A Broken Us (London Lover Series Book 1) (2 page)

“Look at me, baby. I need to see us,” he says,
in a raspy, aroused voice.

My eyes instantly crash into his and we stare
deeply at each other until our bodies can’t hold out any longer. I cry out
loudly and Brody kisses me passionately, swallowing the pleasure coming out of
my mouth. As we come crashing back down together, he pulls me down on top of him
and turns us on our sides, tucking me into him.

When my body settles back down, I can’t stop
the tears from pouring out of my eyes. We didn’t use protection and it doesn’t
even matter. We haven’t used protection for nearly two years...and it doesn’t
freaking matter. Sex with Brody is always incredible, but the sick, doomful
feeling afterward is more than I can bare. It is utterly painful to feel so
incredibly amazing one minute, and be slammed with crippling depression the
next. I can’t give
us
what we want.
My body is broken. Barren.
Us
is
broken.

This is why I have to leave.

 
How
can I force Brody to be stuck with someone like me? Someone who can’t give him
all he deserves in life? Am I expected to get over the idea of never being able
to see a tiny, pink, cuddly bundle of
us?
As narcissistic as it might sound, not making a mini-us is not what I signed up
for. I’m in love with
us
and loved
the idea of seeing a tiny person who had a little bit of me and a little bit of
Brody.

And what if Brody decides he doesn’t want me?
How can I possibly live with the horror of being dumped for not being able to
do the most important thing a woman’s body is designed to do? I am in
baby-making hell with a man who gets me so innately well that it physically
hurts to continue being with him. Brody and I have had an incredible connection
for years, but this feels like the
one
thing
that he just might not be okay with.

We never married, so there’s no fuss to it
other than moving my stuff. Brody and I never wanted to get married. We were so
confident and content with
us
, that
marriage seemed irrelevant. To us, it felt like an archaic thing to do to make
other people happy. We knew we had something above the normalcies of other
couples; getting married and putting rings on our fingers would sully the
commitment we had to each other.

Our families were uneasy with our arrangement.
We both come from traditional families in the Midwest.
Get married, have children—blah, blah, blah.
We assured them
we were just as committed to each other as any legally-married
couple—even more so. They gave up arguing about it so fervently, but
still made small, snide comments here and there.

When we finally revealed we were going to try
to have a baby, they were excited. I think they thought if we had a baby
together, we’d eventually decide marriage would make things easier as parents
because then we’d all have the same last name. And maybe they were right, but
Brody and I didn’t feel that way, so we were just taking things in stride. I
guess they’ll all have a good laugh when they hear about this.

I turn over and hug Brody as tightly as I can.
Burying my face in the crook of his neck, I breathe in his musky bar-soap
scent.

“That wasn’t goodbye,” he softly whispers into
my hair.

I pull away and look into his eyes, and I
finally see it.
Defeat
.

“It was, Brody,” I whisper back, my eyes
welling with tears.

“I don’t understand. Why won’t you at least
tell me where you’re going?” he croaks as his eyes become red around the edges.

I rub the pad of my thumb along his cheekbone
and thread my fingers into his hair. “You don’t have to understand. Just know
it’s what I need.”

I kiss him one last time with all the passion I
can muster and he doesn’t even respond. His lips form a hard line against mine
and I know it’s over.

I creep out of the bed and quickly grab my
clothes before dashing into the bathroom to clean up. I’m quiet as I step out,
nervous Brody will be waiting for me in the hallway, attempting to prevent me
from leaving. When he’s nowhere to be seen, I tiptoe down the hallway then step
outside into a blast of unseasonably warm air. The last days of summer don’t
appear to be leaving Kansas anytime soon.
 

As I settle into the driver’s seat and glance
at the suitcases in the backseat, I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s letting me
go; this is what I want. To reassure myself, I reach into my purse and pull out
my boarding pass, passport, and the British pounds I had transferred from
American dollars. I glance at the time on my boarding pass and check the clock
on my dash.

In four more hours, I’ll be on a plane to
London. Well, New York first for a layover, then on to London. I take one last
look at the place Brody and I have called home for three years. This place used
to be full of happy, magical memories—now it stares back at me with an
ominous threat of disappointment. I can’t stay here and live this life. Not
like this. London can be my new lover.

My best friend Leslie gave me the courage and
motivation to make the big trip over the pond. Leslie lives in London, in a
flat with two or three other roommates. I can never keep track because it
always changes.

I’m sure Leslie fits right in in a big city
like London. When we were kids, I always felt she was destined for something
bigger than our small hometown of Marshall, Missouri, just two hours east of
Kansas City. Leslie lived on a big family-run dairy farm and I lived on a small
acreage, so we had a lot in common growing up around livestock and farmers.
Together, we would get into all sorts of mischief, but we always managed to
stay out of any serious trouble. Sometimes we would hang out in my parents’
cozy basement watching movies, eating junk food, and being ridiculous together.
I remember one time Leslie and I laughed for hours about how her nostrils
flared when she talked. She had the wackiest sense of humor and I was always
along for the ride.

In fact, I never laughed as hard with anybody
as I did with Leslie, until I met Brody. That was one of the first things I told
Leslie about the new, hot guy I met at college. I said, “Leslie! You won’t
believe it! He’s one of us!”

She understood exactly what I meant and was
genuinely happy for me. So a few weeks ago, when I called her crying on the
phone about another negative pregnancy test, it was her idea I come to London
to get away for a while. She didn’t want me to break up with Brody, she just
wanted me to relax and get my mind off things for a bit. But Leslie didn’t know
all the facts. I was too scared to tell her I’d actually broken it off with him
and planned to move to London indefinitely. I’d be damned if I let her change
my mind. If there wasn’t room for me to live with her, I’d find a place on my
own. She did it; so could I.

Leslie moved overseas on her own and was a
legitimate, proper, freelance designer. She is currently working on a big
project for
Nikon
designing a
camera-bag line. She’s been living in London for a year now, traveling back and
forth between London and China, teaching factory workers how to create her
designs. What an amazing life. She was seeing the world and thriving, she
wasn’t worried about babies and fertility cycles.

I’m full of nervous energy as I board my
international flight at JFK. I find my seat and recline. There’s no turning back
now. I try to convince myself I’ve ruined Brody’s sweet and perfect idea of me,
and even if I wanted to go back, I’m certain he wouldn’t accept me.

I can do
this, I can be alone. I can be without us.
Brody is the love of my life, I
know and feel it in my core, but I will find happiness elsewhere. Maybe even
with another guy. At the very least, I can find someone to have a fling
with—someone to take my mind off
us
.
Maybe I’ll find a nice Brit to settle down with who doesn’t want children. But
first I want to be wild and crazy and forget about getting serious with anyone
for quite some time. London can be my lover.

I’ve dreamed about living in London ever since
I developed a huge love for British Chick-Lit novels. I never used to be a big
reader but my sister, Cadence, handed me a book and said, “Just try it, you’ll
like it! When you finish, you can watch
Debra
Messing
in the movie version!”

I immediately asked her the name of the movie,
because I was an avid movie watcher and I loved
Debra Messing
. When she said
Wedding
Date
, I couldn’t believe it. One of my all-time favorites!
How could the book ever compare?

It didn’t compare. Not at all. It was a
thousand times better! It gave me so many more details about a story I’d
already loved. The book was called
Asking
for Trouble
by
Elizabeth Young
.
Her funny, quirky British sense of humor and writing style resonated so
strongly with me, I immediately purchased paperbacks of all of her novels. They
were all wonderfully fun and romantic; they are now my most prized possessions
in my book collection. They are books I frequently reread; it’s like visiting
an old friend each and every time. I know I love a book if the moment I read
the final page, I quickly turn back to reread all my favorite parts again—which
are almost always the romantic scenes. My novels are an escape for me when I
need it most; a great distraction to ease the fear of being barren; and so
began—and continues—my love affair with British Chick-Lit. For
years, I’ve been reading
Elizabeth Young,
Sophie Kinsella, Jill
Mansell
, Marianne Keyes,
and
Samantha Young
. It’s all so
interesting to me, being from the boring old United States. Anything across the
ocean is a place I have never seen. The UK is a country with fascinating
history and vibrant fictional characters I instantly fell in love with. What
better place to run and hide from a life I’m scared to live?

I can be a new version of
us
with my pal, Leslie. She doesn’t want to make a baby with me!
Thank God, because that’d be an awkward conversation to have.

I know she can show me a world that will make
me forget all about babies, marriage, and
us
.

I feel butterflies in my belly as the plane
finally hits the tarmac at Heathrow Airport. I nervously tuck away
A Girl’s Best Friend
, my favorite
Elizabeth Young
book, into my oversized
carry-on. The flight has been long and arduous, with a three-hour layover in
New York. I have been traveling for fourteen hours and I feel like crap. I want
to brush my teeth and change my clothes. But holy
shitballs
,
I’m in London!

Just hearing the different dialects of British
accents on the plane gets my blood pumping. The flight attendant is giving her
final directions to us in this gorgeously posh tone that simply melts in my
ears like butter.

As I make my way over to luggage claim, I turn
my phone on and a slew of texts begin popping up on the screen.

Leslie:
What gate are you at?

Mom:
Did you land safely?

Cadence:
George and I picked up your car. I can’t believe you are flying to London right
now! Call me and tell me everything when you get settled.

The last one from my sister makes me smile. I’m
really going to miss her. She’s married with three daughters and a baby boy on
the way. She’s totally living vicariously through my adventures. She is settled
down now with kids; she knows this is an adventure she could never take.

Not to mention, she is one-hundred percent
Team Brody
. Regardless, she’s happy for
this big change in my life and feels a large sense of pride being the one to
spark my love affair with London by giving me that book so many years ago.

My heart drops in my chest as I see Brody’s
name pop up.

Brody:
Not that I give a fuck, but I hope you’re alive and shit. I have no clue where
you are or who you are staying with. Hope you’re having a ball. I’m in hell.

A lump forms in my throat as his obvious pain
and anger exudes through the text. That does not sound like my Brody. Yes, he
is candid and curses frequently, but he’s always treated me like a prized
possession he would forever love, adore, and protect.
I did this to him. I brought out this ugliness.

I quickly open Leslie’s message and text her my
gate number. After what feels like an hour, my four gigantic luggage bags come
rolling toward me. I struggle to grab them, then realize I’ll need a cart to
carry everything. After some finagling, I’m able to roll all four pieces of
luggage at once with my carry-on purse draped over my shoulder.
I’m a big girl, I can handle these without a
man.

I slowly and carefully make my way outside,
searching the crowds of people, taxis, and buses, looking for my long-lost
childhood friend. I swear the people here even
look
different. They all have a different style of dress than I’m
used to seeing in the Midwest. In Kansas, you see plenty of people with cute
style and clothes, but it’s not common. The majority stick to classic jeans and
tee shirts. Here, nearly everyone is wearing different colored pants, leggings,
or slacks. Even the facial features here seem different than the people I grew
up around.

A loud, obnoxiously long whistle overpowers the
noise of the traffic and people. I scrunch my brow and look over to see a
flamboyantly dressed redhead sauntering toward me.

“
Leeeeeez
?” I
screech, hardly able to contain my excitement. “Leslie!” I finish loudly before
I let go of my four suitcase handles. She bounds into my arms animatedly. I am
so freaking excited I lift her off the ground.

“Fin-fin!” she declares fondly, smiling at me
with tears in her eyes. “You made it, you
lil
’ world-traveling-
whipper
-snapper, you!”

“Me? A world traveler?
Schyeah
,
right—Miss Big-important-worldly-designer, dashing between London and
China to big important meetings,” I goad, in a smug British accent.

“
’Tis
true!
‘Tis
I! I am designer extraordinaire, straight outta’
London, love! Why, I
oughta
…
aww
,
crap! I think I went Australian there. My roommates would kill me if they heard
me talking like this!” she laughs at her own feeble attempt at a British
accent.

As I take Leslie in, I see that while her
clothes, style, and hair have changed dramatically, she is still the same old
Lez
that used to pedal her bicycle down the gravel roads to
meet me in my sister’s car. I was easily a good year younger than legal driving
age, so I’d make her ride her bike; I was too chicken to cross the highway and
pick her up. We never did anything particularly bad. We would stuff her bike in
the trunk—make a failed attempt to close it—then cruise the gravel
roads with the windows down and our hair blowing wildly. We just savored in the
rebellious act of driving without a license.

Back then, our clothes were pretty standard:
jeans, flip-flops, and t-shirts. But standing before me now is a stylish,
artistic creator. Leslie’s thick, auburn hair is chopped short into a bob with
short pixie bangs. The Brits call it fringe. She’s wearing loud-print leggings
with multi-colored swirls all over and a deco-checkered sleeveless blouse with
a collar. It doesn’t match by any standard, but she’s rocking it with ferocity.

I feel rather plain in comparison in my black
leggings with my loose, cream-colored, off-the-shoulder top.

“
Oooo
, God, that’s
ceeeeuuute
!” Leslie drawls as she gently touches the Native
American-style statement necklace around my neck.

“Oh, thanks,” I reply, my hands touching the
same place, “I bought it at the airport in Kansas before I left. I knew I’d
need to dress this outfit up somehow with you coming to pick me up at the
airport. I feel like Humpty Dumpty next to you right now!” I tease, while
playfully smacking her ass.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Fin!” she states, with a
huge wave of her hand. “You couldn’t be more fabulous if you were carrying
eight
suitcases. Speaking of which, what
the bloody hell are you thinking, bringing four ginormous suitcases for a one-week
vacay
? I told you to pack light!”

Her eyes bore into me with indignation. I know
she’s not really pissed, but I also know I need to explain my plan for staying
here longer. I decide to avoid the question; telling her at the airport is not
ideal.

“What can I say? I have to have options to keep
up with you!” she laughs and reaches around me to drag two of the suitcases
behind me.

“This is so unlike you, we’ll have to take a
cab now, you know. We can’t bring this kind of luggage on the tube. We’ll get
mugged, raped, and sold into international sex-trafficking,” Leslie says,
deadpan.

My eyes bug out of my head as I take in what
she just said.

“Kidding, Fin! Good Lord, you better brush up
on your British dry sense of humor or you’ll never have any fun here!” she
laughs as we make our way over to the next available cab driver waiting at the
curb.

The driver stows away three suitcases in the
trunk and sets one in the passenger seat next to him. Before I know it, Leslie
and I are out on the streets of London in a proper, historical-looking, black,
English taxicab.