Impossible

“Did you make all your calls?” Xavier sounded like he was in good spirits. He must have had fun the night before. She shuddered thinking of what he would think of his mother if he knew what she had done. She felt utterly debauched.

“What calls?” she asked, sounding distracted. “Oh…yes… those…of course…I'm just running a little late. See you in a few minutes.” She hung up and sat down on the bed, shaking. What she had done was insane. But the insanity was going to stop. She was a sensible person, and Liam was nothing more than a badly behaved overgrown boy, and had made a lifetime career of not growing up. She reminded herself, to frighten herself further, that he had committed adultery with his wife's twin. It was hardly a recommendation for his morality and good judgment. And no matter how beautiful he was, he acted like an irresponsible kid, and prided himself on it. So had she, she told herself. She had to be the grown-up here. Liam was incapable of it.

She threw what she had brought to London into a bag, dressed hastily, brushed her hair, and put on makeup. And fifteen minutes later, she was in the lobby when her son walked in, looking handsome and young. His stride and confidence and the way he dressed reminded her instantly of Liam. They were contemporaries in lifestyle, attitude, and behavior. Two wild young boys.

“You look happy,” Xavier said, looking pleased. “I never see you with your hair down. It looks nice, Mom.” She realized with horror that she had forgotten to put it up. She had been in such a rush, she hadn't even noticed it in the mirror. It was a clear sign, to her and to Xavier, that something was different. She had let her hair down in some very major ways, and it was time now to put it back up, and keep it that way.

“Oh, thank you. I was just in a rush.”

“You should wear it that way more often. How was dinner with Liam?”

“Fine…fun…no… actually, it wasn't… he's a bit ridiculous, isn't he? He showed up without socks or shoelaces, in a shirt he painted himself.” Maybe if she ridiculed him to Xavier, she would see how foolish it was herself. But she felt like a traitor as she said it.

“He's a nice guy. Hell, Mom, some of your other artists look a lot worse,” Xavier said with a shrug, as she reminded herself that she had never slept with any of them. But Liam was different. None of them had ever made her feel the way he did, just looking at him from across the room. She had felt the pull between them the moment they met, and had told herself she was imagining it. She had tried to deny it, but couldn't. As it turned out, it was a lot more than imagination. Worse yet, it felt real.

They had breakfast in the lobby. She drank tea, and stared at the scones on her plate. She couldn't eat them. She wasn't hungry. Xavier wolfed down his own—and hers. He was starving.

They talked about nothing in particular for an hour, and he waved as she left for the airport, while she wondered if he would see Liam that day, and what he might say. She would kill him if he intimated anything to her son. But she trusted him not to do that. He wasn't mean or spiteful, just irresponsible and young for his age. Very young. He seemed far more Xavier's age than hers or his own. She forced herself not to think about him on the way to the airport, and took some papers out of her briefcase.