Page 20 of Georgia: Britain's Story: Part 1
It only takes me a couple of minutes to come back to the land of the living, but once I do, I immediately lunge for my laptop, flipping it open. I’m on a damn mission now.
I open Google and search “London Scott, DC,” but the hits aren’t what I’m looking for, so I try again. “Britain Scott, DC,” and…jackpot. I click on a LinkedIn account forBritain Scott, Lead UI/UX Designer for Scott Technologies. Her headshot is what stops me in my tracks. She’s really pretty.Still. Not in the fake, Botox and spray tan way that most of my exploits are. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.) She’s just even better than if I tried to imagine what became of that 18-year-old girl I used to know.
I click back to Google, scanning for more info. There are news articles that all say basically the same thing: “Scott Technologies Sells for Staggering $100 million, Damian Scott Will Remain as CEO.” I click on a Scott Technologies bio link and am brought to Britain’s ‘About Me’ page.
“Britain Scott, Leading UI/UX designer, recipient of a UX Design Award. Bachelor of Fine Art degree in Graphic Design from George Washington University Corcoran School of the Arts and Design. Mother of 2, residing in Virginia.” This short blurb is joined with another headshot. Her hair is a bit longer in this one, but there’s no mistaking that it’s the Britain I used to know, and that she’s beautiful.
Britain
“And this, this is the pièce de résistance!” Tori uses one arm to wave at the street in front of us like Vanna White, while the other holds the steering wheel of the golf cart. How she drives this in 5-inch heels boggles my mind. Yet I’m not surprised in the least that she handles it with ease. Right now, we’re parked right at the mouth of the court I drove past when I first entered. The street with the cracked boulder sitting sentry, so close I could reach out and touch it.
“It’s an empty street,” I say, with a slight tremble to my voice, my hands clenching down on the leather golf cart seats. I’m trying to manage the unease coursing through me, partly due to motion sickness caused by her speedy golf cart maneuvers over the hilly streets. Oh, and the fact that we’re in the exact spot that changed my life all those years ago. I never thought I’d be back in this town, let alone back in thisexactspot.
Completely ignoring my comment, Tori continues, “On the left is the largest of our three estate lots at 2.5 acres. It features thebestview in the entire development. On the right are two smaller, 1-acre lots, which luckily for you, are both available!”Why is this lucky for me?
“What about this lot, though? The 2.5 acres, it’s not available?” At this point, I’m just asking questions to prolong the period we’re sitting on the side of the road instead of moving. I would hate to puke on her Louboutins.
“Uh, uh, I never said itwasn’tavailable. For the right price, the developer may be willing to part with it,” she says in a way that screamsused car salesman.
“So, this is like the developer’s personal lot?”
“Yup, but between you and me,” she leans in close, “I could probably get him to part with it if you’re interested.” So, she’s the developer’s girlfriend? That is if I’m picking up what she’s putting down correctly. I could really give two shits about any of this right now, and I’d say or do just about anything to get the fuck out of here. No matter how many hints I’ve dropped about wanting to end this tour, Tori has just continued on with her master plan. There’s no way she’s that daft to have missed EVERY single one of my suggestions.
I begin to form a plan. “Hmm…” I fake a pondering noise, then “ooooh.” I grimace and place a hand on my tummy where my imaginary illness is suddenly originating from.
“Tori, I really don’t think I’m feeling very well all of sudden.” And then I fake a little gag off the side of the golf cart. I have to play this carefully since I actually am nauseated already. I sit back up and turn to face Tori, whose face has gone pale, almost green.
“Oh my god, we have to get you back. Please don’t throw up. Hold it, please!” Tori pleads with me. I throw my hand over my mouth in mock illness, but really I’m hiding the smile that saysvictory.
We’re finally back and parked outside the cafe. Tori ushers me back into the sales office with lots of encouragement to use the bathroom while she pops over to the cafe to get me a ginger ale.Damnit, I just want the keys!
As soon as Tori is back out the door walking the several paces to the cafe, I let out a deep sigh.I’m gonna kill Jess for picking this rental. A sound from the back office pulls my attention in time to see a man walk out.
A man I know.
A man who’s aged like fine wine, impeccably. His thick hair has gone silver and is styled effortlessly; he could legit be a hair model. His skin is tanned the perfect amount, probably naturally from swimming laps or something. He still looks like he’s in his 30’s even though I know he must be nearly 50 now. He’s just as tall and built as I remember. His muscles, visible from the tight fit of his dress shirt, are full and begging to be touched. My breath hitches. I really wasn’t expecting to run into someone I used to know right now, on my first day back, let aloneWilliam.
“Hi, Britain.” His voice is low and commanding, just like I remember.
“Hi…uh…” I flounder, not sure what to call him. William? Mr. Millar? I decide formal is the best route, “Mr. Mi-”
He cuts me off quickly. “Please, you know it’s Liam,” he says in a gentle voice that entices familiarity.
“Of course. Liam,” I say with a smile. My cheeks have likely gone full beet by now. He holds out his arm towards me, thoroughly confusing me until he turns his palm over, revealing a set of keys.
“Were you looking for these?” He asks with a sly smile on his face.Oh my god, I could kissyou, runs through my head.
“If I say yes, will you let me have them?” I ask cautiously.
He laughs, then says, “Blink twice if you’re being held against your will.” And I blink, many many times, which only elicits more laughter from him. He reaches out, taking my hand in his. He gently opens my fingers and places the keys in my palm, then closes them back over again. His touch is so gentle and warm. Something in me ignites, like a spark. It’s faint, like a pilot light, but it’s there. We look up at each other even though his hand remains clasped over mine and I know he feels it, too. Well, I think he feels it, too. I’ll be the first to admit I might be crap at reading other people’s intentions.
He slowly releases my hand and takes one step back, away from me. Our eyes are still locked, but I know I need to get going. I’d hate to be here when Tori returns. I turn to leave and am almost out the door when he calls to me,
“I’ll see you around, yeah?” His words rip me from the cocoon of our previous moment and thrust me into the present. The words are all too familiar in an all too familiar voice, and my spine goes rigid.Is he trying to remind me? Is he trying to cut me with those same words?I don’t know whether to just keep walking or turn around and tell him off. Old Britain would have turned her face to the ground and walked away, but new Britain is a good bit stronger. So I turn around and pierce him with a gaze as cold as ice. My reply is one word, filled with the weight of 17 years of anger and pain.
“Doubtful.”
Once he registers the look on my face and the tone of my voice, his face drops, and drains of all its color.
