Page 58 of The Ring
“I don’t mind taking you home,” I interrupt her. “Do you want to go now?”
She thinks for a second. “Yes, but could you tell Anthony you’re taking me home because I’m tired and not to worry? I would go myself, but if he sees me, he’ll worry, and I don’t want him to.”
I nod, getting up from the floor. I’m not thrilled to be the one to tell Anthony. I’ve been avoiding him since what happened, and part of me is afraid he’ll insist on taking her himself. But if she goes alone, there’s no doubt Anthony would take her, and I’m not about to waste this opportunity to spend time with her.
Chapter 31
TJ
My worries about speaking to Anthony were unfounded. He was surprisingly calm about it. He seemed a bit concerned for her, of course, but he didn’t seem to mind me taking her home. Unexpected, but I’ll take my wins where I can get them and not give it a second thought.
We get to the valet, and they bring out my car. Sometimes I take a town car, but since I wasn’t planning on drinking tonight, I drove myself.
I drive a Porsche Cayenne, and the only reason I do is because of Cornelia. Last year, she went car shopping with me. I was leaning towards an Aston Martin V12 Speedster or a McLaren Speedtail, but she found the first too impractical for London’s rainy weather and wasn’t too keen on the design of the latter. Then we saw the Cayenne. She said that if I bought it, we’d match, and I couldn’t resist. She doesn’t drive much—she doesn’t like it—but when she does, it’s in her Porsche 911 Carrera, in the exact same shade of brown as mine.
As soon as Cornelia gets into my car, her phone connectsautomatically to the Bluetooth—it’s as if the car misses her as much as I do.
Cor points to her phone. “Is it okay if I–”
I nod. “Go ahead.”
She puts on some music, and I start to drive. For most of the journey, we stay quiet, like we’re both too nervous to say something that might ruin everything. Regardless, it’s nice driving through London knowing she’s by my side.
After twenty minutes, we arrive at her house. Cornelia lives on Portland Place in Marylebone, in a townhouse valued at around £65 million. It’s a five-level residence with six bedrooms—not including the ones for staff—along with a gym, a lift, a spa, a cinema, and an indoor pool.
I walk her to the door. She opens it, but she doesn’t step inside, and I don’t move to leave. We both stand there in awkward silence. She glances inside, then back to me. “Would you like to come in? We can watch a movie… or something?” she asks, sounding hesitant.
I feel like we’re both tiptoeing around, and I hate it. I’d rather have us arguing than feeling uncomfortable. Most of the time, even when we’re fighting, it feels natural. And right now, we’re acting like we’re business associates or something like that; it’s unsettling.
“Only if I get to pick what we’re watching,” I reply, trying to lighten the mood.
Cornelia chuckles as she steps inside, and I follow her in. She looks lighter, almost as if she’s been waiting for me to break the ice. “It’s my birthday, so it’s only fair if I choose, don’t you think?”
Being inside this house feels strange. It makes me a bit nauseous, yet oddly happy at the same time. I haven’t set foot in here for nearly seven months, and back then I practically lived here—it feels like a lifetime ago. But being here with Cornelianow, it’s as if no time has passed. It feels like coming home, though it isn’t the house that brings that feeling. It’s her. Ever since I’ve known her, she’s always been my home.
“Technically, it’s already the second of April—the day after your birthday.”
“Po-ta-toes, po-tah-toes,” she waves her hand dismissively, heading down the stairs towards the cinema room in the basement, and I follow her. “Andtechnically, we’re still within my 24-hour birthday window.”
“Your what?” I ask. I know exactly what she’s referring to, but I still want her to explain again. Everything she says and does is endlessly fascinating to me.
She sighs. “I have told you this plenty of times, TJ. I was born on the first of April at 10:27 p.m., so technically I turn twenty-one and one day old on the second of April at 10:27 p.m. Ergo, we’re still in my twenty-four-hour birthday window,” she says, as though it’s common knowledge and not something she made up.
“Fine, you can choose,” I give in as we arrive at the cinema, making it sound like I’m making a huge sacrifice—and as if I didn’t already know that whatever I said wouldn’t change the fact that she’s choosing what we’re going to watch.
I can count ononehand the few times in the eleven years of knowing her that she’s let me choose what to watch. I don’t mind, though; but I do find it a bit enticing to make her work for it a little.
We enter the cinema room, and she immediately heads to the little kitchen in the back where all the snacks are stored, taking them out and spreading them across the counter. I go to where the popcorn tins are kept and pull out a caramel one and a butter one. There’s a machine to make fresh ones, but neither of us knows how to use it, and it’s far too late to bother one of the maids. We could ask either Ernest or Gabriel,whichever chef is on the night shift. Anthony hired two so that if Cornelia ever wants a late-night snack, someone is always there to make it. But she rarely does. She hates feeling like people are catering to her, afraid she will relapse, and as a kind of protest, she almost never asks for things at night unless she’sreallycraving something. And I know popcorn is definitely not one of her cravings; she doesn’t hate it, but she’s never been a fan.
“Which one would you want?” Cornelia gestures towards all the candy she spread out on the counter, sounding like she’s working the concession stand at an actual cinema.
“Maltesers,” I answer, and she tosses them over to me.
She grabs a bag of Galaxy Minstrels and a pack of pretzels.
We head to the second row of seats, and she lays all her snacks on the sofa. I take a seat next to her spot. She grabs the remote, about to settle in, but then she stands up, as if she’s suddenly remembered something.
“Give me a second.” She flashes me a mischievous smile, then dashes out of the room.
