Unveiled(106)

“I think I’ll pass on the soup,” William says, strolling into the kitchen. Gregory and I both look across to him, seeing him poking at the contents of the pan with the wooden spoon, his nose wrinkled.

“Good call,” Gregory agrees, flashing me a big smile. I narrow suspicious eyes on him, certain he knows more than he’s letting on. And when he coughs and reins in his amusement, getting up from the table to escape my probing eyes, I’m certain of it. “I’ll make something else.”

William’s phone begins to ring, and I look over to see him fishing through his inside pocket. I definitely don’t imagine the mild wave of agitation on his handsome face as he sees the caller’s name on the screen. “I’ll just take this.” He waves his phone at me and strides out of the back door, into our courtyard garden.

As soon as the door closes behind him, I’m up. “I’m going to Miller’s,” I declare, snatching my phone from the table and making my way from the kitchen. I home right in on the certainty that William won’t leave Nan, not even with Gregory. She’ll be safe. Something isn’t sitting right. Everything is telling me so—Gregory’s behavior, William’s feigned coolness… every internal sense I have.

“No, Olivia!”

I never expected to be allowed to leave with ease, which is why I’m running down the hallway before Gregory can catch me or alert William to my escape. “Don’t you dare leave Nan,” I call, breaking free from the house and sprinting down the street toward the main road.

“For fuck’s sake!” Gregory shouts, his frustration traveling down the street with his echo and smacking me in the back. “I hate you sometimes!”

I’m at the tube station in no time. I ignore the persistent ringing of my phone, Gregory and William both trying to reach me, but once I’ve been taken down to the tunnels of London by two escalators, my service dies and I no longer have to reject any more calls.


* * *


I find myself in the stairwell of Miller’s apartment building, taking the steps fast up to the tenth floor without one thought of using the elevator. It feels like forever since I’ve been here. I let myself in quietly to be immediately greeted by soft music filling the apartment. The track sets the tone before I’ve even closed the door behind me. The deep, powerful notes have me hovering on the edge of worry and peace.

I shut the door without a sound and pad around the table, through to the kitchen, finding his iPhone docked in its station. The screen tells me what I’m listening to. The National “About Today.” My eyes drop as the words leak from the speakers and penetrate my mind.

I wander into the lounge, finding what I knew I would. Everything is Miller perfect, and I can’t deny the settling feeling that engulfs me because of it. But my perfect Miller isn’t here. I debate whether I should head for the bedroom or try the studio while I drink in the art that graces the walls of Miller’s apartment. Miller’s art. The beautiful landmarks made to appear almost ugly. Distorted. Beautiful things are mostly noted as beautiful on first sight. Then sometimes you look deeper and discover that they aren’t as beautiful as you first thought. Not many things are as beautiful on the inside as they are on the outside. There are some exceptions, though.

Miller is one of those exceptions.

I find myself falling into a bit of a trance, feeling comforted by the tranquil music. I have no intention of giving it up just yet, despite knowing I need to track down Miller and tell him that he’s nowhere close to losing me. His apartment and everything in it feels like a snuggly blanket closing in on me, wrapping around me to keep me warm and safe. My eyes close, and I breathe in deeply, grabbing on to all of the sensations, images, and thoughts that have brought me so much happiness, like the sofa that I can see clearly in my darkness, where he first made his intentions clear. I remember the bowls of huge, ripe strawberries he had in the kitchen. Melted chocolate on the stove, me pinned to the fridge, Miller’s tongue licking every part of me. It all catapults me to the very beginning. Then in my dark reflections, I wander into his studio and see the chaotic mess that came as such a surprise. An amazingly wonderful surprise. His hobby. The only thing in Miller’s life that’s disordered. Or the only thing until he met me.

I’m spread on his table; he’s drawing lines across my tummy with red paint—or, as I now know, writing his declaration of his love for me there. And “Demons” is playing softly in the background. Never have words been so true.

We’re entwined on his squidgy couch, wrapped up in each other, stuck together so tightly. And the view. It’s almost as beautiful as Miller.