American Queen

I raised my hands, as if to show I meant no harm. “I don’t want to push you. But I know you’re angry. And I know it has something to do with me. I want to fix it, Abilene, let me fix it, please.”

“You can’t fix it,” she hissed. “Just stay away—”

“I’m not going to do that, I can’t do that—”

“Just leave me alone!” Her shrill voice rebounded through the room, and as if to punctuate her statement, she threw the champagne glass to the floor, where it shattered like ice on the polished parquet.

“Abilene,” I whispered, because I had never, ever seen her like this, so angry that she would act like this in someone else’s house, and there seemed to be a moment where it caught up with her too, where her eyes widened and her pale skin went even paler.

And then she stormed out of the room.

For a long minute, I stared at the mess on the floor. It glittered and flashed in the deafening silence that followed her exit, and it filled my vision, filled my mind and my throat and my chest, until it shrank back to normal size and I could breathe again.

My eyes burned with tears and my throat itched with all the things I wanted to scream at my supposed best friend, but I didn’t do any of that. I didn’t cry and I didn’t yell. I dropped to my knees and began picking up the shards of glass, sliver by tiny sliver, picking up after Abilene like I always did.

“You’ll cut yourself if you’re not careful,” an unfamiliar voice said from the patio door.

5

Ten Years Ago

The voice was American, which at this very London party was enough to make me pause and look up. He was in his mid-twenties, wearing an Army dress uniform, and as he strode towards me, it felt like all the air left the room, like I couldn’t breathe, like I would suffocate, but suffocate in the kind of way where visions dance before your eyes as you die. Broad, powerful shoulders tapered into trim and narrow hips, and his face…it was a hero’s face. Chiseled jaw, strong nose, full mouth. Emerald eyes and raven hair.

He walked over, close enough that I could read his nameplate now. Colchester. A name that sounded strong and solid and a little chilly.

He squatted down next to me, his pants pulling tight over his muscled thighs. “Let me help.”

Say something, my brain demanded. Say anything!

But I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to make the words come out. I had never seen a man so handsome, so overtly masculine, and for the first time in my life, I felt overwhelmingly and painfully female. I felt slender and soft, yielding and pliant, and when he looked up from the glass to smile kindly at me, I wondered if I would fall apart, like a blown rose caught in a strong wind.

He stood and deposited some of the broken flute in a nearby wastebasket, and then he brought the basket over to me. He knelt down again to pick up more glass.

“She’s jealous of you, you know.” Colchester said it quietly, while keeping his gaze on the floor.

I thought I’d misheard him. “Jealous?”

He cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t mind, but I was standing outside when you first came in the room. I heard you exchange words.”

I frantically searched my brain, trying to remember if I’d behaved like an idiot. This man was so much older than me, so contained, so fucking hot, and the desire to impress him was as sharp as the shards of glass in my hand.

He shook his head, as if reading my thoughts. “Don’t be embarrassed. I was impressed with how calm you stayed, considering how angry she was with you. Of course, when I saw you, I understood immediately.”

“Understood what?”

“That she’s jealous.”

It took me a beat to understand what he meant. “Of me?” I let out an incredulous laugh.

I wasn’t in the habit of being falsely modest. This wasn’t me begging for compliments or trying to patch my insecurities with flattery, because two years with Abilene had trained me to accept her greater worth on nearly every level—save for the academic and in earning Grandpa Leo’s love. There, I excelled. But everywhere else—beauty, friends, personality—Abilene surpassed me. And any other girl at Cadbury would have agreed.

“Abilene’s not jealous of me,” I said with a smile. “She’s Abilene. I’m just me…I’m not like her. If you saw her, you’d understand.”

“I did see her,” he replied dryly. “She and her acquaintance took occupancy of the room while I was on the patio, which left me stuck outside. Red hair, blue dress, right?”

“Yes,” I said, my smile fading. “So you did see her. You do understand.”

“I did and I do. Let me see your hand.”

I gave him my hand without thinking, extending it out and offering him the small pile of broken glass I’d collected. With deft fingers, he plucked the shards out of my palm and dropped them one by one into the wastebasket. “I thought I told you to be careful,” he said.

I was staring at his face, mesmerized, and I had to tear my eyes away and look down at my hand. I’d cut myself somehow, driven a needle-thin point of glass into my fingertip while trying to clean up, and now blood welled around it, wet and sticky.

“Oh,” I whispered.

And I don’t know if it was the sight of the blood or the icy prick of pain or my sudden proximity to him, but my vision shifted and my perception sharpened, and for a minute, I saw him, the real him behind that striking face and decorated jacket. I saw him like I would have if we’d met in the stuffy clusters of the party, if we’d met while Grandpa Leo stood beside me, waiting for me to deliver my observations and deductions.