A Broken Us (London Lover Series Book 1) (7 page)

My first two weeks in London have gone by
pretty quickly. I actually feel like I am finally getting into a groove with
the city and my new roomies, though I don’t see Julie and Mitch very often.
They stow away in their bedroom most of the time, and when I do run into them,
they seem to make excuses to leave again. I try not to take it personally,
especially since Frank says he never speaks to them either.

Leslie and I slip back into our old routine of
late night conversations and cackling fits over the most ridiculous
impressions. We love imitating comedy actors from TV and voicing great movie
quotes. Sometimes we laugh for no reason at all. As kids, we used to hang our
heads off the side of the bed and force ourselves to laugh until the laughing
became real. I don’t know if it was the blood rushing to our heads that caused
our fits of giggles, or just the ridiculousness that we were re-enacting stupid
crap we did as grade-schoolers now that we are 25 years old, but that is right
when Frank walks in on us. I’m sure the image of us both hanging our heads off
the side of the bed looks insane to him as he tries to act all mature and
superior, but only five minutes later, he dives in between us and joins in the
fun.

We go out a few nights a week, too. Mostly to
the pub around the corner, which is quickly becoming my favorite place in
London. Frank and Leslie are sure to show me all their other favorite spots in
the city, as well. They appease me and do the whole tourist double-decker bus tour
with me. Frank keeps hiding his face, afraid someone might recognize him every
time we are on busy corners, but I can tell he is enjoying the historical
tidbits the announcer says into the microphone. Julie and Mitch even join us
one night for some Indian food in West London. Mitch doesn’t say much the whole
time, but Julie is very chatty and friendly. I genuinely like her. I discover
that Indian food is as popular in London as Mexican food is in the Midwest.

Val sends me two copy-writing assignments for a
new indie author they are doing marketing and public relations for. When I’m
not sightseeing with Leslie or Frank, I stow away in my circular room. I enjoy
the noise of the skate park across the road as I type press releases and
various synopsis options for the first novel I have to read.

I am really starting to love my circular little
cave of a room. It lets in a lot of bright, natural light, allowing the old
wooden floorboards to shine. I still don’t have a desk or chair, so I do all my
writing on the mattress that still sits in the middle of the room on the floor.
I’ve sorted and arranged all my clothes to sit in folded piles inside the
suitcases on one wall. I really should consider buying a dresser, but the idea
of asking skinny little Frank to help me carry it up three flights of stairs
seems like too much work. Leslie is probably stronger than Frank, come to think
of it. She did grow up on a farm, but I can’t ask her. She’s been working a lot
of hours designing an extra bag that Nikon wanted added to the line last
minute.

I haven’t heard from Brody and I know I can’t
call him, even though I desperately want to. All I hear echoing in my head is
the pain in his voice when he told me he was giving up on me. I hate that we
left it so badly. I’ve talked to Cadence a few times through Skype and she
informed me she hadn’t had any more drunken visits from him. I feel like she’s
holding something back from me. I keep pestering her to let it out, but she
refuses.

I fear the worst, that Brody has met someone
and moved on. I know I have no right to care because we’re broken up, but I
can’t help myself
. I have to know.
I
decide to reactivate my
Facebook
account. Val’s assignment can wait. Life has been brutal without
Facebook
for two whole weeks.

I immediately pull up Brody’s profile and a
sick feeling washes over me as I see his relationship status changed to
Single
. Why the hell does that surprise
me? I left him, for goodness sake. Of course he should be single. I click on
his profile picture that used to be a photo of the two of us. Now it’s just a
photo of him at some outdoor festival. I can’t tell where he is and it pains me
to realize I don’t know everything he’s doing anymore. I scroll through the
rest of his profile pictures, assuming I’ll see all the old ones of us, but
they are nowhere to be found. I broaden my photo search, desperate to find a
picture of the two of us. He couldn’t have totally erased me from his life
could he? There is not one damn picture of me anywhere on his profile.

What I do find are multiple, very recent photos
of Brody with a girl I know extremely well.

Olivia.
My blood begins to boil.

Olivia is a
friend
from my early college days. I use the word friend loosely here because we
don’t speak anymore. She lived on the same floor as me in the dorms, but was
two years ahead of Brody and I.

Olivia and I became fast friends because she
had this sweet, good-natured way about her that everybody seemed to love. She
was also really cool because she was older and had more connections and friends
at the university. Therefore, she knew where all the great parties were.
Everyone wanted to be friends with Olivia.

We hung out a lot in the beginning. She got my
obnoxious sense of humor and we had some really fun times in our dorm rooms. We
even went on spring break together.

Then there was
Jake
. Jake was a basketball player living in the same apartment
complex we all lived in senior year. He was tall with really dark hair and one
of those classically beautiful faces that made you look at him and want to say,
seriously?
I was smitten. We became
close over the summer before our final year and then had a class together first
semester. We were hanging out all the time since his apartment was straight
across the parking lot from mine. Seriously, we did everything together. We
went to parties together, ate lunch with each other everyday, watched movies,
and went to the gym to shoot hoops. Jake would call me every night to talk me
to sleep because he knew I had trouble falling asleep.
 

My roommate thought Jake and I would end up
married and have a bunch of babies together. I always laughed at her, but
secretly hoped she was right. Even Jake’s teammates made comments. All my
girlfriends knew I had it
bad
for
Jake—it was so obvious. But for whatever reason, we never hooked up.

The beginning of senior year is when everything
changed. We were all out at the bar, dancing and having a great time
celebrating the start of our last year of college. Jake and I were dancing
together, as we always did. He was a great dance partner and I loved having him
with me so random guys wouldn’t try to grind on me. Olivia was there with all
of our friends, and everyone was having a blast. In the craziness of leaving to
go back to the apartment complex for the after party, I got separated from Jake
and Olivia. On a drunken high, I bounded into Jake’s apartment ready to
continue partying and found Olivia. In bed. With Jake. My
friend, Olivia.
It was the most embarrassing thing I have ever
experienced. I quickly dashed out of the room and sobbed into my girlfriends’
arms as they consoled my drunken, dramatic, sorry ass.

 
My
friends were outraged Olivia would cross such an obvious line with a friend.
They banded together and we all completely stopped hanging out with her. Jake
acted like he had no clue what was even going on, but I knew he knew better
because we were never the same after that. We barely spoke in class and only
saw each other at parties. We never hung out privately like we used to.
It was hell.

Then I met Brody, and Jake was completely and
utterly eclipsed from then on. I couldn’t believe I ever pined for a guy like
Jake when Brody was right in front of me the whole time. Seeing me with someone
else must have bothered Jake because he repeatedly tried to get me to talk to
him. It was definitely an area of friction for Brody and me.
 

Needless to say, seeing Olivia’s arms draped
over both of Brody’s shoulders in a slew of pictures on
Facebook
, makes me physically pulse with anger.

I slam my laptop shut and snatch my phone up
off the floor.

“Hello?”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Cadence?” I
squeal, hardly able to utter the words because I am so revved up.

“Who is this?” she sings, cheerily in to the
phone.

“You know exactly who this is! How the hell
could you not tell me?” I boom into the phone.

“Tell you what, sister?” Cadence sings to me
again, in an incredibly annoying placating tone.

“You know what! Olivia!
O-
fricken
-
livia
Gabriel.
Is he seriously seeing her, Cade?” I can’t stop the shaking in my
hands.

“I don’t know why the heck you even care,
Finley,” she bites back. “Seriously, get your shit straight. You dumped him.
You got it in your head he won’t want you if you’re barren and now you’ve
pushed him into the arms of someone who will probably give him six precious
little babies,” she peals into my ear.

I feel my chest rising up into my chin, “That
is a low blow, Cadence,” I pause, my voice cracking, “even for you.”

She sighs heavily, “Well, I’m not sorry! You
know how I feel about this whole ridiculous situation you have going on here.
You are getting what you asked for.”

“I didn’t ask for this!” I scream, unable to
check my emotions, “I didn’t ask for him to run into the arms of the one chick
I’ve hated for over five years!”

“You asked for it when you refused to give him
a chance to know the truth, Finley. Now you have to learn to live with it.
Learn to live with the idea of him snuggling up to Olivia Gabriel. I see her
when I go into the city, you know, and she looks good, Finley. She hasn’t aged
a bit!” Cadence cheerily adds the last line with melodramatic flare.

I hang up.
God,
my sister can be a real bitch sometimes!
This is bullshit, complete and utter bullshit.
I stand up from my
mattress and throw my phone down against it as hard as I can. I toss my hair
over one shoulder and take a big lap around the tiny room.

When that doesn’t seem to help, I run back to
my bed and quickly inspect my phone, fearing I may have damaged it.
It’s fine, thank God. But shit, the drama of
that toss felt good, damn it.
I tuck my phone into the back pocket of my
Skinny Jeans and pull the sleeves of my long sleeve navy t-shirt down to stick
my thumbs through the thumbholes.

Needing something to take the edge off, I pound
down the stairs and head straight into the kitchen cabinet above the fridge
where Frank keeps all the liquor. A bottle of tequila looks pretty good. I
barely touch the stuff anymore because Leslie and I had once mixed it with root
beer when we were teenagers and drank so much we got sick.

I rummage for a shot glass and can’t find one,
so I grab a coffee mug instead. I pour an inch or two of the golden liquid and
throw back the cup.
Oh, crap!

“That was way more than a shot!
Way
more than a shot!” I screech out
loud, jumping up and down with my face pinched.

A strange squeal comes through my throat as I
force myself to swallow. I place my hands wide on the counter and drop my head
down low, gagging
.
Oof
!
Why the hell did I grab tequila?

I scream as loud as I can in frustration.

“Crap day?”

I jump when I see Mitch sitting in the
breakfast nook by the window, sipping tea out of a mug.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, “You
could say that.”

“That tequila is crap. Seriously, I think it
might actually be poison,” he gets up out of the booth and squats down by the
stove, rummaging through the drawer below the oven.

“Try this,” he says, handing me a bottle of
clear liquid with a foreign label on it.

I eye it, cautiously.

“Trust me,” he states, dumping the contents of
his tea out and pouring a bit into his mug and mine.

“
Salud
,” he says,
clinking mugs with mine.

“
Salud
,” I reply
back, gently tipping the liquor back at the same time as him. “Wow! Tastes like
lemons!” I say, and lick my lips appreciatively.

He nods his head with a smirk. “Finish it off
if you like. But watch yourself, that’s a lot stronger than the shit you get in
America,” he adds, walking out of the kitchen.

“Thanks, Mitch,” I reply, feebly.

“Cheers.”

He makes his way up the creaky stairs, leaving
me to my own devices.

I take my coffee mug, fill it up with the clear
foreign liquor, and head across the street to watch the skateboarders and have
a good sulk.

After about an hour of watching the action, and
giggling every time one of the guys gets seriously hurt, I reach into my back
pocket and grab my phone. My fingers have a mind of their own and before I know
it, I push
Call
.

“
Hiya
.”