  “Got it,” I promise, but I’m not sure I’ll keep that promise.

  “Okay, we need to call a few other people. Your dad is planning some big party.”

  “Already?”

  “There’s no reasoning with him. Apparently, he’s thrilled to be a grandfather,” Malcolm says. “Keeps talking about securing his bloodline. It’s a bit ridiculous.”

  “He just wants you to change your mind about the job in D.C.,” Ginny says.

  “Not going to happen,” Malcolm says. “That’s why Adair needs to come home. Someone has to keep an eye on him.”

  “He has Felix,” I remind them, not even sure they remember I’m still on the call.

  “He needs family. You know that,” he says it in a light tone, but I feel the dark current running through his words. Our father isn’t happy unless one of us is around to order about. Now that Mom’s gone, one of us has to take her place.

  “Well, keep me updated,” I say, suddenly feeling too tired to wander around a museum, “and congrats.”

  As soon as we reach Bloomsbury, a light spring rain starts. I get out, holding my palm against the mist as it blows in my face and join the groups of tourists streaming toward the museum. It’s only open a few more hours, and I don’t know if it’s always this busy or people are escaping the rain. But, as expected, despite the crowds, I feel alone, maneuvering in and out aimlessly. I halt as a woman dashes in front of me, one hand on a stroller with a sleeping baby inside, the other stretching to catch an escaped toddler. The little boy laughs when her hands close on his arm and draw him back.

  “Got you,” she says, earning another giggle from him. She looks up, eyes apologetic. “I’m so sorry.”

  I smile, shake my head, and let them continue.

  There’s no father in sight. The poor woman is doing double duty while her husband is at work. I feel tired just watching her wheel the carriage around, so she can kneel to lecture the little boy in an unoccupied corner. With the number of priceless artifacts surrounding them, I can’t blame her for being nervous. That’s what Ginny is signing up for: trying to keep up with kids while Malcolm sits in meetings making important decisions with other important people.

  I don’t think I could do it. This is what I want. To explore and experience. To see the world and its history. And now that Sterling is gone, I can do that however I want to, whenever I want. No attachments. No responsibilities.

  Entering a room full of objects from Ancient Greece, my newfound outlook on life is immediately tested by a couple pausing, hand in hand, to kiss in front of a collection of vases. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She gazes at him in adoration as he whispers something. I turn back the way I came, feeling like a voyeur stealing glimpses of their love story.

  Sterling wasn’t the man I thought he was. My father proved that. Even if I wanted to believe that Sterling would never make that video, it’s not like I can ask him. He left without explanation. I wonder if one day the girl in the next room will wake up to find him gone without a goodbye, left to translate his actions. I stop to stare at one of the largest exhibits in this room: the Rosetta Stone. If only I could find Sterling’s master key and unlock him, maybe then I could understand why he did it. Or didn’t do it. Why he left. Why he didn’t say goodbye. But maybe that’s why I’m here, standing in a museum of objects lost to time. Each belonged to someone—someone with a story of their own, someone who loved and lived, someone who made mistakes and choices. It’s comforting to know that it’s all part of some grand, natural design that, in the end, we can’t control. No matter what we think. In the end, we all die. Alone. Why not get used to that now?

  The mother with the little boy and baby strolls by and smiles, but it falls from her face when our eyes meet. She points to the stone, “Read that, darling,” she orders the little boy. He tilts his head and stares at it curiously, accepting the challenge. “Are you okay?”

  It takes me a moment to realize, she’s speaking to me—and that I’m crying. I swipe at the tears and force a smile. “Fine.”

  “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” she says, wheeling the stroller over and lifting the baby into her arms. “To think that all this meant something once and now it’s just here for us to press our noses to the glass and gawk at.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “I guess you’re right. I was just thinking about the inevitably of death.”

  “That’s cheery,” she says with a snort. “Going through a rough patch, love?”

  “You could say that?” I can’t help peeking at the baby in her arms. She’s still sleeping, tiny fists curled up next to rosy cheeks that match her romper. “She’s beautiful.”

  “She’s my little rainbow after the storm,” her mother agrees. “You know, that’s the thing about life, you can look at the ruins and see everything that’s lost or you can pick up the pieces and make something beautiful.”

  “What if there aren’t any pieces left?” I whisper, staring at the baby.

  “Our pasts always leave us something to hold onto. Sometimes we just have to dig to find it,
” she says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “You’ll find it. Just keep searching your heart.”

  She ruffles her son’s hair, and he looks up at her with wide, moon-eyes. “I can’t figure out what it says, Mummy.”

  “Well, maybe next time,” she says to him seriously, winking at me. “Come along, darling.”

  I watch them walk away, until they disappear into the next room. Maybe she’s right, and I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. I don’t need to decipher Sterling. It’s too late for that. But I need to understand what he left behind. I’m not the girl he met last August, and he’s not responsible for that. Not entirely. So I can keep standing here in the ruins, looking at what’s lost, or I can make something beautiful of what’s left.

  I’m tired of being stuck in the past—any past. Making my way through the Great Court, I leave it behind, stepping out of the museum and into bright, spring sunshine. The rain is gone, wet sidewalks the only evidence of the storm. I reach the street and begin to walk. I have no direction in mind. Maybe I’ll choose to dig for those pieces Sterling left behind. Maybe I’ll just wait for life to hand me new pieces. For now, I can go anywhere I choose, and the sheer freedom of that is exhilarating.

  I hit a busy street a block or two away from the museum and the smell of fish and chips wafts toward me from a small restaurant. The effect is instant. My mouth waters but instead of my stomach rumbling, I clasp a hand over my mouth and nose as my stomach lurches at the greasy scent. A few people near me move away, widening the space between us. I keep my hand over my nose and cross the street quickly to get away from the terrible smell. When I finally look around, daring to uncover my face, I’m on a residential street, safe from the smell of greasy restaurants and too many people. But the only thing besides row houses is a blinking green pharmacy cross.

  Life is handing me another sign. I pop inside and an older man in a white coat calls out a greeting.