Page 49 of Just Like You
Mine. And his.
“Hey,” I tried. “Look, Julian. I’m in New York, but if I wasn’t, I would come straight to you. Are you at home?”
“I don’t ever want to see you again,” he shouted.
“Why?” I sounded like a child. Like someone who didn’t understand the universe. I did. I got it. Because I felt it too.Why did you leave me? Why are you not here, with me?
“Because you lied! What else did you lie about Kieron? Is that even your real name? Your face is plastered in every newspaper in the UK, and you expect me to believe that…that…”
“What, Julian? What is it you believe? What exactly am I supposed to defend here?”
I wasn’t even sure myself, pacing up and down a deserted office corridor somewhere in lower Manhattan. And there was this massive surge flowing through me. Like I knew what I needed to do. Where I needed to be, and it surely wasn’t here.
He just breathed, loud wheezing noises travelling through the airwaves.
“Julian. Where do you live?”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters. Because I am getting on a plane tonight, and I am coming to you.”
“I’m working tonight. São Paolo. Five-day trip.” He snorted. At least he was still here, and the funny thing was? I was calm. I was so fucking calm.
“Then I’ll come to you. I don’t care what it costs. Where am I going?”
“You can’t do that.”
“I can do whatever I need to do. And I need you.”
“You’ve got a fucking girlfriend!” he howled.
Okay. Julian had a temper. Good. I liked that.
“Gina.” I sighed. “Gina De Santo. I’ve known her since we were thirteen and ended up in the same temporary foster home. This was before I was sent to Ralphie’s. Gina went to her Auntie in Twickenham. We kept in touch because when you have no family, you make your own.”
“So now you are trying to get me to believe that you’re just friends and never fucked. She wrote a bloody autobiography, Kieron. Sonny read it and quoted me selected parts.”
“Who is Sonny?”
“Someone I trust.”
“I see.”
“And I don’t trust you. Not anymore.”
“You should.”
“Shut the fuck up!” he screamed.
Okay. I was right here. And he wasn’t slamming the phone down.
“Where do you live, Julian? Can you give me an address?”
“No.” I could almost picture him pouting.
“I’m not having this. You’re really upset, and I doubt anything I say now will help. So give me an address.”
I knew how to get my way, and even with him? I had to make this work. Needed to, because this week had been awful, and now I had him within reach. Whatever that meant.
