Page 31 of Only After We Met

“What’s his name?” Dad asked.

“Rhys. He’s from America. And I didn’t say anything because it’s not important; he’s just a friend. We talk, we tell each other things, that’s all.”

Obviously my parents knew nothing about the day I broke up with Dean, decided to catch a plane, and wound up in Paris with a backpack with panties, socks, and crackers in it. The only person in my family who knew was Donna. I was almost surprised she’d kept the secret, even if she hadn’t managed to stay quiet about Rhys. I guess my relationship with him was so special I wanted to keep it to myself, like a possession a person likes so much they never use it because they’re scared of breaking or damaging it. I wanted to preserve Rhys. And in a way, I liked it just beingourthing. I wondered if he had told anyone about me. Knowing him, my guess would be no.

“What’s he do?” my father asked.

I shook my head and took a deep breath. “He’s a DJ. And a composer.”

And he’d never let me hear his stuff, but I said nothing about that. I noticed Dad scowl and look down at his plate.

Donna smiled. “I think he’s fascinating. Everything about him.”

“Everything?”

“Everything she’s told me.”

“What’s so fascinating?” Dad asked.

“Well, he travels all over the world, right, Ginger? All by himself. What a great way to get to know yourself.” Donna read a million self-help books a year, and even though she’d studied fine arts, she had the soul of a psychologist, and my father hated it. “And he doesn’t make spelling errors. That’s always a plus.”

“I guess so,” Mom agreed.

Talking about Rhys with my family was the last thing in the world I felt like doing. Apart from spending half the summer going to work with Dad, I mean. And unfortunately, those two subjects took up our entire conversation during the meal. And so, when we got home to our residential neighborhood in East London, I was almost happy to have a little time to myself to unpack my bags.

My old room was just as I’d left it when I went off to college. It was so ordinary, it could have been a set for a cheesy teen movie. A corkboard full of pictures of my high school friends, friends I talked to less and less because we had taken different paths, and others with Dean and me posing like lovebirds. My sister was there too, clowning around when we were little. Then there was the desk at the wall with its pretty floral wallpaper, covered in pens, notebooks, and aromatic candles, right near the bookshelf and the closet.

I wanted to find a room to rent when I graduated next year. I would start working at the family firm and go out on my own at the same time. Lots of people I knew did that when they turnedeighteen, but I’d been lucky enough to get room and board with my scholarship. Anyway, prices in London were so high that living on your own was like mission impossible.

Donna came in without knocking.

“Mom’s asking if you want spinach and cheese quiche for dinner. Since we just ate, she’s obviously already thinking about what to make next.”

“Yeah, that’s fine for me.”

She sat down next to me on the bed. “Are you mad at me?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“You know. Because of Rhys.”

“I’m not mad,” I said.

“Ginger…it’s okay if you are. You can even shout at me if you need to. It’s your right. To tell the truth, I was surprised you hadn’t mentioned him to Mom. I just assumed she knew, and… I don’t know, I thought it was funny. But then I was thinking maybe you wanted to keep it to yourself, right?”

I nodded, but I didn’t shout. I just couldn’t. Still worse, I didn’t know how. How can a person be incapable of expressing anger, rage, or fury? Maybe I was scared that people would stop loving me if I did. Maybe I thought it was best to be the other way, sweet little agreeable Ginger. I was scared to disappoint the people around me. I was afraid not to give my best to people.

I guess that’s why I agreed to work that summer.

And that’s why I still hadn’t talked to Dean…

And that’s why I couldn’t scream at Donna…

And that’s why…that’s why…I had a knot in my throat most of the time, as if all the things I couldn’t express had gotten stuck thereinside me, hidden in some corner. But a little bit of that I could let out. With Rhys. With him, I was myself.

“You’re right, the whole thing with Rhys doesn’t matter…”

“It does matter,” Donna insisted. Sometimes I had the feeling my sister was actively trying to stretch the bond between us tighter, that she was testing me.