The Weight of Life

by Whitney Barbetti

  Sam did a double take—mirroring the reaction I’d had the night before, when she’d slipped into the English accent. Sam looked at me like he wasn’t entirely sure he had heard her correctly. Nodding, I tilted my head toward her and mouthed, “She’s mad.”

  “She’s French?” Sam asked me, loud enough for her to hear.

  Mila just laughed, and then wiggled in her seat like she could hardly contain the glee that wracked her body. “Oh my God,” she trilled. “I fooled you both! You don’t know how happy that makes me.”

  Sam shook his head. “Or are you American?”

  “Mad, I tell you.”

  “I’m not mad.” She laughed. “I’m a voice actress. Well, an aspiring one. I’ve done some small gigs, but nothing big yet. I’m still perfecting my accents. But I’m here for my brother. He’s a travel blogger, and I’m here in his stead, exploring London, writing about it.”

  “Do that again,” Sam said, wagging a finger at her. “The accent. That’s brilliant.”

  “Okay.” Her smile slipped to something more demure and her whole face changed, her eyebrow raising just slightly, and her jaw tightening. “I’m a voice actress,” she said, slightly hissing the “s.” “It doesn’t pay the bills—yet—so I’m here doing work.”

  “Christ. Russian, too?”

  “Eh,” I said, shrugging. They turned, Sam looking at me like I was a bug who wouldn’t go away and Mila looking at me with that annoyingly bright smile on her face. Could she not be offended by me? It hardly seemed possible.

  “I’m still working on that one, I’ll admit.” She leveled me with a look, lost the austerity she’d adopted before speaking with the Russian accent. “But I’d like to see you do better.”

  “Ames can only do two voices: asshole and silent. The latter is often preferred.”

  That time, I did toss my rag at him, which he caught deftly before it hit him in the face. “What an interesting creature you are,” Sam said with awe.

  Mila was delighted by Sam’s praise and bobbed her head before clearing her throat. “I’m still trying to get the different English accents—specifically in the London area—down. But it all sounds the same to me, so it’s hard.”

  “It seems that way, but I imagine it’s not much different from the different regional accents in America, yeah? You’ve got Southern, Yankee, Midwestern…”

  “That’s true.”

  “So, you’re definitely American then?”

  She nodded. “I’m so glad you had to ask.” She appeared to be barely containing all her glee, and I half expected her to start clapping from it all.

  “Ames?” Lotte, my sister-in-law hollered from the back of the kitchen, before popping her blonde head around the corner. “Oh, hey, Sam.” She gave him a full-toothed smile, the kind that always knocked me back a few feet for how similar it looked to her sister’s. It was probably the only thing they had in common.

  “Lotte the Hottie.” Lotte blushed as Sam moved around the bar and wrapped her in a hug. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Been busy?”

  Lotte shrugged. “The studio isn’t totally busy yet, you know.” She lost a bit of the sparkle that had been in her eyes, and looked around the pub, her gaze landing in the direction of Mila.

  “Hello,” Lotte said cheerfully, and looked back at Sam. “You brought a date?”

  If I was blind and also oblivious, there’d still be no missing the way her voice changed, the way she straightened a little, looking between Sam and Mila with a tightness she hadn’t had before. Jealousy was a green-eyed monster that lived in my blue-eyed sister-in-law, but I knew Sam only admired her in a friendly way—so I didn’t have to murder my best mate.

  Mila laughed in return and shook her head, causing her glasses to slip down before she pushed them back up. “I just met Sam last night, but I’m flattered that you think I could catch a guy like him.”

  As I observed them exchanging conversation, I had a thought that Mila’s remark was meant to settle Lotte, but peculiarly, it did the exact opposite. She stepped just a hair away from Sam and smiled tightly at Mila.

  And I would’ve had to have been deaf to not hear the jealousy that seeped into her voice when she said, “Yes, well, you would be lucky.” She let out a breath and the smile returned to her face, much too bright to be authentic as she turned to me. “I’m going to run up to check on Dad.”

  I nodded and she left in a flash of blonde hair and red ruffles.

  “She okay?” Sam asked, coming ‘round to me and bracing his hands on his hips. “That seemed a little strange.”

  Sam could hardly be accused of being observant. Though Lotte was five years his junior, she’d pined for him since the moment she’d laid eyes on him years before. I’d never encouraged her affection for him, but I’d also never addressed it with her. Sam was shit at relationships—worse than me, in fact—so the last thing I wanted was for him to unintentionally break Lotte’s heart. Luckily, she’d mostly become immune to his ‘Lotte the Hottie’ comments.

  “She’s fine,” I told Sam, realizing in that moment that I actually didn’t know if she was fine. “Just been a busy couple of weeks.”

  Sam returned to his barstool and, because Oblivious was his middle name, asked, “She still wants to sell the studio? Are you still being a twat about it?”

  I glanced meaningfully at Mila who was paying close attention to our conversation. Mila didn’t need to know about my family drama, especially not when I was actively trying to get her out of my pub.

  “Oh, right.” Sam gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry for the language.”

  He was absolutely oblivious. I sighed impatiently. “I’ll talk to you later,” I promised him, and subconsciously refilled Mila’s empty beer—kicking myself for doing so, knowing that it meant she’d be stuck up my arse on my barstool for even longer than I wanted.

  “Who was that?” Mila nodded in the direction Lotte had departed.

  “My sister-in-law. Do you want anything else?” I asked curtly before turning to Sam. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

  Sam grinned at me knowingly. “Dinner at Mum’s, but that’s not till later. Why? Want to come around?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely.” I grabbed his beer before he’d finished it, and dumped its remnants, hoping my meaning had reached through his daft skull.

  “Add it to my tab?” Sam asked, slinging his coat over his shoulders.

  “Ah, the tab. The one you’ve yet to pay toward? Sure, happy to.”

  “That’s a good lad.” Sam gave me a grin and a wink before turning back to Mila. “Well, Mila. It was a pleasure. I hope we get to meet again.” He looked at me pointedly. “Ames is the best tour guide London has to offer, you would do well with him.”

  “Is that so?” She tilted her head as she turned to me. “Where should I go next, Ames?”

  I clenched my jaw, looking at Sam. What was he after? I’d been certain earlier that he’d been after Mila for himself, but with the way he was very nearly shoving her to me made me think he had other plans. Plans that I’d like to be made aware of.

  They both looked at me expectantly. “What are you looking to see? There are too many places in London for me to name just one.”

  Mila looked at Sam, and then looked thoughtful.

  “Are you wanting to eat, to drink, to dance, to—”

  “I want to be moved.”

  The look on her face was completely different than the one she’d worn since walking through the pub doors. Her eyes seemed wider, somehow, as if they were holding a hundred secrets. Her face was soft, her mouth not quite in a line—but not curved, either. Both Sam and I stared at her, seemingly unable to speak for a moment. Who was this woman, needling her way into my pub and affecting my best mate?

  Sam looked at me. “Postman’s Park comes to mind.”

  But it didn’t seem right. It wasn’t enough. I wavered between offering another more suitable suggestion and taki
ng Sam’s, but ultimately decided to not offer any alternative. “Postman’s is good.”

  “Postman’s Park? Where is that?”

  “Oh,” Sam said, pointing at me as he began to walk away. The dread that began forming in my stomach, knowing what he’d say, was enough to make me want to wring his bloody neck. “Ames will take you. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “That’d be nice.” Mila turned to me, and that softness was still there—but it was the slight curve of her lips, just on one side, that had me agreeing to take her. I was looking at her for far too long. I knew that, and yet I didn’t avert my gaze. Sure and steady, she held mine. And I found myself nodding, agreeing to take her, before the rational part of my brain told me to refuse. “Is it a good spot for lunch?” she asked.

  “Great spot. See ya later,” Sam called, just as he pushed through the door and out of my pub, leaving Mila and me doing our best to avoid eye contact. Strangely, though I’d been in a hurry to kick Sam out, his absence made Mila’s presence in my pub all the more profound.

  She slapped a note on the counter, but didn’t remove her hand from it until I looked at her. “Don’t try to give this one back to me.” She looked pointedly at her empty beer and gave me a smile. “It was good, by the way. Thank you.”

  Just before she reached the door, she turned around. For some inexplicable reason, I spoke before she did. “Meet here at noon, tomorrow. I’ll take you to the park.”

  She pushed open the door with one hand, still turned toward me, and for a moment I felt a knot in my stomach. Something about the way she stood there, the sun pouring in through the door, lighting her silhouette, the way it washed over her hair … it stirred something within me. Something that had been stagnant for so long. A hundred times I told myself to take it back, to change my mind, but one-hundred and one times, I told myself it would be fine.

  It would be fine.

  Chapter Five

  When I showed up the following afternoon, Ames was waiting against the outside wall, backpack slung over one shoulder and head bent, as he looked at his feet. His feet shuffled, and his eyes looked a thousand miles away. Without Sam there as a buffer, I felt my palms go clammy. Nerves prickled my skin. I didn’t fully realize what being around him without Sam meant. It meant alone. Just me and Ames. The wedding ring. The mention of the father-in-law.

  This was just a local being friendly to a tourist. That was all. Reminding myself of that fact relieved some of my anxiety.

  His head lifted and he took me in as I approached. “Ready?”

  He’s so handsome, was my first thought. And I tried to talk myself out of going with him. Handsome, married man, I told myself. Just being friendly to the tourist. That’s it.

  Nodding, I stuck my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Are we taking the tube?”

  “We could.” He pushed off the wall and didn’t wait for me to follow him. “But we’re going to take the bus.” And as if he’d summoned it, the bus stopped just a dozen yards from us, and I followed him to the second level of the double-decker before the bus pulled away from the sidewalk and moved back into traffic.

  “Is there somewhere near the park, to grab lunch?” I asked him as the bus jostled, sending me bumping into him.

  “Oh.” Ames pointed at the backpack he carried. “I had Lotte pack us something.”

  I thought of the woman at the bar, who looked like she’d stepped off the stage of a ballet concert. “Is she a dancer?” I asked on a whim.

  Ames finally looked directly at me, one eyebrow raised. “Random question…”

  I tucked my hair behind my ear. “I just … she moves like water.” I shook my head, realizing that probably didn’t make any sense. “She is very graceful—not in how she looks, but how she moves. And she has the best posture of anyone I’ve ever seen.” I mimicked a hunched over appearance. “A lot of people I meet walk like this, with their heads leaning forward.” I pushed up my shoulders. “And rounded shoulders. It’s noticeable.”

  Ames just stared at me, unblinking. I straightened and pushed my hair away, wishing I’d thought to bring a ponytail holder. “I probably sound ridiculous to you.”

  “No.” There was a slight tick in his jaw as he studied me and I became increasingly aware of just how close we were to one another on the bus. He smelled clean, with an undercurrent of something that was uniquely him.

  He’s married, I reminded myself. The last thing I needed, three months after losing Colin was another boyfriend and, as a follow-up, a boyfriend who was already in a committed relationship. Been there, done that, hated myself for it.

  My palms grew sweaty and I rubbed them down the knees of my jeans as the bus hit the brakes, the high squeal penetrating my eardrums and making me wince.

  “Are you alright?”

  I waved him off, wishing to hell that the bus would stop and I could put some physical distance between Ames and me. What had possessed me to readily agree to let a married tour guide show me London? That question didn’t remain unanswered in my mind for long, though: it was because I was impulsive. Make decisions now, question them later: it was practically my life’s motto.

  But when you have parents who dote on your continually ill twin brother, it’s easy to be reckless with your own life. In small, little ways. I wasn’t jumping out of airplanes or eating live bugs—but I was definitely making decisions in the heat of the moment—and ill-prepared for their potential consequences.

  As if he knew I was thinking about him, Jude’s text buzzed on my phone.

  Jude: Seen anything exciting today?

  Quickly, I typed out my reply. Ames seemed, mentally, a million miles away, so he wasn’t paying any mind to what I’d say.

  Me: Not too much. Currently, I am with a group of middle-aged guys who tell me they have candy in their van. It sounds legit.

  Jude: Oh, good. Candy in the UK is better than ours. Well done, Mila.

  Smiling, I turned my phone off and tucked it into my little backpack purse, just as the bus drew to a stop. I followed Ames out and onto the sidewalk and then across the narrow street, pulling my camera from my bag—remembering that I’d need to take the photos I’d forgotten to snap on Westminster Bridge.

  “This is it?” I asked him, holding the camera up and shooting a few photos of the entrance. There was a wrought iron fence, supported by brick-laden beams. It appeared to be a large garden, tucked in a busy neighborhood. Impressive stone buildings loomed on either side of the entrance and a mature tree in the garden spread its branches over the sidewalk we stood on. I looked back at Ames with a question on my face.

  “Come on,” he said, nodding his head and gesturing for me to go first in through the opened gate. Once I’d passed the gates, I instantly felt like I happened upon a secret. Not that the location itself was a secret—after doing research on it the night before, I’d realized this park had been in the movie Closer, so it clearly wasn’t some little off-the-beaten-path gem. But the overall ambiance of a well-kept garden, with paths circling around little green lawns, tucked away in the heart of a big, bustling city felt like I’d driven clear outside the London limits and found myself in a garden that belonged in a book.

  As soon as we passed through the gates, the city noise quieted until only the sound of the breeze gently swaying the trees remained. A few people milled about, on their phones or seated on benches with paper bag lunches on their laps.

  Ames’ hand touched the small of my back and I started, surprised. “Come over here,” he said, and steered me off to the left, in an area that was under shadows this time of day. An awning covered a little walkway—and the way the posts supported its roof reminded me of a horse’s stable. “In Commemoration of Heroic Self Sacrifice” was written in white paint across the front. I snapped a photo, felt Ames’ eyes on me.

  Under the shadowed awning, painted tiles were laid into the wall, surrounded by brown brick. There were names and dates and explanations when I looked at Ames again, I found his green-blue eyes staring bac
k, small creases in the corners that smoothed out slowly when he turned away.

  “You come here often?” I asked, before turning back to the wall and stepping closer for a better look, snapping a couple of the names with my camera. I didn’t look at him as I pulled my camera down and scrolled quickly through my photos.

  “When I need a bit of thinking space, yeah.”

  I didn’t reply to that, just kept snapping photos. I felt his eyes on me still, but I didn’t look back at him, not wanting a distraction just then as I read the names across the tiles, and the acts that earned them a place in this park. I lowered my camera so it hung by its strap around my neck, and decided to take a break from documenting this for the moment.

  The wall of names appeared in contrast to the rest of the park, which was covered in green and red and white from the grass and the trees and the flowers that bloomed in great, round circles throughout the pathways. The names were tucked in a corner, covered in shadow, and gave the impression of being the focus of the park at the same time that it felt like an afterthought.

  I turned around and found Ames leaning up against the post, staring me down. “Hi,” I said, to break the tension I was sure he had to have felt too.

  The side of his mouth lifted. “Hi.” He was just staring at me. I rubbed my suddenly sweaty palms down my jeans, gave him a nervous smile, and turned, my fingers braced on the brick wall that surrounded the decorated tablets installed across it.

  He braced a hand on a pillar and looked up at the names in front of him. “This place gives me hope.” His eyes met mine, but only briefly, and he almost looked embarrassed to have admitted it. Turning to the plaque, he read softly, “’Henry James Bristow. Aged eight.’” He paused, nodding, and I wonder if he too felt the pinch of heartbreak in hearing that age—a life cut short too soon. “’Saved his little sister’s life by tearing off her flaming clothes, but caught fire himself and died of burns and shock.’”

  I let out a heavy sigh, laden with sadness for his family, for the sister whose life he saved. “That gives you hope?”