That One Moment (Lost in London #2) (5 page)

This area of town is quite busy with tourists and shoppers, but anywhere you live in London you’ll always find a quiet, green oasis amongst all the hustle and bustle. These tiny parks are my favourite part of London. And the park I take Bruce is extra special because it has an entire area just for dogs.

Once we return, I lead him into the kitchen to refresh his water and feed him. I then pop into my en suite bathroom to get ready for the evening. Bruce eventually resumes his post at the bathroom doorway, watching me the entire time with those sad puppy-dog eyes that say,
“You look like you’re going out for the night…I hope this means you’re taking me. And oh, can you scratch my back while you’re at it, pretty please?”

“Not this time, Mongrel,” I say, patting his head and applying one last layer of mascara. I give myself a final once-over in the mirror. I’ve always been the thinner, ganglier, awkward type—like a young girl who still hasn’t hit puberty. Leslie used to say I had a runway model’s body, but I’d much rather have a bit more meat and some curves than the spindly frame I inherited from my mother. It’s easy to develop a complex over thin legs when you have footballers with massive muscular thighs for brothers.

Still, this dress makes me feel like I actually have curves. It’s a diamond white, sweetheart strapless, fit-to-flare cut dress. I curl my platinum blonde locks into loose, soft waves and pin them off to one side so they trail down the front of my exposed shoulder. My minimal makeup allows my bright blue eyes to carry the show. Add a layer of peach gloss and I think I’ve actually achieved the perfect sun-kissed look I was going for.

Tonight, I feel different. Tonight, I feel ready for anything.

HEAR ME NOW

M
y eyes blink slowly against the spotlights, searching for the clock on the far wall of the ballroom that I saw when I came in from the back. I know I have a watch on my wrist because I never go anywhere without it. But for some reason, I feel the need to confirm the time on another clock every place I go.

To ensure that the time continuum hasn’t failed.

To ensure that where I’m standing right now is real life.

To ensure that I am still alive.

And to ensure the fact that my incessant wish to erase moments from my past still hasn’t come true.

I know it was crap for me to skip the mingling portion of the fundraising event, but I am too fucking nervous to be able to sit with everyone and visit like it is just a normal Friday night. This night is anything but normal. I’ll talk to everyone afterwards. Lord knows I’ll need to. They’ve all been texting me like mad to ensure that I’m okay. My mum, my younger sister, Daphney, my brother, Theo, and even Leslie. I shoot a quick text back to Leslie to let her know that Marisa was fast asleep when I left her with the sitter at their flat. I ignore all the others.

Touching the inside of my wrist concealed beneath my dark brown leather cuff, the texture of the ridged scar sends a churning through my stomach. Before I have a chance to close my eyes and slip back to that moment, I hear the master of ceremonies announce my name.

“And now, a word from one of our generous benefactors, Mr. Hayden Clarke.” The woman’s voice cracks on the end of my name and I bite back the growing urge to roll my eyes. This woman knows I’m not one of the actual benefactors, my parents are. This woman also knows that I’m considered the tragic, wayward son whom everyone watches like a ticking time bomb. They’re all bloody terrified of what I’m about to say.

Maybe they should be.

I stride across the shiny wooden stage, adjusting my thick black Windsor tie and fastening the button on my navy tuxedo jacket. I left it undone on purpose to give my hands something to do. It’s a small attempt at feigning a level of confidence. Power. Intimidation.

Don’t let them see you shake. Don’t let them see you falter. Don’t let them see you weak. You’re not weak anymore. You’re different. You’re healed
.

The woman’s plump cheeks widen, making me cringe at the fake warmth she’s radiating. She offers me a curt British smile. The British are always polite. Always controlled. And always on guard. Maybe that’s why I always feel oddly around them…like I don’t belong.

I’ve always hated surface shite.

That fact alone is also probably why last year I fell hopelessly in love with the dark and ominous American dust storm that is Reyna Miracle Miller. Reyna whited out everything around me. She kept me in a dark vortex where I could see nothing but her and us and the misery that we lived in every time our bodies connected. The desolation in which I lived in with Rey felt real and right at the time. It felt like home. I was exhausted by the superficial airs that were so common in my family. Reyna was anything but surface. Reyna was dark and twisted and sad and just as fucked up as I was. I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

Ignoring the painful slice I feel in my heart every time I think of Rey, I nod pleasantly to the woman as she steps away from the podium and I fill her space. I squint against the spotlights and see that the ballroom is covered in white linens, low-hanging chandeliers, and splashes of dark purple floral centrepieces at each table. My eyes settle on the table front and centre and land on my mother. Even from up here I can see how nervous she is. My father is doing a proper job at appearing strong and regal. Next to my mum is Daphney, Theo, and, of course, Leslie. I avoid looking at the table next to them because I know exactly who’s sitting there.

I know her face better than I should. I used to watch Rey sleep. I could even tell when she was dreaming. Her eyeballs would flicker rapidly behind her lids, and she’d let out these gut-wrenching cries that made me beg the universe for some magical power that would grant me a look inside her head. I was desperate to know more than just her physical beauty. She has long dark hair and a curvy bombshell figure, plus an entire sleeve of tattoos on one arm and three black roses on her shoulder and collarbone. I had my suspicions about the meaning behind all her ink, but we never discussed them. We never discussed much. Her grey eyes held millions of secrets that she would never share with me. Our relationship was much more carnal. And I was too frozen in my own misery to ever push for more.

By the time I was able to admit to myself that I was in love with her, it was too late. Now she’s engaged to my brother’s best mate, Liam Darby, and I’m at a suicide gala giving a bloody survivor speech.

Fuck me.

Clearing my throat, I stare into the spotlights and begin the speech I’ve been reciting in my head for months now. “One year ago today, as my watch struck the hour of 11:11, I dragged a blade across both of my wrists.”

A soft gasp emits from somewhere in the room, and I pause to let my amplified words settle in over the audience. I glance sideways to the announcer standing off stage. Her eyes flare nervously and I clench my jaw to conceal the smirk threatening my lips.

“It’s quite a laugh, really…Well, not the trying to kill myself part…That was the opposite of comedy. But what’s funny is that when I volunteered to be the keynote speaker for this evening, the charity gave me a list of trigger words. Taboo phrases they advised me not to say. They gave me suitable alternatives for things like
kill myself
,
slitting my wrists
, and even
blood
”

My eyes ache to look over at Rey to see her reaction right now, but I resist. She’s not a part of my life anymore. Her approval isn’t what I need to be healthy. It’s not why I’m doing this.

“But because I’m a Clarke and this is our benefit, I’m doing this speech my way. And if any of you are afraid of a trigger or whatever sod all word they give for things that are uncomfortable…this is your chance to exit.”

Chairs shift in the audience as the ballroom full of British tight-arses begin to squirm in their seats. I can just hear the old birds saying silently,
“Oh heavens, I want to go, but that might appear rude!”

“If Madge is staying, I’m bloody well staying too!”

“Blimey, Victoria knew I was wearing blue…How could she wear it too?”

When I see no one attempting to leave, I continue, “It was this exact night a year ago…this same charity…this same ballroom that I walked out of, stumbled into a cab pissed out of my mind, and headed through the streets of London. The entire ride, I looked at the driver and thought to myself, ‘he’s got no idea he’s driving a dead man.’

“I arrived at my brother’s furniture shop, grabbed a small, circular saw blade he used for trim work, and drug it across each one of my wrists.” A faint cough echoes in the distance, and I sigh heavily at the ridiculousness that normal things like coughing still happen while I’m up here revealing the incredible fucking darkness in my soul. “You see, I was coming to the end of a dark and depressing tunnel that I had been living in for several years.” I pause momentarily to collect myself for my big moment of truth. The most painful truth that I still struggle with to this day.

“Four years ago, I was a part of a horrific accident that took my sister’s life.” My voice cracks and I frown at the annoying emotions that overcome me. I let my chin hit my chest and suck the insides of my cheeks in between my teeth and bite down. The spongy bounce on my inner cheeks smarts and distracts me enough to continue.

“I still have difficulty labeling what happened to my sister as an accident. When you’re the one behind the wheel…it’s still a tough pill to swallow that it truly was as simple as an accident. Why did it have to be her? Why did I have to be driving by just as she came around the house? So many ripple effects to all the choices we both made that resulted in that one moment. That’s an incredibly hard result to live with.

“Which is likely why I spiraled out of control for so many years. Booze and pills became my best mates, even landing me in the hospital for several weeks at one point. So when shite really hit the fan in my personal life, slitting my wrists seemed like the answer.”

I pause as I recall that one dark night with Reyna. In her flat when I could feel her slipping away from me. I could feel her leaving me, and I knew I wasn’t good enough to make her stay. I knew her heart wasn’t mine to care for because I was nothing. I wasn’t important enough for her to love fully. That was my breaking point. I had hated myself for so long because of what I did to my sister that when I finally accepted the fact that I couldn’t be loved by even someone as dark and twisted as Rey, it truly was the end.

“The pain was minimal at first. Just a wincing sort of ache…Then it spread like wildfire to a burning, sweltering rage. I remember this strange twinge in my shoulders as the blood flooded out of my body and hit the concrete floor beneath me. When I looked down at the sea of red around my shiny dress shoes, I forgot about the pain. I forgot about the cause. I forgot about everything leading up to this one incredibly profound moment. This one moment that I chose was permanent. In that one moment…I had finally erased my life forever.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mum clap her hand over her mouth. Her eyes strain against the tears flowing out of them. She’s heard this story before, but I imagine hearing it like this—without any interruption from my therapist—is probably a great deal different.

“But dying that night was all right by me…That was the point, right? The gruesome blade had provided its service. It had yielded my death in a dramatic and manly fashion. I wasn’t sure how long it took to die. This was my first proper go at it. My watch still said 11:11 when my blinking started to feel sticky. It felt as though I was one second closer to not opening them ever again. One second closer to my requested death.”

I clear my throat and push back every shred of emotion attempting to erupt inside of me.
Christ, not now Hayden! Get your shit together.
I grip my leather cuffed wrists and touch the face of my watch and continue. “Just as I thought I was about to die,
she
arrived.” My eyes drift down the stage and land on Leslie. Her auburn hair lies softly around her shoulders, framing her face and accentuating her perfectly sincere smile. Leslie doesn’t smile like the British. She smiles like the beautiful, vulnerable, and quirky American that she is.