Page 42 of The Sun and Her Star

He stimulates my mind, stirs my heart, and for as long as I’ve been able to understand what it means, he has turned me on. My body hums when he’s nearby. When he touches me, everything pulses and throbs and liquifies. I want to crawl into his lap and live there. I want to plant my flag on his heart and make it mine. I want it all.

Eros is one of the most well-known of the Greek gods. But most people call him by his Roman name—Cupid. The idea that some mischievous, winged god is flying around shooting unwilling humans and causing them to fall hopelessly, irrevocably in love with the next person they see is ridiculous.

Except, it’s not. Eros’s arrow hit me and sent me flying off a cliff when I was eleven years old. Then, I thought of him in the only context my mind could create—as a friend, someone I cared for deeply. But even if my mind couldn’t understand, my heart knew the difference. And there are large, red hot pieces of it that are his.

Forever.

Loving him doesn’t feel like a choice.

The lack of control I feel is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating.

“This bridge is so interesting.” Graham’s observation interrupts my thoughts, and I follow his gaze upward at the web of cables that hold the foot bridge up.

“Do you want to know what it’s called?” I ask him brightly.

“No, but I have a feeling the queen of the obscure and random fact is about to tell me anyway,” he says dryly.

“Well since you asked so nicely …” I giggle when he groans.

“Just keep it short, stick to the highlights; I don’t need to know the architect’s name or why he was fired after only a few weeks on the job,”

“Ha-ha, very funny.” I elbow him.

“I was just thinking that’s an interesting setup, the way the train runs down the middle of the bridge.” He nods at the train that rumbles past us.

“It’s incredible, right? I read all about it somewhere. But basically, the footbridges had been closed for a hundred and fifty years or something like that because apparently, they were in the way when they built Charring Cross Station. They reopened them to celebrate the Queen’s Jubilee—and it’s called the Jubilee Footpath, by the way—but they just had to figure out how to get around all the stuff they’d laid down to build Charring Cross. And get this, there were all these unexploded World War two bombs in the river that they had to detonate and all.”

“Why in the world do you even know that, Apollo?” Graham asks as he leads us up a new street.

I shrug. “I looked it up when I was learning more about the area after the trip I took with Papa and Arti.”

“Oh, did you walk across here when you came with them?”

“No, I don’t think so, but … it’s around the place where we—” I stop dead in my tracks and turn slowly to look at Graham. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest.

He’s smiling like the cat who just ate a bowl full of cream. My eyes fly around us, and I see it.

“Oh my God.” I look back and gaze up at the man who hangs the moon for me. “Youremembered.”

“Of course, I did,” he says in that sexy drawl of his that I’m so glad he hasn’t lost. He runs his hands through his long hair and bites his bottom lip in that way he does when he’s trying to hide his smile.

“I can’t believe you remembered,” I repeat to myself, my eyes stinging with tears as I gaze up at him.

“Look,” he says and nods ahead of us. I follow his gaze, and my heart catches in my throat when I realize we’re standing in Trafalgar Square.

I stare up at the tall spire of Nelson’s Column that rises up between the four lions that sit like guardians on each corner of the statue’s platform.

It’s like falling through time. Nothing has changed. Except for the gaping hole in my life where my father and sister used to be.

I let go of Graham’s hand and race toward the statue, and just as I’m about to approach it, I realize I can’t remember which of the four lions we’d sat on. My heart constricts when I realize I’ve forgotten. I’ve tried so hard to hold on to every memory. To not forget what my sister’s voice sounded like, to not forget how my Papa’s hair smelled like the clove cigarettes he smoked whenever Maman wasn’t around.

I shut my eyes and take a deep breath and let my mind wander back to that day. Papa had promised that if we didn’t whine once while we were in the National Portrait Gallery, we could climb one of the lions on the statue outside.

I can feel Papa’s warm gloved hand squeezing my mitten covered right hand. Arti’s holding his other hand. We’re laughing and trying to make Papa walk faster. It’s already dark, and the wind has a frigid nip to it as we rush down the steps. We’re almost at the statue when a cluster of pigeons fly right over our heads. Arti and I scream at the same time, and Papa bends over to reassure us that the pigeons have no interest in us. “Look at them. They’ve already forgotten you. They’ve gone to bother St. Martin.” He points to his left toward the big church across from the square.

My eyes snap open, and I whirl around to look for Graham. I spot him right away, leaning on one of the black iron posts that ringed the lions and Nelson’s column, watching me with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

“I remember which one it was,” I yell back at him. He pushes off the post and heads toward me.

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