“I could’ve been halfway home by now!” I march to the wardrobe, enraged and astounded that he didn’t think Nan’s heart attack was a good enough reason to disturb my sleep. I yank the sports bag out of the dresser and begin stuffing what I can inside. Much of the stuff I’ve bought since arriving will have to stay. We had planned to buy suitcases but haven’t gotten around to doing it yet. Now I haven’t the time to worry about leaving behind hundreds of dollars’ worth of clothing.
My frantic packing is disturbed when the bag is taken from my hands and thrown to the floor. My emotions won’t remain contained any longer. “You arsehole!” I scream in his face, then proceed to bash the side of my fist into his shoulder. He doesn’t move or reprimand me on it. He’s impassive and cool. “You arsehole, you arsehole, you arsehole!” I strike him again, my frustration building at his unresponsive approach. “You should have woken me!” Both fists are working now, repeatedly hitting him in the chest. I’ve lost control of my emotions and my flailing body. I just want to lash out, and Miller is the only thing in my proximity. “Why?” I fall into his chest, exhausted and overcome with grief. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He holds up my weak body, one hand cupping the back of my head, pushing me into him, the other working soothing circles into my lower back. I’m hushed repeatedly, kissed over and over on top of my head until my sobs abate and I’m left sniveling sporadically into his shoulder.
Taking my cheeks, he holds my contorted face in his hands. “I’m sorry if you feel like I’ve betrayed you…” He pauses, watching me cautiously, and I’m certain it’s because he knows I’m not going to like his next words. “We can’t go back to London, Olivia. It’s not safe.”
“Don’t you dare, Miller!” I try to locate some fortitude, something that’ll show him that it’s not up for discussion. “Call William and tell him we’re coming home.”
I can see his torment. It’s written all over his tight face.
I can’t find that fortitude. “Just get me home!” I beg, brushing away my falling tears. “Please, take me to my nan.”
I see defeatism crawl across his pained face as he nods mildly. It’s a reluctant nod. He’s not prepared himself to go home. He’s being pushed into a corner.
CHAPTER SIX
His palm on my nape has been a constant source of comfort since we left New York. At JFK, on the plane, through Heathrow, every available opportunity to hold me has been taken. It has been needed and welcomed. I’ve been quite oblivious to our surroundings, not even getting myself worked up each time our passports have been checked. Between gentle kneads of my nape, my mind has only allowed me to think about Nan.
We had time to buy suitcases. Too much time. I told Miller to go buy them himself, but my order was totally ignored. He was right. I would have only moped around the suite, driving myself up the wall if left alone. So we went shopping together, and I couldn’t help appreciating Miller’s attempts to try to distract me. He asked my opinion on what color, size, and style of suitcase we should buy, not that my answer counted for anything. After telling him I liked the red, fabric range, I half listened to the reasons why we should buy the graphite, leather Samsonite range.
Once we’ve collected our new suitcases from baggage arrivals and I’ve vaguely registered Miller’s annoyance at the few scuffs on the leather, we emerge from Arrivals into the cool evening air at Heathrow. I spot William’s driver before Miller and quickly make my way over, jumping in the back after giving him a courteous nod. He joins Miller at the back of the car to help load the bags.
Then Miller slips in beside me and rests his hand on my knee. “My place, Ted,” he instructs.
I lean forward. “Thank you, Ted, but can you take me straight to the hospital?” I ask it as a question, but there’s no choice of answer, and my tone tells Ted that.
Miller’s gaze is burning into my profile, yet I won’t allow myself to confront him. “Olivia, you’ve just gotten off a six-hour flight. The time differ—”
“I’m going to see my nan,” I grind through a clenched jaw, knowing my tiredness has nothing to do with Miller protesting. “I’ll find my own way there if you’d rather go home.” I see Ted’s eyes in the mirror, flicking between me and the road. They’re smiling eyes. Fond eyes.
Miller makes a point of displaying his frustration with a long, over-the-top sigh. “The hospital, please, Ted.”