Mad Love by Colet Abedi Page B

its own accord to caress his cheek, then my finger moves over to brush his lips. I watch his eyes close again.
    “I don’t know why, but I trust you,” I say, and I hear his sharp intake of breath as he rolls off my body and pulls me into his arms. He buries his head in my neck and hair and just breathes in deeply. I’m enveloped by him, held so tightly in his arms that I can barely move, but I love it. I couldn’t imagine being in a better place.
    I hold him just as fiercely.
    And I never want to let go.
    Clayton and I are now lying side by side, facing one another. A long while has passed.
    “Your accent is funny.”
    He looks offended by my comment and I hurry to smooth over my faux pas.
    “I don’t mean it like that. I mean it doesn’t quite sound English.” A brow goes up.
    “It is English. My father is from England; my mother is American. I grew up splitting my time between two worlds and trying to assimilate by blending in. This accent is the result.”
    “Well, it’s really hot,” I say, hoping to appease him. From his quick smile, I know that I have.
    “Thank you.”
    Since he brought his parents up, I latch on and ask away. “So your parents are divorced?” As quickly as the words are out, Clayton’s demeanor changes. He’s on guard again.
    “No. They live separate lives. It is a marriage of convenience.” He says this indifferently.
    I wonder whose convenience, but I wisely choose to keep my mouth shut and just utter, “Oh.”
    This makes me sad for him. It must have been hard growing up like that. Tossed between two countries. Parents who didn’t love each other but were still married. I experienced the exact opposite. I am suddenly so grateful for the overbearing, loving home environment my parents made me suffer through. What if I had grown up like Clayton? I shiver at the thought.
    “You don’t approve?” Clayton asks softly.
    The way he enunciates his words ruffles my feathers. I can hear the snooty tone in his voice. The kind of tone I heard his friends use the night before when they were talking about something that they clearly didn’t like. It’s obvious that it’s an upper-class English way of speaking.
    I shrug my shoulders. “No. But to each his own.”
    “You definitely disapprove.” He seems amused by this. He probably thinks I’m so naïve. But, seriously? I voice my opinion.
    “I can’t help the way I feel. That has to be hard on a child. There are ramifications. Scars that don’t easily heal.”
    “Are you going to quote Sigmund Freud now?” He says teasingly.
    I rise to the challenge. “Being entirely honest with oneself is a good exercise.”
    Clayton smiles. “Didn’t he also say that words have magical power? They can either bring the greatest happiness, or deepest despair.”
    “He did,” I say.
    “Then choose your words wisely.”
    The sting I feel from his comment is diminished when he reaches out and brushes my hair away from my cheek. Yes, that’s how easy I am around him.
    “You’re beautiful, Sophie. Tell me about you.”
    I have a feeling that I’m not quite as interesting.
    “But we’re not done with you.”
    “There’s plenty of time to get back to me and psychoanalyze my childhood. Now it’s your turn.”
    “I’m an open book,” I say nonchalantly.
    “I doubt that.”
    “I really am. It’s almost a problem. I wear my heart on my sleeve and I don’t know how to hide what I feel. If I do try to pretend, the truth eventually ends up erupting out of me like a volcano. I can’t seem to help myself,” I confess softly. If Erik were here he could give him a million examples.
    “I wish I could be more diplomatic. But I can’t control my emotions,” I finish.
    “I like that. It’s so different from what I’m used to,” he responds.
    Right.
    The women he’s been around are all like Jane and Elizabeth. Refined, posh, and perfect. Contained. I’m just the opposite. Well, I like to think of myself as somewhat refined. Posh? Not