Helpless by H. Ward

My stomach likes this guy.  It is rolling around trying to get my attention.  My brain is in a panic.  I do want a farmer’s breakfast.  I also want to keep my modeling jobs until I have bank rolled an obscene amount of money. 
                  “I…well…that’s all I usually have, unless it is some citrus fruit.  I don’t think I could eat more.”
                  “Let’s make a deal then.  We get right to the tourist thing, but you eat a decent lunch.  Not two mouthfuls like you did last night, and seemingly this morning.”  He cocks his head and looks at me.
                  “Deal.”
                  He holds out his big hand we shake on it.  I’m laughing and he is smiling.  He then puts his hands on his hips and looks right in my eyes.
                  “Now, my dear guide, where are we off to first?”
                  “You will want to do the really iconic places first, I think.  Then we can hit the authentic spots that only real Londoners know.  So I figured we would start with the Tower Bridge.”
                  He nods and we head for the underground.  This is fun.  No faking it, not weird.  We have a purpose for today and that is making this really easy.  I chat as we walk toward the Thames.
                  The river is quiet, just sparkling in the mid-morning sun.  There is something about water that all people seem drawn to.  Maybe, if Jason is around for a few days, we should go on a cruise up the river.  I snap out of my thoughts, I have to play a good guide to keep this guy interested.
                  “When I first moved to London, I thought the Tower Bridge was called that because it has what I called two towers on each side of it.  Then the bridge part stretched between them high in the air to allow big boats to pass under.  Turns out it is called ‘tower’ because it is very close to the Tower of London.  We’ll go there next.”  I point to the Tower of London, shining white in the late morning sun. 
                  “How old were you when you moved to London?”
                  “I was fourteen, moved here from Texas.”  We are now strolling along the walking path on the Tower Bridge, looking off into the river and moving along with a modest crowd of site seers.  I stop cold at the rush of emotions that crash through when he says what he says next.
                  “It must have been difficult to make such a big move at that age, changing friends and schools at that age is torture for anyone.”
                  He said it casually.  It hits me like a hammer.  I don’t know how to respond, so I say nothing.  I have repressed all such introspection.  I don’t want to feel the pain.  I don’t want to think about it or be reminded of it.  I push all the hurt back down.  I refuse to pull it out into the light.
                  “Oh, it was my choice.  I had been living with my mother and wanted to spend time with my father.”
                  “Ah, I see. Well, that’s good.”
                  Thank heavens; he is not pushing for more details.  So I can push it all away again and keep moving forward.  No one wants to delve into the dark and hurting spots all alone, and alone is all I have ever really been. 
                  To break out of these thoughts I rush to a street vender and demand that Jason buy me a little British Flag to hold, I tell him I want it so we really look like tourists.  He laughs and we each pick a little one out to hold.  It breaks the shadows in my mind and we are back in tourist mode again.
                  The Thames shimmers below us.  I put my Versace sunglasses on.  They have lenses so dark they are almost black and no one can see my eyes.  It usually throws people off to look at me when I am wearing