Love's Forbidden Flower (36 page)

After a brief razzing and some third degree questioning, Christopher spares me with a tour of the opulent manor that boasts elegant windows and ceilings dripping with ornamentation. The vastness leaves me feeling swallowed: six bedrooms, three reception rooms, a conservatory, a breakfast room, a dining room, dressing rooms, and a staggering amount of bathrooms. The premises also include a snooker room, stables, and an indoor pool.

The sum of the beautiful rooms pales in comparison to the commanding office that belonged to Christopher’s father. The imposing wooden chamber resembles a museum covered in signed photos, awards, and gold and platinum records that span decades. No space is vacant of treasure.

Christopher’s boastfulness is uncharacteristic as he guides me to a scratchy black and white photo of five handsome young men and points to the only one who doesn't look familiar. “That's me dad. The snap was taken in 1965, just before he quit the band and started managing and producing. He somehow had a hand in every record you see on the walls here. He helped shape music history.”

“I can’t believe one man touched all of this.” I marvel at the surroundings before being distracted by the whimsy of a paper map taped haphazardly to the wall. Its character is completely out of place among the framed and polished gems. “Christopher, why are there darts in this map?”

With a small chuckle he scratches his head. “Mum put it up when they had the row of all rows. She took three darts and threw them at it. I was told to pick one and that's where we were going. It's a bloody good thing she took a choice of three because the first one landed in Ethiopia and the second in Antarctica. Dad left this as a reminder not to be stupid anymore.”

I marvel at the dart that annihilated my hometown’s location. It is responsible for so many things that have happened in my life, including this very moment. Venturing closer to the records on the wall, I seem to have entered the Twilight Zone. Several of the faces are ones I turned to years before when I accepted my decision not to follow Christopher. Many of my biggest moments are foreshadowed within these walls.

Processing my situation with Donovan is still challenging. Often the reality of our emotions, his struggles, and the mental image of him in a straightjacket send me cowering with private tears. He's the primary of two things avalanching my thoughts. The second of which is uncovering all of Christopher's dynamics.

“Is there a significance as to why you brought me here on my first day sightseeing?” I ask while sitting next to Christopher on a picnic blanket, looking over the legendary countryside. The vibrant colors of nature brought forth by England’s ongoing war between sun and rain fail to disappoint.

“Not at all. I thought you might like something easy and to get some fresh air.” His casual tone turns serious, almost stern. “Lilyanna, how someone could go to pastry school and lose weight is beyond me. You've turned very thin.”

He's right, and joking gets me nowhere. “So you're saying I'm thin and pasty, or in other words, I look British?”

“No, luv. No joke. You look ill. The only other time I've been around a girl so sick she was up the duff or when Mum left Dad for America. I know you've been through a lot, but I'm terribly worried.”

His words freak the crap out of me. I'm not pregnant. A routine of doubling up on protection has me certain of it. But it’s a curious subject for Christopher to bring up. He hit the nail on the head though about leaving someone I love behind. “I don’t do well under stress. When you moved I barely slept for weeks.” Christopher’s eyes turn downward as he shutters a barely discernable wince. “Please don’t feel bad. I thought I'd lost you forever. I can’t tell you how many times I almost begged you to wait for me to graduate.”

Christopher’s head snaps towards me before sagging and appearing downright shameful. Often he’s riddled with extraneous remorse, but an expression of true disgrace is surprising. “I wish you had. There's so much I'd have done differently. I made loads of mistakes I'm not very proud of.” His hidden features tell he’s opened a vault of filth his eyes don’t want to peer into. “Oh, I suppose I've stepped in it now. I'd really rather not discuss this for fear it'll color your opinion of me.”

“If it makes you feel better I've a few things I'd rather not discuss. I've no shame, but I fear you’d think badly of me as well.”

Christopher's unnervingly fast to resort to his chipper self. He dusts his hands off as if to discard reality. “Very well then. Let’s agree that the last two years never happened. As far as we're concerned, I came here and brought you with me. It's all we ever need to think of.”

The last thing I want is to continue this conversation, but if this pact ever fails and Christopher uncovers my end, the results could be ruinous. “I'm totally fine with that. As far as you and I are concerned, the last two years didn't happen.”

“Good!”

“But what if someday you learn something about me that repulses you? Are we going to ignore that?”

Again he's lightning fast to answer. “Lilyanna, I strongly doubt you've ever done anything that would make me lose respect for you. We'll promise to regard the other’s privacy. I hereby waive my right to ask you about the last two years.”

“I'll do the same, but first I really need to ask you something, else I may never sleep again. I'll word it very carefully, so I'd appreciate if you'd answer the question.” I sense his muscles tense—obviously afraid I'm onto him. “Are you, or are you about to become, a father?”

Over his face he wears a shroud of betrayal. “No. I wish it were that honest.”

Reaching out to him, my hand strokes the hair from his face as I search for understanding. His snail’s pace in moving forward isn’t just for my benefit. We both need a little time to heal. “Hey, for the record, I still think you're exactly the same amazing person I always knew you to be. I never deserved you.”

“Hey! That’s
my
line! Bloody hell, Lilyanna you can’t go stealing my lines!” While snuggling next to him, he kisses my head. “I never deserved you before, and I certainly don’t now.”

“Get over it, because I'm beginning to think you're stuck.”

A veil of relief colors his voice, “Jammy I hope so.”

“Wow. It’s only been a few weeks. I thought it would be months.” I hoped it would be months yet also feared it. Worry for Donovan is constant, which makes me feel the need to both see him immediately and avoid him like the plague.

“Donovan's a very determined man. You and I spoke of the four-steps to recovery, beginning with the admission of issues and accepting their implications. He is beginning the third step, which is developing survival tools. Step four will be the most challenging. He must face issues and the damage done to him head on, fix what he can, and cope with the unchangeable. That can only be done upon obtaining the truth. I will be in the room, but please speak as if I'm not. I will stop you if necessary.”

A moment later Donovan slips into Dr. Coe’s seat, having benefited by a little sun and exercise. The glow of the pre-abuse Donovan glints through. “Lily, I've been worried out of my mind. I knew they were trying to reach you, but no one would tell me anything.”

“I'm fine.” I start to blow off the trauma of the last few weeks but remember the doctor’s words. “I wasn’t. I was really sick. I—” My words stall with a deep breath in realization of how much I don’t want to tell him the truth. “I’m in England.”

Everything, from the time Donovan sped off to the present, is spilt whether he wants to hear it or not. With each new event his expression alters, and he certainly morphs through plenty. Once all is blurted, Donovan decides to be the pleasantly cocky version of himself; the one that's really him talking. “Okay, wait. You're telling me that Christopher is”—rapidly he blinks his eyes and rattles his head—“loaded, you're in some fancy house, and his dad was some famous guy who produced like every one of those scrawny dudes Mom drooled over?”

“And then some.”

“Wow! Does Mom know this?”

“Oh God, no! If I tell her she'll be on the next plane with the intent of shagging the two brothers who are still single.”

In the background I hear Dr. Coe repress a chortle. I’m sure he is taking notes on that little tidbit.

Donovan looks as green as a Martini olive before earnestly turning his thoughts back to his challenge. “I always knew Christopher would be there for you, just like I knew you were torn because you still love him.” His eyes divert from the infinity pendant around my neck. The ring Christopher gave me that still sits on my hand becomes his new point of attention. “Don’t feel bad. I know you'll always love me too. I remember every time you ever showed it, and in every way. Even now I still see it in your eyes.”

Did he have to call me out on it? His truth makes my words strangling. “There you are shooting to the gut again. I used to wonder why you were such the jealous type yet you wanted me to stay in touch with him.”

“I promised to always look out for you, so I took precautions.”

“And you always have. How are you doing
with everything
?”

The question seems to enliven his spark. “A bit better since I realized we're not freaks. Did you know that 10-15% of college age people have had relations with a sibling and 5-10% of those are sexual? There are 7000 students in my school; so about 725 had something going on at some point. Granted some is abusive or sexual curiosity, but we're definitely not alone.”

“We're so not alone. The Internet is filled with stories like ours. Finding them is easy once you know where to look. But what about you, Donovan? How are you really? And please don’t dodge the question.”

He looks a tad disgruntled. “I still feel like a screw-up, but that’s Dad yammering. The funny thing is that had Mom and Dad left me alone I think I'd be more free-spirited like Christopher. Ironic that I'd be like the guy stealing you away, huh?”

Certainly the doctor will stop me, but my pain deserves expressing. A piece of paper on the desk beckons me to watch its fibers shred as I tear it into tiny pieces while choking back tears. “Donovan, are you absolutely certain this is what you want?”

His eyes drop, slowly following the edges of the calendar blotter on the desk, then staring at the boxes as if they are a giant blur. “It’s not what I want at all, but it’s what we both need.”

“I feel robbed.” I slap down the paper and grab back his attention. Facing Donovan is the only way to start accepting the complete impact of our loss. “We didn't get a chance to last or fail on our own. I want that chance. People have raped us of our rights.”

The sensitive voice of Dr. Coe emanates from off screen. Donovan’s head snap towards it as a respected source of trust and wisdom. “Maybe I can help. First, look at the things you miss about each other, and see what you can have again. Then start accepting what you can’t.”

My list could on for days, but I start simply. “Every moment we had, no matter what we were doing, was somehow wonderfully romantic. I especially miss all the notes you used to leave in the strangest places. You always made me feel incredibly loved.”

Donovan’s eyes fall back to the desk, again unable to face me. “Christopher doesn’t?”

“He does. It's just different with you.”

“I miss that too.” Mental construction seems to occupy Donovan, as if trying to use those tools the doctor spoke of. “But you know, that’s all right because that was us. I promise to never leave those notes for anyone else, and I'm glad Christopher isn't doing that with you. It shows how special we are.”

Audible relief releases from me as the doctor’s approach starts to take hold. His voice returns, but this time Donovan’s focus on me doesn't waiver. “That’s perfect. Also, try to find reasons to not be together. Legitimate ones that don't involve your blood relations or society. Ones where you don't feel victimized.”

“That is going to be a lot harder.”

Donovan solemnly agrees. “Yeah, that may not be possible.”

Already up and dressed, I'm making tea as Christopher enters the kitchen for a cup of coffee to bring to me. Racing up to him with his cup, my lips grace his for the first time in years. “Good morning, luv!”

“Cock-a-hoop someone must have slept well! What’s your pleasure today?” he asks.