Burned

Chapter 4

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Alistair's POV

An hour after Thena's retreat, I'm still sitting at the table with two half-eaten plates before me. The waiter came to clear them when Thena left, but I waved him away. I don't know why. Maybe because I hoped she'd come back, and we'd continue having breakfast. Maybe because I'm just delusional. "Delulu is the solulu", I overheard a teenage girl say in a cafe two weeks ago. I'd chuckled at the statement, thinking it utterly ridiculous, but if I'm being honest with myself, I've been operating by that mantra ever since I saw Thena in the train station yesterday. I somehow deluded myself into thinking we could work our way through our issues without addressing said issues. I thought we could sweep it under the carpet; but dead bodies start to stink, no matter how well you hide them. And this body I've hid is decaying at a pace that is impossible to ignore.

Eventually, I get up and make my way upstairs to my room. It's not like I left anything here, I just want to see it one last time - to imagine what could have been if I hadn't royally screwed up my life. I imagine Thena and I could have visited Lewes, just the two of us. Although we'd have been married for six months, we'd still be basking in the newly wed bliss. I reckon we'd be in that bubble for years and years, because Thena and I are no ordinary romance. Ours is the love talked about in legends: undying, unchanging, ever evolving. We'd have come to Lewes with bicycles, and cycled around the entire town. The days would have been spent exploring Lewes'  nooks and crannies, and the nights... well, let's just say there would have been no need for separate rooms.

But I have royally screwed up my life, and this fantasy is only that - a fantasy, and I stand alone in the middle of a room in a strange town. Thena is gone, and I can't go after her. So I walk into her room, where her scent still lingers in the air, and enjoy what's left of her, of us. And then I leave the inn and head to the train station, and back to London though everything in me screams to go to Seaford.

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London is rainy and gloomy when I arrive - a tapestry of grey that perfectly matches my sombre mood - and it gives me a little comfort. It is as if the sky grieves with me, as if it acknowledges my loss. When I get to my apartment in Kensington, I'm surprised to find the door unlocked. It's highly unlikely I've been robbed, given the security of the area and my building, but I'm still cautions as I enter. I make my way through the foyer, and find everything intact. I assume if someone intended to steal from me, they'd begin with the Morgenthau Plan by Anselm Kiefer that still hangs undisturbed. But then again, the thief may not recognise valuable art. In the living room, I find everything undisturbed again, so the theft theory is quickly discarded. This is not a break in, but an unwelcome visit. And since there are only two people with a key to my apartment and I'm currently not on speaking terms with one of them, it's easy to guess who my visitor is.

Opening my room door, I find out my guess is correct. Lying sprawled out on my bed, like he owns the place is Archie, the man who has been a constant thorn in my side since we were nine year olds.
"Archibald" I call out his full name because I know how much he detests it. "Why are you in my house, on my bed wearing shoes, like a heathen?"
"Because I am a heathin', honey" he says, exaggerating his Texan drawl. "Isn't that what all you tea drinking Brits think about us humble Americans?"
"Humble indeed" I respond sarcastically.

You see, Archie here is worth his weight in gold - multiplied by a few thousand. The only son of the owner of Oleum Co, which happens to be America's largest oil company, he's anything but humble. Now if you're wondering why his name is Archibald of all things, a name that is so quintessentially English and aristocratic, you can almost smell centuries of oppressing the working class behind it, that's all thanks to his English mother. Try as she might (and try she did), her efforts to give her son even a modicum of English grace were fruitless. After years at Eton and Cambridge, Archie remains... well, Archie. That is to say, completely American. He has refused to shed his Southern accent, despite the fact that he has spent more of his life here than in America, and is often found sporting a cowboy hat. Worst of all, he has deemed himself "my bestest friend in all the world", and is "determined to fix my sad lil' English soul".