When I Ran Away, Ilona Bannister [read 50 shades of grey TXT] 📗

and platinum blond lashes that clash with his black, braided wig. He’s wearing a women’s flamenco dress, chest shaved for the occasion. He’s Dutch and he’s married to Livvie.

“Cheers,” I say. “Nice dress.”

“Ah, hello, a sister of the faith, with the Pope. I get it, man! You are well?” Kurt smiles and says this in his almost perfect English without an accent except for the sequence of the words that’s just slightly off.

“Um, yeah, this is sort of an out-of-body experience, but yeah,” I say. Harry puts his arm around my waist, which feels wrong in our outfits, but actually is probably realistic.

“Yes, I told Kurt you’ve never seen Eurovision,” Harry says.

“No, I never heard of it,” I say, and Kurt looks astonished. “Oh, no? It is great. Greatest music party ever.”

“Sure is,” I say, because I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or European.

Livvie, already very drunk, bounds over to us and puts her arms around me. I like her. I know we’ll be friends. “Oh, darling, I’m just so, so, so very happy for you and Harry. So happy. He’s such a good one. Aren’t you, darling?” she says, pulling Harry into a group hug. “I just am so thrilled for you both. Quite annoyed that we didn’t know about the wedding, mind you, but I’ll forgive you because it’s the most romantic story I’ve ever heard. Oh, wait, SHOTS!”

Harry and I laugh and grab our next round of shots from one of the Björks.

“What’s this one for?” I ask. “Big facial hair,” she says, and we look at the screen.

“Wow,” Harry says, adjusting his conical hat. And I can see why. I do my shot and text Sharon:

We’re good lady, thanks. I’m dressed like a nun, Harry’s the Pope, we’re doing shots and watching this Austrian drag queen with a beard sing her ass off

Conchita, with her tiny waist in her gold gown and huge beard, belts away like Celine Dion on screen. Harry pulls me closer toward him. I look around the room, the alcohol sets in, Conchita sings something about being a phoenix and America—home—suddenly feels very far away.

“If she shaved she’d look just like Danielle,” Harry says in my ear, making me laugh and push back the tears.

“Oh my God, you’re right,” I say, my voice cracking, “it’s her drag double. Friggin’ beautiful. Don’t ever let Danielle sing, though.”

But he knows. He takes me by the hand and leads us through the crowd and we find a spot off to the side away from the noise. We stand together, not talking, just watching the contest and the party for a while, his arms around my waist. I lean my head back into his chest. We stay like that. My breathing slows to his rhythm. He kisses the top of my head. A moment of just being. He’s good at that, at catching me right before I fall, at giving me a break from being strong.

“It will get easier,” he says.

“I know.”

Soon the French entry bounds onto the stage. A band called Twin Twin singing their song, “Moustache.” It’s an eighties electro-pop band and they sing in French except for the refrain, “I wanna have a moustache!” The huge screens behind them show massive, flashing handlebar moustache graphics and their background dancers do a move which you can only describe as, well, the moustache.

My phone buzzes. Sharon answers my text.

England sounds weird. Have fun

I take a deep breath, feel the weight of Harry behind me, and then Livvie screams, “Shots! Shots!” in the background. It’s double shots now for the French singing and the facial hair.

I turn to face Harry, straightening my habit. He says, “Have you had enough? Do you want to go?”

“No, I’m good. Get those shots in, John Paul, let’s do this.”

Then we drink and jump around with his friends and yell, “Moustache!” with the crowd. I shout, “Shots!” with Livvie on her coffee table while on the TV Russian identical twins connected at the head by their ponytails start swaying on a giant seesaw. I trade outfits with Kurt. I lead a conga line with Harry’s papal staff. I throw myself in. He watches me, and loves me, and throws himself in too. And someday when I tell him that I need to go home, my first home, I know that he’ll be here when I get back.

London, July 2016; Baby, 7½ months old

The key turns in the lock. Harry’s home. He opens the door and steps over the pile of mail on the floor under the slot. He doesn’t pick it up. He’s been away for a few days for work. How many days has it been? Two? Three?

The boys have been asleep for a couple hours. I must have been sitting here, on the floor by the kitchen table, for at least as long. Asleep maybe, or just staring at the wall.

I think of a hundred things to tell him. About Johnny’s report card and how bad it is and Rocky flipping off the changing table and how I managed to renew the parking permit for the car, he’ll be impressed by that, and then I could tell him about Lorraine because I never told him about her and that I spent a half hour with Johnny tonight working on his reading so that maybe he can catch up by the end of the summer, and how it’s not fair because it’s just his focus is off because his mother is depressed and anxious, and then Harry will hug me and tell me that it’s OK, that Johnny will be OK, that I’m a good mother, I’m a good mother, I’m a good…

“Hello,” Harry says, taking off his tie, throwing his bag down. He steps over a pile of clothes and goes into the kitchen.

“Hi,” I say. There’s a long silence while he roots around looking for a dinner that doesn’t exist. “I, I mean there’s a lot—” I start to say but he interrupts.

“Any food knocking around?”