A Broken Us (London Lover Series Book 1) (10 page)

I pull my phone out of my pocket as I scamper
across the busy street to the skate park to sit on the bleachers. I shudder at
the cold temperature of the metal bleacher on my bare legs. I pull up my mom’s
phone number and click
Send
without
thinking what time it is back home.

“Uh, hello?” my mom answers, sleepily.

“Crap! Sorry Mom! Is it nighttime there? I
didn’t even think!” I silently reprimand myself.

“It’s fine, honey. I’m fine. I’m glad you
called,” she replies.

I picture her getting up out of bed and shaking
my dad to put me on speaker.

“Don’t put Dad on speakerphone, Mom,” I
interject, while eyeing three boys sitting at the top of a ramp, blatantly
smoking something that was most definitely not a cigarette.

“Why, honey? I’m sure he’d love to talk to
you.”

“I know, but I just want to talk to you right
now. I’ll call back at a better time to talk to dad, okay?” I reason, hoping
she hadn’t already nudged him. He is a heavy sleeper, so even if she had, he
probably still didn’t wake up.

“Spill it,” my mom surmises.

I let out a heavy sigh at my mother’s
intuition. She can always tell when something is eating at me. When I was
younger, I spent so many nights in the kitchen, sitting at the bar top watching
her bake. She loved to bake; she told me I opened up to her the most about my
problems when she was baking.

I picture her now, pulling something out of the
oven. My mother is a tall, slender woman with curves. I definitely received her
figure. If you saw us from behind, you wouldn’t know who’s who. She has
slightly darker brown hair, but she’s been dying it for a few years now; I
don’t really remember her natural color. She has large round aqua blue eyes
just like mine, but hers are bigger, more prominent on her face. We share the
typical soft, curved, Midwestern facial features. Slightly rounded nose, face,
and chin.

Cadence looks more like my dad. He has brown
hair too but with smaller, less striking facial features. Cadence looks just
like him, aside from her dirty-blonde hair she accentuates with highlights.

“Is it about Brody?” my mom asks, growing
restless at my delay in response.

My mom has known that Brody and I were trying
to have a baby, but she doesn’t know I found out it’s next to impossible, or
that I came to London to run away from my problems; I only told Cadence that
part. Before I left, I told my mom Brody and I have grown apart and I need a
fresh start somewhere else.

Thankfully, she loves Leslie; she seems almost
envious of my courage to move overseas and move in with her. Her supportive
response was a huge reason I had the guts to book the trip.

 
“Well,
no. Kind of—I don’t know,” I stammer. “I’ve met another guy. Liam. He
seems really great, Mom. Really nice, and cute, and funny, and has a good job.”

“But…” she speculates.

“But, it just feels, so…so…”

“Strange?” she questions.

“Yeah, strange. Different. I mean, one minute
I’m doing this huge thing with a guy. You know, trying to have a baby. Trying
to be just like Cadence. And the next minute, I’m in a foreign country,
flirting like I’m in college again.”

“That would be a strange feeling,” she offers.
“Are you doubting your decision to move?”

“No! No. No.” I assess. “I love it here, Mom.
Leslie and Frank are great and Mitch and Julie are even warming to me, I think.
The city is amazing, there’s life all around me I’ve never even dreamed about,
but…”

“It’s not home?” she asks. “Or…it’s not Brody?”

Ugh! She
just freaking read my mind without me even knowing that’s what my mind was thinking.
How does she do that?

“That’s the million dollar question, I’m
afraid.”

“Well, there’s only one way to figure it out,”
she offers.

“How?” I ask.

“Give this Liam guy a chance. A real chance. If
you can’t get over the fact that he’s not Brody, then you’ll have your answer.”

“Spell it out for me, mom. I’m freaking blank
here.”
And hung over.

“If Liam sweeps you off your feet and you feel
nothing but excitement and passion with him, you’ll know you’re probably just
homesick. But, if you give Liam a good chance, and really try with him, and
something still feels off…well, then, that’s a Brody problem.”

I nod my head, thankful for sage advice I can
wrap my brain around
. Give Liam a chance,
and if it’s fireworks, I made the right choice. If it’s not, I have much bigger
fish to fry.

“But Mom, what if…what if it’s a Brody problem
and it’s too late because Brody has moved on? Or what if it doesn’t even matter
because nothing has changed and all the previous issues I had before are still
there?” I ask her, hesitantly.

“Well, that’s a pretty cryptic
what if
. I think if I knew the whole
story, it would help. But either way, you’ve got yourself a Finley Problem,
babe. And you’ve been getting yourself out of Finley Problems for twenty-five
years now, I’m sure you can do it again.”

I smile after we hang up, wishing I could have
my mom here so I could watch her bake and she could talk me through my feelings
some more. But she is right. I’ve been following my own rules for quite some
time now and I’ve managed to get myself a great job, great friends, and now a
great experience as a result.

I can figure this out.

Our house has been legitimately buffed,
polished, vacuumed, and sanitized within an inch of its life. Leslie and Frank
really outdid themselves, lining three long rows of red tea-light candles down
the beautiful dining-room table, with five tall, red tapered candles in the
middle. It has a very catholic candlelight vigil feel to it, which partners
well with the vicar party.

I asked Frank why there were five tapered
candles and he got really awkward and said there was one for each five of us
roommates. He really can be sweet when he isn’t being horribly obnoxious. The
red construction paper cutout cross-links hang from the ceiling and cast a
thick red glow to everything as it masks the dimmed overhead lighting. Frank
and Leslie had to redo the crosses on the ceiling three times before they felt
safe enough to not be considered a fire hazard. Just in case, they set a fire
extinguisher in a basket in the corner. For being the token
religious room
, it has a very sexy feel
to it.

The living room chains look amazing and shiny,
hanging and clinking in short bunches from the ceiling. The overhead fan is on,
so there’s a constant motion to the chains as Julie lines a square design of
black votive candles on the large refurbished barn-wood coffee table. She
finishes forming a perfect rectangle just as Mitch turns up the music dock on
the fireplace mantle. He bobs his head slightly to the beat, examining the
dance-lighting machine currently spinning around the room. This house
definitely knows how to throw a party. I don’t recognize the song but Julie
does because she quickly dashes away from her project and begins dancing with
Mitch.

The music is booming and I can feel the party
atmosphere bubbling from everyone in anticipation of our guests. I’m excited to
meet more of Frank, Julie, Mitch, and Leslie’s friends; the only other person
I’ve met in London so far, is Liam. I am worried Liam might attach himself to
my hip all night and look at this party as a date, so I texted him earlier and
told him to bring some friends if he felt like it. He texted back a weird reply
of
Okay?
with a question mark. I
wasn’t sure what it meant so I just ignored it and hoped it was a typo.

Frank suddenly bellows down the stairs,
“Finley, my pet! It’s time for your big transformation!”

I look over to Julie and Mitch with a
heaven help me
look and Julie smiles
brightly at me; even Mitch looks slightly amused.

I make my way up the creaky wooden staircase,
dragging my feet slightly as the nerves regarding what Frank has in mind for me
to wear settles over top of me.

I enter his open door and see a few items
draped over his large cheetah bedspread.

“Finley! Why do you look like you’re about to
be put down like an old dog?” he questions, buzzing around his room, grabbing
more supplies.

“I’m scared, Frank.” I have to admit, “I feel
like you’re still mad at me about the naked staircase climb and this is how
you’re going to get me back.”

He looks at me and scratches his wooly orange
hair, “I will admit, the thought had crossed my mind to dress you up like a
frumpy, dumpy old vicar and keep all your nasty wobbly-bits completely
concealed so no one could see them.”

I perk up at that thought.

“But I thought better of it. Despite being
scarred for life
with the image of you
naked forever being burned into my head, I did discover one thing,” he offers.

I look at him questioningly.

“You are covering up way too much of yourself
in all those nasty university hoodies. Seriously! Look at your legs right now!
You have got killer legs, my pet.”

I beam back at him with this wonderful change
of conversation.

“We’re going to accentuate those long legs and
make you the life of the party tonight. You won’t steal the spotlight from me…
that
I’m sure of. My costume is one no
one will miss.” He smiles a bit devilishly.

“Let’s
sexify
you,
Fin-Fin.”

After what feels like hours but in fact is only
forty-five minutes, I am
tarted
-up to the nines.
Frank had gone consignment shopping and found a ridiculously tight lace dress. At
first glance, I thought it was completely see-through and freaked out on him.
But then he showed me that there was a nude layer underneath and that I was a
fool to think he wanted to see those parts again.

On an average-height person, this dress would
be short. On me, it was completely scandalous. I begged him to let me wear some
tights underneath and he told me he already had something in mind for my legs.
And boy did he. Sheer, black thigh-highs. They do not go up to the bottom of
the skirt, so I have a good three inches of bare thigh showing between the hem
of my skirt and the top of the stockings.

After rummaging through my shoes for a while,
he selects my black suede wedge pumps. They have a rounded toe and are actually
really comfortable. But they make me enormously tall. I am always leery of
wearing them because they are one of my tallest heels and tend to make me feel
like an Amazon woman around people of normal height.

As I inspect myself in the mirror, I realize
this dress really is quite pretty. It’s strapless, with a sweetheart neckline.
The hem is scalloped with the black lace overlay and the nude color underneath
gives it definite wow factor. If it had been knee length instead of hitting
just below my butt, I would wear this to a wedding for sure.

The thigh-highs, provocative heels, dramatic
eyelashes and red matte lipstick are what really give me a high-end hooker
look. My long brown hair lays long and loose down my back. Frank runs the
straightener through it a few times to give it a sexy, sleek look. No jewelry
necessary, this dress and my makeup give it enough pizazz all its own.

Leslie bounds into Frank’s room as I finish
inspecting my look in the mirror.

“Holy crap, Fin-Bin! You look
hot!
You’re the most expensive looking
hooker I’ve ever seen!” she says, her eyes wide.

“Where did you find that top, Leslie? It’s so
cool!” I reply, unable to accept her compliment because I’m too busy admiring
the splendor of her outfit.

She looks like a hooker from the Twenties, a
vintage tart through and through. She has on a skintight pleather skirt with a
loose-fitting white blousy-tank. The tank has some shabby looking lace along
the edges, which reminds me of what women wore in the old west as under
garments. It’s the type of top you’d see on the cover of a Western romance
novel, but she has on a red lacy bra peeking out at the bust. She even manages
to do pinup curls with her pixie bangs. She looks stunning.

“I rented it from a costume shop, actually. The
skirt is mine! Leave it to me to have hooker-gear hanging in the closet,” she
laughs.

“Where’s Frank?” she asks.

“He said he was just going to change into his
costume. I think he’s in the bathroom.”

Suddenly, I hear a throat clear from behind
Leslie. I look around her and see Frank standing in the doorway dressed as…
The Pope
…enormous headpiece and all.

Leslie and I pause for a beat to take in his
full ensemble. We then look at each other and burst out laughing,
uncontrollably. Frank stares at us solemnly, waiting for us to gain control of
ourselves.

“Are you quite done?” he asks, with a grave
expression on his face.

Leslie and I continue cackling, in response to
not only his outfit, but the serious tone he is taking with us.

“I should hope you could show me a bit more
respect. I am a man of the cloth now,” he says, walking over to the full-length
mirror inside his closet door as he adjusts his hat.

Frank has on a long white robe with a short,
hooded cape wrapped around his shoulders. Hanging around his neck is a large
gold cross, and on his ring finger is a large golden ring. His hat is what
makes the ensemble look truly remarkable. I’m not Catholic, so I’m not sure
what it’s called, but I know I’ve seen the Pope wear it in photos before. It’s
shaped like a spade you’d see on a deck of cards and sits nearly two feet high.

“I don’t even want to know where you found such
an outfit, but it’s the bomb dot-com. Bravo, my dear friend. Bravo,” I say,
giving Frank a quick round of applause.

Frank tucks some orange strands back up into
his hat and looks at us solemnly, “Tonight…we drink.”