Where You Belong Read Online Free
eventually he went on. âItâs devastating . . . I never thought it could happen, Iââ Very abruptly, he stopped again and, unable to continue, he said nothing more, simply sat there helplessly, gazing at me, shaking his head. His sorrow was reflected in his face, which was gray, bereft.
I was speechless. Finally, I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. There was a long, silent scream echoing through my brain, and I snapped my eyes shut, wishing I could block it out, wishing I could steady myself. Instead, I fell apart, began to shake uncontrollably as shock engulfed me.
A second later I felt Jakeâs strong arms encircling me, and I clung to him, sobbed against his shoulder. Jake wept also, and we held on to each other for a long time. And together we mourned the loss of a man we both loved who had died before his time.
Chapter 2
I
Paris, September
I have always loved my apartment on the Left Bank where Iâve lived for the last seven years. It is spacious, light, and airy, with six large windows in its three main rooms, all of which are of good proportions. These rooms open onto each other, and this enfilade gives it a lovely flowing feeling that appeals to my sense of order and symmetry, traits inherited from my grandfather, who was an architect.
But ever since my return from Belgrade in August, Iâve been experiencing an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia, one which I am still finding hard to dispel. Although I canât quite understand why I should feel this way, every day I have the constant need to flee my apartment as soon as I awaken.
Itâs not that it holds any heart-wrenching memories of Tony, because it doesnât. Friends for a long time though we were, we did not become emotionally involved with each other until twelve months ago; besides which, he hardly ever spent any time at my place, being constantly on the move for work, or in London, where he lived.
I was aware that my urge to get out had more to do with my own innermost feelings of despair than anything else; Iâve been unnaturally agitated inside and filled with a weird restlessness that propels me into the street, and as early as dawn sometimes.
The streets of Paris are my solace, and part of my healing process physically in a very real sense. First, the constant walking every day is therapeutic because it strengthens my damaged leg; second, being outside in the open air, among crowds of people bustling about their business, somehow soothes my troubled soul, lifts my spirits, and helps to diminish my depression.
Today, as usual, I got up early. After coffee and a croissant at my local café on the corner, I set off at a steady pace, taking my long daily walk. Itâs become a ritual for me, I suppose, something I find so very necessary. At least for the time being. Soon I hope my leg will be completely healed so that I can return to work.
It was a Friday morning in the middle of September, a lovely, mild day. The ancient buildings were already acquiring a burnished sheen in the bright sunlight, and the sky was an iridescent blue above their gleaming rooftops. It was a golden day, filled with crystalline light, and a soft breeze blew across the river Seine. My heart lifted with a little rush of pleasure, and for a moment, grief was held at bay.
Paris is the only place Iâve ever wanted to live, and for as long as I can remember; I fell in love with it as a child, when I first came on a trip with my grandparents, Cecelia and Andrew Denning. I used to tell Tony that it was absolutely essential to my well-being, and if Jake happened to be present, he would nod, agreeing, and pointing out that he lived there for the same reason as I did.
I always thought it odd that Tony would merely frown, looking baffled, as if he didnât understand what I meant. Tony was born in London, and it was there that he lived all his life. And whenever the three of us would have this discussion about the
I was speechless. Finally, I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. There was a long, silent scream echoing through my brain, and I snapped my eyes shut, wishing I could block it out, wishing I could steady myself. Instead, I fell apart, began to shake uncontrollably as shock engulfed me.
A second later I felt Jakeâs strong arms encircling me, and I clung to him, sobbed against his shoulder. Jake wept also, and we held on to each other for a long time. And together we mourned the loss of a man we both loved who had died before his time.
Chapter 2
I
Paris, September
I have always loved my apartment on the Left Bank where Iâve lived for the last seven years. It is spacious, light, and airy, with six large windows in its three main rooms, all of which are of good proportions. These rooms open onto each other, and this enfilade gives it a lovely flowing feeling that appeals to my sense of order and symmetry, traits inherited from my grandfather, who was an architect.
But ever since my return from Belgrade in August, Iâve been experiencing an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia, one which I am still finding hard to dispel. Although I canât quite understand why I should feel this way, every day I have the constant need to flee my apartment as soon as I awaken.
Itâs not that it holds any heart-wrenching memories of Tony, because it doesnât. Friends for a long time though we were, we did not become emotionally involved with each other until twelve months ago; besides which, he hardly ever spent any time at my place, being constantly on the move for work, or in London, where he lived.
I was aware that my urge to get out had more to do with my own innermost feelings of despair than anything else; Iâve been unnaturally agitated inside and filled with a weird restlessness that propels me into the street, and as early as dawn sometimes.
The streets of Paris are my solace, and part of my healing process physically in a very real sense. First, the constant walking every day is therapeutic because it strengthens my damaged leg; second, being outside in the open air, among crowds of people bustling about their business, somehow soothes my troubled soul, lifts my spirits, and helps to diminish my depression.
Today, as usual, I got up early. After coffee and a croissant at my local café on the corner, I set off at a steady pace, taking my long daily walk. Itâs become a ritual for me, I suppose, something I find so very necessary. At least for the time being. Soon I hope my leg will be completely healed so that I can return to work.
It was a Friday morning in the middle of September, a lovely, mild day. The ancient buildings were already acquiring a burnished sheen in the bright sunlight, and the sky was an iridescent blue above their gleaming rooftops. It was a golden day, filled with crystalline light, and a soft breeze blew across the river Seine. My heart lifted with a little rush of pleasure, and for a moment, grief was held at bay.
Paris is the only place Iâve ever wanted to live, and for as long as I can remember; I fell in love with it as a child, when I first came on a trip with my grandparents, Cecelia and Andrew Denning. I used to tell Tony that it was absolutely essential to my well-being, and if Jake happened to be present, he would nod, agreeing, and pointing out that he lived there for the same reason as I did.
I always thought it odd that Tony would merely frown, looking baffled, as if he didnât understand what I meant. Tony was born in London, and it was there that he lived all his life. And whenever the three of us would have this discussion about the
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