an affair at lambeth palace

[ continued from here ]


He's tall, bean-pole skinny, dark hair, dark eyes. Not bad looking, if that's your thing. He looks like a gangly kid to me, impossibly young, no matter how ridiculous that is, coming from someone only a few years older than them.

"Not me," I argue with a huff of laughter, but honestly, I can't tell either. "What's he like?" I ask, wanting to see her face when she talks about him, more than anything.


No one's ever asked me that before. No one. People have asked about Cook before. People always asked about Tony. But there's never been someone to ask about Freddie, so... it makes my thoughts come to a still, a haze, like fog you try to put your hand through, but it sends a shiver down your spine real quick. Because I don't know how to put it into words. The way he looks at me. The way he's the only fucking thing in the world that's safe to me. Or was.

Sometimes, I think he's been broken. Sometimes, I think I'm the one who did it to him.

"He loves me," I say first, because it feels like the most important detail to have him know. "And he'll love me forever. Nothing else matters."

Except that's a lie, I tell myself.