“King,” I said, frustration building at how he wouldn’t give me his eyes. “King, would you look at me?”
He lifted his head, and wow, every time he levelled me with his stare, I felt breathless. He was still so beautiful, even changed. “What happened that day, it didn’t turn out how you think. You should have called me, made contact.”
His chair legs scraped at the ground as he shifted in place, agitated. When he spoke, his words were stilted and gruff. “What do you mean, it didn’t turn out how I think?”
I reached forward and took his hand in mine, but he pulled away sharply from my touch. “I mean that you never killed Bruce. He survived. He was sent to prison and was killed by another inmate. Your mother survived, too. She gained consciousness right after you fled.”
The air all around us seemed to still as I comprehended the stupidity of just blurting all that out. King stood angrily, shaking his head in disbelief as he pushed up violently from the table, almost knocking over the board. “No,” he said harshly. “No.”
Fuck. I was bombarding him with too much too quickly. What the hell was I thinking? King turned and stalked away, his gait slightly unsteady, like he might collapse at any moment. I wasn’t sure if it was from the withdrawals or the shock of what I’d just told him. I ran after him and caught his arm. He reared back from my touch, so I threw my body in front of his. He stopped walking, barely an inch between us.
“I’m sorry,” I said, breathless. “I shouldn’t have told you all that. Not yet. You’re not ready.”
“I’m not an invalid,” he hissed.
“I know that.”
“Well, then, don’t fucking treat me like one,” he ground out, his voice choking up as his eyes grew watery with tears. He tried blinking them away, but it was no use. Agony marked his every feature.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
His emotion didn’t surprise me so much as it made me feel about two inches tall. How bloody tactless could I be? I watched his face, seeing all the realisations fall on him like a tonne of bricks. I knew exactly what he was thinking about. He was imagining all the time he’d lost because he thought he was a murderer. He’d hidden himself away, drinking himself half to death, thinking the only other option was prison. If only he’d reached out, gotten in touch. But no, he’d been too lost, too buried under a mountain of alcohol and guilt. I could see that I was losing him, and I couldn’t let it happen. I couldn’t let him get lost in regrets and what-ifs.
“Come back and play with me, please. We don’t have to talk, just play,” I said, desperate.
His face grew intense, and my skin prickled.
“No. You should go,” he said irritably, moving away from me.
I stepped forward, closing the distance between us once more, and stared at him openly, not hiding any of the vulnerability I felt inside. “Please, King,” I whispered.
A shudder went through him as I said his name, and we stood there, locked in a staring contest that felt like it might never end. After a long time, his distress seemed to die down as he realised I wasn’t going to give up and leave.
Finally, he ground out, “Fine. Let’s play, then.”
Relief flooded me. I gestured for him to lead the way back. He turned. I followed him until we were at the table, sitting down to continue our game. It was mid-July, and the weather was warm. It was a bit too hot for a jacket, so I shrugged out of mine and hung it over the back of my chair. A couple of the buttons on my blouse had come undone, revealing the edge of my black lacy bra. I hurried to button it back up, feeling his attention on me. If anything, my boobs had gotten slightly bigger over the years, probably because I’d put on a few pounds after I had Oliver. King wore no expression, but his eyes practically scorched me, and I was already too hot from the sun. I was a little glad, though. At least this way he might be thinking of something other than how fucked up the past was.
We continued playing in silence, but I could feel his need now like a physical touch. I wasn’t sure which one of us was more desperate for human comfort, him or me. Perhaps we were on an equal footing. However, I knew that, unlike me, King didn’t want to acknowledge he felt it.
I was winning the game, which was out of the ordinary, because he always used to win more than I did. I glanced at him to see his brow was furrowed and his upper lip was sweaty. Without even thinking, I knew he was in pain. His head must have been thumping with alcohol withdrawals, not to mention the ugly truth of everything I’d just told him.
“Is this Marina’s camper?” I asked, hesitantly gesturing to the van. He nodded. “Shall we go inside? It’s getting too hot out here. I need some shade.”
Without a word, King stood and opened the door to the camper van. He stepped back and let me go in first. By the décor, you could tell the place belonged to an older woman. The couch was made of a flower print material, and there were doilies on the coffee table and old-fashioned ornaments everywhere. The moment King closed the door behind us, I regretted suggesting coming in here. It felt too small, too close. But I knew the sun was taking its toll on him, and he looked like he needed to lie down.
“Is it okay if I get a glass of water?” I asked.
King shrugged.
“Would you like one?”
Another shrug. If the way he was sweating was anything to go by, though, he must have been thirsty. I filled two glasses and walked over to where he was sitting on the couch before handing him one. He took it and downed a long gulp. There was nowhere else to sit, so I took the place beside him, a few inches between us.
“Alexis, do you…do you know how my mother is, where she is?” he asked, and he sounded so vulnerable right then it made my heart squeeze.
“Yes, of course,” I hurried to answer. “She lives close to me now. I have a house in Waltham Forest. Your mum sold her place in Bloomsbury and bought a small cottage nearby. We grew close after what happened, became friends. You should see her these days, King. She goes out for walks all by herself, shops for her own groceries, she even….” I caught myself just in time. I’d been about to tell him, She even takes care of Oliver when I’m working. I needed to be better at censoring myself around him, at least for a while.
When I looked at him, he seemed conflicted, yet hopeful. The world suddenly wasn’t as shrouded in black clouds as he’d thought. “So she’s doing well, doing better?”
“She had a lot of help, Oliver. Me and my parents, we sort of took her in after…I mean, she still misses you every day, mourns for you, wonders where you are. We both do…we both did.”
He went quiet, like he was dealing with some kind of inner turmoil. I cleared my throat and did my best to change the subject. “I started my own business a couple of years ago. It’s a plus-size modelling agency. Only a small one, but it’s doing well so far. I have a tiny two-room office space in Finsbury Park,” I said, a little self-deprecatingly. “It was like, I saw how all these agencies worked and kept thinking to myself, I can do this with my eyes closed. And I always remembered you telling me I could do anything, go anywhere, that I had the ability. Your faith in me was where my confidence to go it alone came from.”
I could see that my words meant a lot to him. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you for saying that.”
“Thank you for showing me I could be more than just an East End barmaid,” I said with a tiny smile, feeling more emotional all of a sudden. “If I hadn’t met you, I’m not sure I ever would have gotten out of that shithole tower block.”
“You would have.” He stared at the glass in his hands, now empty.
“Want another?” I asked, gesturing to it.
He didn’t answer, just handed it to me.
I went to the sink to refill it, then walked back to the couch. King had grown even paler, and he looked like he might want to get sick. He also seemed uncomfortable, like he didn’t want me there to witness it. I set the glass down on the table and picked up my bag, making a show of looking at my watch.
“Well, I have a few errands to run while I’m in the city, but I’d like to come back later, if it’s all right with you?” I said quietly.
It took him a second to respond as he swallowed thickly. “Yes, yes, it’s all right.”
“Good,” I said, feeling awkward. “I’ll see you later, then.”
He didn’t reply, only nodded. I hitched my bag up on my shoulder and made my way out of the camper. The sun beat down on me, making me feel a little woozy. I walked out of the circus and down a side street to where I’d parked my car. Once I was safely inside, I let my head fall back and exhaled. I hated this. I hated that I had to leave him there to suffer all alone, but I didn’t want him to feel weak in front of me. I knew he’d be humiliated if I saw him being sick.
Once I’d calmed down, I picked up my phone and dialled the house. Karla answered after a couple of rings, and I spent a few minutes talking to her, asking how Oliver was doing. She was good at not prying into how my day had been, and that’s what I needed right then. I needed to not talk about King, because if I did, I’d just end up having another crying jag.
We hung up, and I got out of the car. Taking a walk to a nearby café, I got something to eat, barely even noticing what I ordered since my mind was so elsewhere. I sat outside for a long time, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee and wondering how on earth this was all going to pan out. I’d been gone about three hours when I finally made my way back to the circus. I went to Marina’s camper first, but there was no one there, so I headed in the direction of the gazebo from last night. There were a whole bunch of people milling about, some eating meals, some chatting.
I spotted Jay, Jack, Matilda, and Lille at a table having dinner, and King was sitting by the end of it, drinking a beer. The sight of him with alcohol did a number on me, and my heart somersaulted in my chest. Why on earth were they letting him drink?