One week earlier…
“Weston? What are you doing here? It’s 3 AM.” I rubbed my eyes. Weston was standing on the porch, next to him were two large suitcases. “Are you going somewhere?”
“I’m leaving, Emily.”
“L-leaving?” I said, feeling a lump in my throat. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” he replied calmly. “In England.”
I shook my head, “You’re British?” He can’t be British, I thought. He would’ve told me. Besides, he doesn’t even have one of those charming James Bond accents.
“That’s right,” He spoke in a strange English accent. That moment, I felt mind-blown. So this guy’s been lying to me this whole time?
“Who the hell are you?” I said.
“I can’t answer that, love.” He turned and left with his luggage, leaving me standing there in shock.
A long flight and some rest later, I finally tracked Weston to a pub outside of London. Apparently, Weston has many alias and the most recent one is James. I pulled the door open and there he was, with a barely dressed girl on his lap. Unbelievable. It took me ten steps to cross the room, throw a drink in his face, and walk out. That felt good.
A Response for Sunday Photo Fiction.