Parts Unknown

Chapter 3





By dinnertime, we’d made it to Win Kee Restaurant, back where we started, near Leicester Square. It was a dingy spot, with wrinkled pink tablecloths covered with thick acrylic table covers. I peered dubiously at the poorly spelled menu. It featured “spared rips” and “orange chiken.”

“So, what’s good here?”

“Doesn’t matter what’s good—you should ask, what’s cheap!” Josh grinned. “I’ve managed to subsist on nearly no income this year, just by having dinner here a couple times a week. I take home what I don’t eat; it’s dinner tomorrow. Here:” He perused the menu. “The absolutely cheapest thing they have is the mixed chow mein. So we should get that.”

“Tally-ho, then,” I said. “You can take home my leftovers too; you’ll eat for a week. But wait a minute—they don’t feed you, at Chicago Pizza?”

“Oh man, I’m so sick of pizza, you just have no idea. But I bring pizza home from work too. That’s lunch. And breakfast!”

It was still bright outside, but it was 7 pm. I felt suddenly lonely. I’d never had so much fun in one day, and now it was over. This dinner, and then back to the hostel, and three more weeks of aimless wandering, trying and failing each day to recapture the joy and camaraderie I’d had with Josh today. I jerked out of my reverie:

“So what are you going to do, now that you’re not going to be an artist anymore?” he was asking.

“I don’t know, really. I changed my major to history, just so I could come here and have something to study.”

“Yeah, like studying history is some kick-ass way to make a living. Get real. What are you going to do with a history degree?”

“Listen, I didn’t really think things through, okay? The whole idea was to come here, and by the end of the year I’ll have something figured out. I don’t know. I’ll do whatever people do with history degrees. Be a teacher. Be a waitress. Something like that.”

He glared at me. “You know, I always wanted to be an English major. I’ve always wanted to be a writer. So it’s not fair that you just gave up your dream, and I didn’t even get a chance to try mine.”

“So why not? What are you mad at me for—it’s your life! You can do whatever you want!”

An exhausted-looking waitress hurried over with two steaming plates of brown, greasy noodles. I poked my fork into them dubiously. They were delicious, actually—“Big piles of MSG goodness,” I joked, to make him laugh.

He didn’t, though. He just looked gloomy. “Sorry I snapped at you. It’s just, I don’t really have a choice. My dad’s massively strict, and he firmly believes that I need to, I don’t know, I need to be the son he can name-drop in conversation. ‘Josh—the lawyer—yes, he’s working for Wangdoodle and Grinch. Junior Associate already!’ That kind of crap. So I’m getting this political science degree, just like everyone else. So I can have the same f*ckin’ boring life as everybody else does. And so Dad doesn’t have to say, ‘My son, the screw-up writer that works at a coffee shop because he can’t sell anything he writes . . .’ Okay?”

I got up, went around the table and hugged him, hard. “It’s not okay. You know it’s not.” Thinking of Mom, name-dropping Eric in conversation that way. Never me. Remembering how much it hurt.

He hugged me back. “Thanks for that. I just get so upset, you know,” he muttered into my shoulder; I was squeezed uncomfortably against him and the table. “I don’t have the control over my life I thought I would, and it’s partly my fault. I’m too weak to stand up to him, to damn weak to say, ‘I’m going to be who I need to be—I’m just gonna do it.’ Because doing that would cut me off from my family.” I extricated myself, grabbed my chair, pulled it over next to his. He grasped my hands. “My dad rules everyone. Mom is totally under his thumb. And I’m not ready for that—to be on my own like that, totally alone.”

I wanted to say, You’re not alone. I’d be there for you. But I’d only known him for one day. His hands so warm over mine.

“I thought if I came to London, I’d be far enough away that I could leave them all behind. But I still crave his affection, you know? It kills me, that I email him about my high marks in class, just wanting him to love me more. Like I’m not worth anything without his love. And I can buy it with As.”

“I came here to get away too,” I said softly. “Isn’t that funny. To get away from my family for a different reason than you did, but still—to escape. And now you’re telling me it’s not far enough—that nowhere will be far enough to hide from all those memories.”

“What happened that made you go so far away?” Josh asked intently.

“I really don’t want to talk about it. Maybe another time.”

“Why? Is it so bad?”

“No, I guess not. Yes.”

I was crying now, making a fool of myself, blubbering into the noodles. “I’ve had such a lovely day—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get so upset.”

“I had a really nice day, too. And I’m glad you’re upset, kind of! Because you think like I do, and you know what I’m going through. I’ve never met anyone who did, really, before. Or I never told anyone what I’ve told you. That’s so strange—I’ve only known you for a day. Why am I telling you all this stuff?”

I looked at him. The gears clicked into place. I slurped a now-cold noodle.

“I wonder . . .” he started, then stopped. Finally: “I don’t have to get to work till five o’clock tomorrow. Will you spend the day with me?”

The room swirled around a bit, then leveled.

~ ~ ~

The next morning, I exited the Tube at the Hampstead station, peering around nervously. We were supposed to meet here, at 9 am, and I was right on time. But I was certain Josh wouldn’t show up—that yesterday had been some sort of hallucination or trick. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty, and I sat down on the ground outside the station, curiously paved with blue glass tiles, hiding my face in my arms. I felt as if Alice in Wonderland must have, after awakening from her fantastic dream.

And then, my shoulder jostled, Josh’s face peered anxiously down at me. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed. “I left late, and then my train got stuck in the tunnel for ages—damn Northern Line—it’s a disaster sometimes. But look! I’m here now.” He searched my woebegone face. “Let’s have a hug.”

I scrambled up, and squeezed him tight, unraveling the plastic-wrap-like layer of emotional protection I’d wrapped around me while sitting on the ground. He’d come. And he was real.

“So,” he said, grabbing my hand, “this is my favorite part of London, and I wanted to show it to you. Where shall we start?”

“I’m at your mercy,” I said. “My A-Z ends at Camden Town. But I am a fan of cemeteries. There’s got to be some fantastic, haunted graveyard somewhere around here.”

“You’re a woman after my own heart,” he beamed. “Highgate Cemetery is my absolute favorite place. I love showing you this city—you like everything I do!”

He thought for a moment, then decided, “Here’s the plan: it’s a couple-mile walk to Highgate, so we’ll take it slow. Stop at Keats’ House. Hang out in Hampstead Heath. And eventually, we’ll get there. Even better! I brought provisions!” He opened a bulging knapsack, stocked with bread, cheese, and cans of Pepsi.

“We’re set,” I confirmed.

It was so nice, holding his hand and walking down Hampstead High Street, its red brick storefronts showcasing a colorful array of goods. I was dismayed to see the Gap, as I had elsewhere in London, as if I hadn’t left San Jose after all. In a local clothing shop, I tried on some brown boot-cut stretchy pants; unfortunately, British clothes seemed to be made for other body types than mine. We stopped by a rummage sale a church was holding, whence I scored a battered brooch for a pound. I could feel a kiss, sizzling in the air between us, waiting for its moment. Sometime today, I thought, I will be kissed, by this amazing guy. The anticipation was delicious.

We turned left on Pond Street, then walked up Heath Road to Keats Grove.

“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:/Its loveliness increases; it will never/Pass into nothingness,” Josh quoted as we meandered our way toward the entrance of the beautiful white house. Then he leaned his forehead against mine and kissed me gently, lips brushing lightly. It was impossible. Flowers rioted in jewel colors across the ground. We stopped by a tree and kissed again, quietly, slowly, exploring. “Do you, like, have this bunch of poetry memorized? Or do you just tell that one verse to all the girls?” I asked eventually. Josh grinned enigmatically.

Afterwards, I couldn’t remember much of that visit. I was only aware of Josh next to me, holding my hand, not letting go. Peeking at period rooms and murmuring dutifully about the pretty garden, and then walking out, my legs like rubber, leaning against him. If he let go of me, I might collapse. Just faint, right there. Die of happiness, probably.

No one had ever looked at me like that before.

Up Downshire Hill, to Heath Road, and then into Hampstead Heath, a broad swath of beauty—lawns, forests, and ponds, all spread out ahead of us, blocking any view of buildings or civilization. “Let’s sit for a while,” Josh murmured intensely. “I need to kiss you some more.”

I saw a great, spreading tree and we climbed beneath it, alone together under its soaring branches. He grasped my face in his hands, caressed my hair, and pulled me close. Time stopped. Only our mouths existed, and then our hands, wanting to keep touching each other. This, I thought, this is all there is. All there is meant to be. I was on my back somehow, fallen twigs and leaves digging into me, looking up into the wild branches and then the dazzling sun slicing through the leaves, haloing Josh’s head with gold. I pulled his face down to mine and kissed him some more; then he dropped, his body weight pressing against me, grounding me against the earth.

After a while, we ate some bread and cheese, kissing all the while, cheese bits in my mouth mingling oddly with his deep kisses so that I laughed, eventually, and pushed him away. Foam spewed out of the Pepsi can when I opened it, drenching my arm, and he dramatically licked off the carbonation, in an exaggerated respectful gesture. “Miss Lewis,” he declaimed, “may I present your arm, now cleansed, for your inspection.” We laughed a lot, and stared soulfully into each other’s eyes, like in the movies. I never imagined I’d do such things. My small self, just struggling to find my place in the world, and now here it was: open for me, so easy all of a sudden, a doorway appearing where none was before. And all that mattered was this moment.

~ ~ ~

At last, mid-afternoon, we started walking again. Hours, under one tree—it felt like just minutes. Time, stopped. Dreamlike, we crossed the Heath, past Highgate Ponds, and reentered civilization at Swain’s Lane. “How appropriate,” I smirked. “My swain.” He swooped me up in his arms in a chivalrous gesture, then mock-staggered under my weight. “It’s a good thing you’re so tiny,” he choked.

Inside Highgate Cemetery’s gloomy stone gates, moss was everywhere, overtaking the stones, curtains of it dripping from the trees. Mist swirled through the branches, swaying the hanging strands. Gray gravestones tilted everywhere; I shivered. “It feels like I’m walking over my own grave,” I whispered. “Usually I love cemeteries, but this is eerie. I feel so sad.”

“It’s foreshadowing, baby,” Josh said. “You want to think that all that matters is right now. That we’ll be this happy all the time.”

I trailed my fingers across a tombstone. “What’s this we? It’s crazy; this sort of thing doesn’t usually happen to me. I mean, I mostly keep to myself. I don’t even date much.”

We pulled ourselves up to perch on the edge of a large mausoleum, guarded by a large bronze dog. Damp moss stained my jeans; the stone was icy. I shivered convulsively. “What’s happening?”

Josh tilted his head back and looked at the sky. “I don’t know. I’m no, whatever, Don Juan. Or romantic at all, really. I work hard. And I try to be . . . upstanding. Someone my family can be proud of. Coming here for a year—it’s the most daring thing I’ve ever done. And now it’s the end, and in a few weeks I’m going back to, I guess you’d call it, my real life. And right now, as I’m leaving, I meet you. Like, the person I’ve always dreamed of, but didn’t know I was dreaming of, you know? I didn’t know you’d be real.”

I bit my lip. “I’ve never told anyone half the things I’ve told you. About my art. About me. Like I can be completely open with you, about everything.” Except Uncle Paulie, I thought. “I’ve never had that before,” I continued. “I didn’t think it would be real, either. That I could have this.”

“I’ve only known you two days,” said Josh. “But I want to be with you, okay? I want to be with you, every single minute. We only have three weeks. Three weeks, minus two days. So we’ll make every second count, right?”

I nodded mutely.

Alleys of gray stone graves ahead of us and behind us; half-buried headstones. Faded inscriptions, impossible to make out.

We sat for a while, swinging our feet, talking about books, and poetry, and art. Where to find meaning, in life. In the world. Creativity, where it came from. How to find it and keep it. Josh fished his camera out of his backpack—it was wrapped in a bright, multicolored hand towel. He adjusted lenses and pointed the camera at me as we spoke, click. Click. Click. Capturing me moving, sitting, talking.

The whole time, I thought, Love. Can that exist—love, at first sight? Fate. Soulmates. The one person you are meant to meet, in life—that you are meant to be with. And how could Josh not be that person?

Suddenly Josh jerked bolt upright. “Oh shit!” he exclaimed. “I’ve gotta go, it’s 4:30. How am I ever going to make it to the restaurant by 5?”

He grabbed my hand. “We’ll have to run. Come with me, okay? As far as the restaurant. But which Tube stop is the closest?” He yanked a torn, wrinkled London Underground map from his back pocket. “Archway . . . Archway, or Highgate. Let’s go to Highgate. Crappy-ass Northern Line, the train better be on time for once.”

We ran fast, laughing and gasping, the mile to Highgate station. My side aching, hurting; eventually I had to stop, wheezing, hands on my knees. “I’m totally out of shape. I’m holding you back—go on!”

Josh stood, torn, then hugged me tight. “I’m going, okay? But meet me at the restaurant, at eleven o’clock. I want to be with you tonight.”

If he’d told me to jump off the Tower of London, I would have done it in that instant. “Of course!” I promised and watched him run off. It occurred to me, after he’d disappeared into the distance, that I had no idea where Chicago Pizza was located, much less how to get there.

~ ~ ~

Much less what to do once Josh and I were together, alone, in a room, which I sensed was going to happen later. I was almost completely inexperienced.

That spring, I’d gone to fraternity parties every Saturday night with Kelly, my suite-mate. It was amazing, how a girl who had ignored me despite our shared bedroom door for the entire year suddenly started speaking to me once I got that short perky haircut and started wearing similarly short, slinky dresses from Ross Dress for Less. We were a study in contrasts—busty, blonde, gregarious Kelly, and me. At five feet tall, I was a size zero. You could almost see through me, or step on me. I could slither through campus unnoticed, my round green eyes darting around like a deer caught in headlights, as I slid my small pale self into the spaces no one else thought to walk in. I was there but not there, even to myself.

The last couple months of sophomore year, Kelly’s friends had tired of the Saturday parties. These girls—clones of Kelly, with thick lustrous hair, clothes straight from the J. Crew catalog, and smiles as wide and insincere as the zirconia-modeling ladies on the Home Shopping Network—all had boyfriends at this point. Kelly didn’t, and she spent her Saturday evenings hoping to find love in the most unlikely of places. This arrangement suited both of us perfectly. Kelly and I would walk together to those parties; already tall, she would teeter along on extra-high heels so my eyes ended up about level with her boobs. We’d part ways almost immediately upon arrival.

Those Saturdays were the one night of the week I forced myself let myself go. It was practice for London, where I’d do better—I’d have to do better—than I’d managed at Dawson. It was ridiculous, me going to frat parties. But I went because I was certain I’d never see any of those boys again. I was safe, because they’d never recognize me in my daytime attire: paint-stained overalls. They’d never hear me: I never spoke in class. And I could drink a third of a cup of vodka in Kelly’s room, washing it down with a can of Coke in my other hand, and in ten minutes flat it didn’t matter who Vivian was during the day.

The taste of vodka still burning my throat, I’d dance, wildly, through the evening. And, not caring who looked at me, I felt suddenly powerful. None of the boys had faces really—but I loved feeling my body against theirs as we swung around. Dancing. Exchanging names and phone numbers sometimes. It was like the high I sometimes felt when painting—total exhilaration and abandonment. But I had to be careful: like painting, I was terrified that if I took that feeling too far, I would lose myself completely.

So at one a.m. I’d blink owlishly, look at my watch, and I was done. Finished with my debauchery for the week. Like Clark Kent, I’d slip away, return to being the same old Vivian Lewis again, till the next Saturday night arrived.

In London, I thought, it will be Saturday nights all the time. Once I cross that ocean—I will be truly free.

On a Saturday in late April, the school year almost done, London beckoning ever closer, I let things go too far. I had gelled my hair in what I hoped were fetching elfin wisps. I nonchalantly poked my head through the suite door and hollered, “Let’s go!”

The moon was achingly bright; the ground tilted appealingly, its tilt assisted by too many gulps of gin, too fast. Inside Kappa Pi fraternity it was the usual bedlam: guys in football jackets everywhere; the pervasive odor of Rolling Rock beer. A stereo was blasting “Brick House” just like always. Tables were jammed with discarded plastic cups, some tipped over, spilling beer in puddles on the floor. I saw a boy in the corner I’d danced with several parties ago, chatting up an overly mascara’ed brunette. I looked straight at him. He stared back, whispered in the girl’s ear, walked over. Took my arm. “What happened to you? I looked everywhere for you,” he said earnestly. “Tell me your name, so if I lose you again I’ll know where to find you.” That was about the sweetest thing a guy had ever said to me, and I blinked my eyes at him as coquettishly as I could.

This gentleman’s name was Todd, and last I’d seen him three weeks ago, we’d danced sloppily, each holding a sloshing beer cup in one hand while grasping the other’s waist with the other. Then he’d pulled me into a corner and we’d kissed for a long time. Being as the sum total of my sexual experience, up to that point, had been an awkward evening watching The Nutty Professor with Frank Courtland in twelfth grade, followed by McDonald’s milkshakes and one very wet kiss, this guy’s hard-on was a revelation. It felt nice, me pressed up against him like that, my dress shimmying with a witchy polyester mind of its own. Todd didn’t slobber like Frank had, and he had a lot of tricks with his tongue, sliding it over my teeth, and under my lips, and then into my ear, where he whispered some things about his room, upstairs.

I’d wanted more beer first, and the lights were hurting my eyes—so much movement, so bright, so thrilling. I’d kissed Todd some more, being a good student and repeating his same clever tongue moves, then stumbled upstairs to use the bathroom. My stomach felt unsettled, and I thought unsteadily that maybe I should take just a little break before returning to Todd and exploring what was in his room.

Fortunately, the Holland House common room was near the bathroom, and it was empty at this hour of the night. It featured several comfy, ragged sofas and scarred bookcases full of former seniors’ discarded books, an intriguing mishmash of game theory and anatomy textbooks, Sue Grafton and Calvin and Hobbes. I lay down on a sofa—just for a minute—and closed my eyes—just for a minute.

Next thing I knew, it was daylight, and I had a crashing headache. If I moved, I was sure I would throw up, so I just lay there, as still as anything, and clutched my stomach protectively. Todd, of course, was long gone.

Tonight, neglecting to inform him of the details of my previous disappearance, I simply stuck out my hand. “Hi, I’m Vivian.” He nodded, and his hand grasped my waist possessively. We danced for about ten minutes. The dancing was just courtesy. When he asked me to come back to his room, I didn’t say no, and I didn’t hesitate. I was twenty; it was more than time. I’d had fantasies for years about my first time. True love. Being swept off my feet. Whispering sweet nothings in a room decorated like some sort of demented valentine, with rose petals everywhere and pink satin sheets.

But a person could only wait so long for that Harlequin scenario to happen.

Todd’s room smelled like unwashed pants; the walls were papered with pennants and framed baseball jerseys. We clearly had nothing in common. He was amazingly quick. One minute we were kissing, everything thankfully blurry due to the quantities of beer consumed earlier. The next minute my skirt had disappeared. And then I was lying flat on my back on the bed with an unfamiliar stabbing, filling sensation going on. It didn’t hurt much, really. So this was what sex was like, this was all of it? Just this awkward shifting about, and squelching noises? Afterward was the worst part, when I got up and used the bathroom. Staring at the blood and goop in the bowl. Feeling nauseous.

What had I done?

But now here I was, in London, getting my second chance at my first time.

~ ~ ~

After consulting several maps and the phone book, and then lying prone on my bunk in the hostel for a while, reliving moment by moment the events of the day, I was ready. I slipped out of the dormitory, carrying a bag of essentials—toothbrush, breath mints, fresh underwear. The hostel locked down at midnight. If I stayed out past then with Josh, I’d have to go home with him. How crazy was that, me planning a night with someone I’d known for less than two days. Somehow, it felt completely right.

I made my way to the restaurant, near Piccadilly Circus, the streets still lively at this late hour. The intricately wood-paneled storefront was a caricature of an American-style restaurant; it reminded me of an East coast pizza chain called Pizzeria Uno. I could see the appeal of having Josh as host, in his easygoing mode—he seemed so relaxed, so pleasant. Until he let you inside, beneath the surface, invited you in to all the intensity.

I loitered outside, then tentatively tried the door—locked. Dim shadows in the restaurant moved around; they were closing up. Had Josh left already? Then a dark figure appeared around the side of the building and swooped me into his arms. “I missed you!” he howled. “I thought about you all night. Your sweet hair.” He smooched my hair. “Your green eyes.” He whirled me around. “Green, green, sewing machine . . .” he sang, and I laughed helplessly.

“Such the romantic.”

“The pubs close at eleven, so we’re stuck. I wanted to take you for a drink,” Josh said.

“So now what?”

“We’ll walk, and sit. I’ve got a spot in mind.”

We strolled hand in hand to the Embankment and lounged on a metal bench, gazing at the Thames, lights twinkling all around. A chilling breeze swirled about us. “This is magical,” I said, snuggling close to him to stay warm. “Like a fairy tale. I don’t want it to end.”

“Me neither,” he whispered into my hair. We kissed for a long time, a desperation echoing through me that I’d never felt before. “I want to . . . be with you tonight,” I confessed primly.

“Me too, you have no idea how much . . . me too,” he said hoarsely. More kissing, then I looked at my watch. “It’s almost one o’clock—what time does the Underground close?”

“Probably about now. We’ll have to catch a night bus. You’re coming home with me.”

We waited in the growing chill for the red beacon of the night bus, then sat huddled on the lower level, watching the inky streets spool by—parks, the odd monument, fluorescent storefronts. “I live in Camden Town—it’s like Melrose,” Josh said, “This boho street in Los Angeles. It’s funky. Incense shops and stuff. Lots of people our age. You’ll like it, tomorrow,” he finished carelessly.

I was intensely nervous. He had no idea how inexperienced I was. He must have some image of me as a carefree artist type—like my perpetually paint-stained jeans were some sign of liberation. How much could I reinvent myself; pretend I was that person?

“It’s our stop!” Josh yanked me to the front of the bus, and we stumbled down to the pavement. He pulled me off the main street, down a couple side streets, until we arrived at a dingy row house on Bonny Street. “For 185 pounds a month, a whole room in here is mine!” Josh said. “It’s kind of a rooming house. My roommates are an interesting bunch. But all asleep by now, I’m sure.” He winked elaborately and fiddled with the lock, bending backwards to kiss me, his face upside down. I smiled weakly; his good humor would keep me afloat.

A dark hall, sticky vinegar-smelling carpet, and Josh led me upstairs, to a perfectly square room with an ornate faux fireplace, a huge rubber plant, and a small window looking out on an overgrown backyard. I smoothed my hair, eying myself in the mirror above the fireplace. My lips were bruised red, my chin scraped raw by his beard stubble, rubbing against it all day as we’d kissed in parks and cemeteries. I looked well loved.

Walking to the window, I noticed stretched-out men’s underwear and flannel pajama bottoms flapping on a clothesline outside. A table, lit by an outdoor security light, featured a lone ashtray atop it, overflowing with cigarette butts. Josh’s bedroom itself was a mess. Beer bottles in the corner, socks on the floor. Josh was doing a hasty cleanup. “Sorry, I’m a total bachelor! Just stay turned around and I’ll do my Cinderella thing in no time, I swear!”

Obediently, I focused on the couple wooden bookshelves screwed at a haphazard angle into the wall. What I saw was heartbreaking. The shelves were like a self-study course in literature: The Norton Anthology of English Literature. The Oxford Book of Sixteenth Century Verse. The Riverside Shakespeare. Thomas Hardy, Dante Alighieri, Dostoevsky. “You bought all these just to read?” I asked, surprised. “Yeah,” Josh said a bit forlornly, coming up to put his arms around me from behind. “No econ books anymore, I . . .” He kissed my neck, “tossed,” warm lips glancing over my shoulder as he slid my t-shirt to the side, “them all.” Hands underneath my shirt, pulling it up, so he could kiss his way, unseen, down my shoulder blades, kneeling now, his mouth warm and wet against the small of my back. “What’s your favorite?” I asked, my heart thudding. “John Donne. So much power and passion . . . let’s see, oh, never mind . . .”

He pulled off my shirt, one easy swoop. “F*ck poetry. I want to make love to you.”

Afterwards, we held each other tight. “Don’t let go,” I whispered into his hair. “I won’t,” he promised. And he didn’t.

After a long time, I confessed, “I have something to tell you. I think I’m falling in love with you.”

He pulled himself up and looked into my eyes. “Me too. I’m falling for you, so bad. I’ve never felt like this before, about anyone.”

There was such naked honesty in his eyes that my heart ached. “I’m scared,” I whispered. “I’ve never had these feelings before . . . they’re amazing, but really frightening, you know? Like I could just . . . let go. Just disappear, into you.”

“I love you,” he said gently. “I’ll keep you safe.”

I wanted so much to believe him.