“Yes,” I whisper. Who taught him these funny, little liguistical phrases when he was learning English? The thought makes me smile.
“Good,” he says, chuckling. “I’ll be waiting.” He hangs up and I stare at the wall, grinning like a maniac.
As I’m about to get up, Zoey staggers through the door, clutching two paper bags against her chest. I jump up to help her, and we unload the groceries in silence. When we’re finished, she turns to face me, nearly out of breath.
“Bollocks, it’s hot for October.” She quickly throws her coat off and lets out a sigh of relief. She eyes me suspiciously. “Why were you staring into outer space like a halfwit when I walked in? Did you eat another edible?”
I laugh. “No. I’m just enjoying the sunshine.” I cross my arms and lean against the counter. “I was going to head into London with Benedict.”
She twists her lips conspiratorially, and then she grins. “Oh, okay. It all makes perfect sense now,” she adds, swirling her finger in my general direction. “You look like a lovesick puppy.”
I stand up straight. “I’m not. We’re … hanging out.” I can’t help but smile.
She narrows her eyes at me. “Evelyn, please be careful. I don’t trust those people.”
I bite my lower lip, thinking of the last meeting. Thinking of the fact that I’mco-Director.
“He’s not like that.”
She glares at me skeptically. “That’s what they all say, love. Trust me.” She straightens. “You didn’t go to another one of those meetings, did you?”
“No,” I answer automatically. My cheeks burn with shame. I promised her that I wouldn’t go back. I can explain everything to her another day. “Of course not.” I back out of the kitchen. “I am late, though. I’ll text you when I get to Tower Hill.”
She doesn’t respond as I walk out, and I clench my fists as I move into my room, sighing heavily.
I don’t like lying to my friends. I never did like it, and probably never will. I’ve seen how it can ruin lives. My parents were expert liars—I grew up being lied to. My friends—Lily, Salem, Zoey… and maybe Benedict… they meant the world to me. Without them, I’d be an empty, lifeless shell. My loyalty to them was engrained in my soul, and dishonesty went against everything I stood for in my friendships. I vow to tell her tonight, no matter what.
Changing into jeans and a light sweater, I grab a coat and pull on my Doc Martens. I run a brush through my hair and swish some mouthwash, grab my purse, and call out to Zoey as I leave. I swallow my guilt with every step I take away from our flat. By the time I get on the train, I’ve nearly forgotten about it.
I will tell her, but not right now.
I switch to the tube at Paddington station, and it’s a quick ride to Tower Hill. It’s nearing the hour mark since Benedict called me, so I exit the station at the closest exit and wait at the railing overlooking the tower. I’ve only been to this part of London once before, and it was when I first moved in with Zoey. We’d had too much to drink at the pubs, and we’d taken a nighttime Jack the Ripper tour—something I wouldn’t recommend to anyone at night, but especially a woman who’d been human trafficked and raped more times than she deigned keep track of.
The memory gives me a sour taste in my mouth, and I look over at the tower. It’s incredible how some things in this city are still standing—the tower being one of them. The wall I’m leaning against is, as I learned during the horrid tour, a part of the original Roman wall to surround the original city of London. And people have their scooters propped up against it. The way certain things endure time—the way life evolves and changes—still astounds me. I close my eyes and smile. Right now, with the warm sun beating down on me, I am grateful to be alive.
Grateful to have gotten a second chance.
Grateful that I’m no longer living in a nightmare.
“Hey, you,” a voice says, inches from my ear. I don’t open my eyes—instead, I soak up the feeling of Benedict’s breath on the nape of my neck, the way his presence is comforting, safe—like I’m home after a long trip.
I open my eyes and turn around. “Don’t you live like two miles away? How’d I beat you here coming all the way from Oxford?”
He smiles. His olive skin looks golden in this light which offsets the whiteness of his teeth. He’s wearing a casual, blue button-up with the sleeves rolled up, dark jeans, and boots. He has a leather jacket slung over his arm. His hair is swept back and neat—usually it’s in disarray, cascading to one side or the other or falling in front of his face. He has a bit of scruff today, which is a detour from his usually smooth, clean-shaven face.
“I had to take care of something at the office,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him as he walks under the bridge to our right. “You look stunning today, Evelyn,” he adds, looking at me thoughtfully, playfully.
“Thank you,” I reply, hoping he doesn’t see the nervous flush that erupts along my chest. “You clean up nice yourself.” I wink at him and he laughs, reaching out for my hand. I’ve seen Benedict in suits and formal clothing more than I’ve seen him in casual, and he gets my joke. His warm, rough hand laces with mine briefly as we cross the cobblestone street, and once we get to the sidewalk, I instinctively let go. My pulse pounds in my throat as we casually stroll down the sidewalk. It’s like my whole body is aware of him in a whole different way now that we’ve kissed.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I called in a favor with a friend,” he starts, staring ahead as we walk forward. I recognize the expansive street and bridge before us, and the fortress awaiting us ahead.
“Are we going into the tower?” I ask, excited. I’ve always wanted to go, but I’d never found the time. In one of my medieval religion’s classes, it was oftentimes the backdrop for every large event. And of course, King Henry VIII, who changed how religion was practiced in England because of his love for Anne Boleyn… only to behead her a few years later. I was currently writing a paper about her ascension to the throne, and how it changed religion forever.
“Yes,” he answers, continuing forward. He doesn’t say anything else as we march up to the ticket counter. “We’re here to see Lucas,” he says, and the woman nods and gestures for us to go in. I follow him through the gates, and he stops and turns to me. “They’re technically closed right now, so we have the place to ourselves.”
I look around in awe. The medieval fortress sits on the middle of a moat and a wall—with two different areas from two different time periods. The white tower, which is now a grayish color, sits next to a large, rolling green—where they executed some of history’s most famous queens. The tower dates back a thousand years. Smaller, stone houses with the classic Tudor wood accents surround the walkway and the tower—these were added later on. Benedict leads us toward one of the doors in the Tudor section— a plain, black door with iron fixtures. He knocks three times.
“I swear to god, Benedict Martin, you have more connections than anyone I know,” I trail off and laugh lightly.
