I look down at my bandaged hand and sigh. My knuckles hurt, but still I flex them to keep them from stiffening up. After I left the reception last weekend, I went right to London’s. I banged on the door until my knuckles bled. As if that wasn’t enough damage, when I returned to my boat that night, Vance had the nerve to call London a cheap fuck. One punch to his smug face landed him in the water. For years, I’ve overlooked Vance and his power trip, but no more. When he spewed those words, I couldn’t take it anymore. He knows nothing about London and looks down on her because she’s a waitress.
When I didn’t find London at my boat, I had no choice but to give up for the night. I figured she went to another friend’s but assumed she would show up for work the next day. In the morning, I parked outside the restaurant and waited. When the lunch shift started and London wasn’t there, I asked her manager, who told me she up and quit.
She quit her job.
Because of me.
Talk about feeling the lowest of lows. When her manager said that, I felt like I had been sucker punched. London was working her ass off to become manager, it was her goal, and then I offered her the chance to run the restaurant at Dawson’s Marina. Everything London had worked for was going to come to fruition and then Alyssa happened. No wonder London quit. I’d quit this damn place too if I had a choice.
A truck comes down the road and I slink down in my seat. Of course, my car sticks out like a sore thumb around here. I’m sure whoever drove past is probably calling the cops. This spurs me into action as I right myself and press the button to start my car. I put the car into drive and pull forward the length of the split rail fence, until I turn onto the dirt driveway. I cringe each time I hear a rock hit my car, undoubtedly leaving dents, or chipping the paint.
It’s just a car. It’s just paint. The prize is in that house.
That is what I tell myself until I finally come to a stop. From the outside, everything looks quiet. I don’t know if I expected something different, maybe the door opening and slamming shut or children running around, which is odd to think because London is an only child and unless she lied to me, she doesn’t have children. But the fact that I can envision children running around this place is eye opening.
I shut my car off, get out and walk with confidence to the front door. Up the small flight of wide planked steps, I knock rapidly on the wooden screen door. Voices rise as someone comes to the door. It opens and a woman, who looks identical to London stands there, holding a towel.
“Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Bauer, My name is Maxwell Richmond and I’m here to see London.” I have no idea if London is even here, but I figure if I state my point matter-of-factly, she’ll let me know whether London is here or not.
She turns her head slightly, without taking her eyes off me. “London, sweetie. Come here.”
My eyes steady on the hall, waiting for London to appear. When she does, they widen at the sight of her and my heart leaps from my chest. As soon as she recognizes me through the mesh screen, her steps falter.
“Wh—how did you find me?”
“Sweetie, who is this?” her mom asks.
“He’s no one, Mom.”
Ouch, that stings, but it’s deserving.
“Can we talk?” I ask as I point to the porch swing. It takes a moment, but London steps forward and places her hand on the screen. She hesitates before pushing it open and stepping out. I back up, giving her a wide berth. London glances at her mom and in a silent exchange, her mom nods and shuts the door. I appreciate the privacy even though I haven’t earned it.
No, I take that back. I have. What my dad, stepmom and Alyssa did to London is on them, not me. I’ve been completely honest with her about how I feel and how I feel about that side of my family. I’m nothing like Yates and Vance, which I suspect she probably thinks isn’t true.
London sits down and as much as I want to sit next to her—as much as I can picture us on this swing together, watching the sun go down—I rest against the railing. I want to pull her into my arms and apologize for everything that happened on Saturday, but I’m afraid that if I try to touch her, she’ll run.
We sit in silence for a bit, with her rocking back and forth and staring off, while I look down at the decking. I’ve cleared my throat a couple of times but am having trouble finding the right words to start my diatribe.