The next morning, Lydia found Carl in her kitchen room drinking coffee in nothing but his underwear. She laughed, heading into the kitchen to pour herself a cup. “I have neighbors and windows you know,” she mused. “What will they think of me when they see you?”
“My car in your driveway is a big clue. Isn’t your neighborhood mostly Negro anyway?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to be seen as a whore or something like that.”
He scoffed. “We’re both 36. Who cares? Here, I’ll make you a cup, you can sit over there,” he gestured, pointing to the living room.
Lydia sat down, noting the look on his face. “Is everything alright, darling?”
He swallowed, handing her the coffee and sitting down next to her. “We need to talk.”
“W-why? Did you not enjoy last night?”
“No, nothing like that.” He sighed. “God, I don’t know how to begin this. Um… My mother's first husband was a white man. He was English and he had known my uncles and father during the First World War. He wasn’t a radical or anything like that, but he believed in equality and treated everyone the same. He came to America for his PhD, and while he was studying in New York City, he and my mother eloped. She wanted to piss off her parents. He wanted to piss off the man whose title he was meant to inherit.”
“Byron Walsh is my mother’s ex-husband. I knew Simon-Elliot. We played together a few times when we were kids. I wrote to him when I learned he had enlisted, give him some advice, you know. I like to think we could’ve been friends if we didn’t live on different continents. We exchanged two or three letters, I don’t remember. When I found out he died, I was shocked.”
Lydia had tears in her eyes. “...Oh my god.”
“Byron was the reason I moved to London. I think my mom complained about me to him, she was worried that I was becoming an alcoholic or killing myself or something. The war fucked me up pretty bad. And I think Byron still had a lot of guilt over Simon-Elliot, and Mom’s mentioned that he had pretty bad war nightmares when they were married. He got me a good job that someone with my skin color wouldn’t have gotten on their own. I spent the holidays with them when I couldn’t afford a flight home.”
She sniffed. “What are the odds?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I have no idea how we didn’t realize our connection sooner. After I recognized Giselle, Francesca, and Simon-Elliot in the photograph, I couldn’t go back to sleep. This is my third cup of coffee.”
Guilt plagued her face. “I’m so sorry to have sprung him up like this. You’re my current lover, and I don’t want you to think I don’t love you any less.”
“I don’t mind, Lydia. He was your first love. You married him. I’m still the boyfriend.”
“He died sixteen years ago, and I still get just as emotional when I talk about him” she whispered, her voice breaking.
Carl gently rubbed her back. “I’m not going to get upset by that. We knew each other as children, so if anything, I understand even more. I love you, and I know you love me. I’m satisfied with that.”
She looked up. “I hope you don’t think I’d choose him over you. You’re the person in my life now, and I hope you’re around for a very long time.”
“I hope so too,” he said with a soft smile.
Lydia wiped her eyes and nodded, stroking his cheek gently before she pulled him in for a kiss.
