by T. L. Martin
When that next CRACK comes slamming down on my tender skin, searing through every inch of me and blistering me raw, I keep my eyes centered on Tommy.
And just like that, he knows.
He knows not to let go of his last shred of hope.
He knows I’ll get him out of this shithole.
And I know, one day, I will make this sick, twisted monster pay for what he’s done to us.
Gasping for air, I bolt upright in bed, my hands clutching the comforter. Thump, thump, thump, my heart tries to claw its way out of my chest. My eyes flick around my surroundings. Fireplace. Brick wall. Rocking chair. Large window revealing a dark, midnight sky.
I’m in my room at the inn.
I release a loud exhale, my hands loosening their grip on the comforter as each muscle in my body relaxes, little by little.
It was just a dream.
A nightmare.
It wasn’t real.
Instinctively, I reach beneath me and rub a hand over my backside, the same spot that was whipped. Over and over again. Except it wasn’t me at all, was it? Of course, there’s no sign now of the blood-curdling pain I could have sworn I just experienced. No sign of the deadly rage boiling inside me. No sign of the little brother I could have sworn I loved like my own flesh and blood, who, in that moment, I would have given my own life for.
Breathe, I tell myself.
It’s over.
It’s day two in Ashwick, and I haven’t left the Inn at all. Forget the Inn, I haven’t left the bed except to pee. The mattress is lumpy and my back cramped, but I can’t get up. I’m tired. So tired, and the soreness from the accident still has my bones aching. I could barely sleep after the nightmare. Images of the little boy slumped in the corner of the room etched themselves into my brain, popping up every time I closed my eyes.
I know it wasn’t real, but telling myself that doesn’t make it feel any less so.
I keep the blanket over my face like a tent, taking comfort in the heavy solitude of darkness. The blanket is my wall, my shield. I don’t know what I’m trying to shield myself from more: another nightmare or the new, empty reality that is my life. My eyes squeeze tighter as I clutch the edge of the blanket firmer, trying to will myself back into a dreamless, numb sleep.
I know I’m being ridiculous and dramatic, refusing to face the world on my own when there are some people who’ve never had anyone to begin with. Some who’ve had to do this thing alone since they were little, maybe even since they were born. I’m grateful to have known what it’s like to be loved, to be cared for. And although the love between my parents may have ended in tragedy, in some ways I’m lucky to have witnessed what they had shared. The kind of love most people never get to see outside of romance novels.
Then again, the more I think of it, the more I wonder if maybe it was more of a curse than luck. Seeing the relentless passion between Mom and Dad—even if it was just through photographs, videos, and Dad’s stories—set ridiculously high expectations for me. Perhaps that’s part of the reason things didn’t work out between me and Bobby; I never could settle for anything less than what they had.
Almost an hour later, I’m still awake, unable to fall back into any sort of blissful ignorance. It’s torture. There’s a grandfather clock ticking away somewhere, each second droning on and echoing in my eardrums. I kick the blanket off and stumble into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I rinse my mouth and set the toothbrush down, then splash cold water on my face.
My reflection reveals deep circles beneath dark brown eyes, making them seem more sunken than usual, and my hair is a tangled mess. I hardly even recognize myself right now. Hardly even know how to feel. Should I still be grieving? Am I still grieving? How is a grieving person supposed to act? Honestly, I have no clue, but something tells me selling the house of the deceased and running off to the middle of nowhere isn’t the best start.
What am I even doing?
I don’t know if Grams is watching, but right now, I actually hope she’s not. It would pain her to see me like this, such a wreck. The thought of her reaction makes me close my eyes in guilt. Grams always had it together, a woman of routine and purpose, and there was hardly a day that either of us stayed in bed like this.
“Get it together, Lou.” It’s time to be a mature adult.
It’s just a pair of fitted jeans with a white knit sweater, but it feels good, pretending I have something to get ready for again. In a way, I do have something to look forward to, getting to see the shops Grams saw, walk the streets she walked on. Mom, too, even if she wasn’t here for long.
I brush the tangles out of my hair until the light brown strands are smooth and straight, falling to the middle of my back. I finish off by slipping on my new pair of winter boots and tucking Jamie’s postcard into my pocket, along with my wallet and room key, then look back at the room in longing. The bed and nightstand are almost buried in day-old snacks—crackers, Cup Noodles, potato chips—and the rest of the place isn’t much better.
Yet I’m finding it difficult to leave.
Muffled voices from the hall seep into my room, mixed with footsteps trailing down the stairwell. People. Civilization. Strangers. I curl my fingers around the doorknob. I can fool them for a few moments; act like my world has not fallen apart, like I didn’t come back from the dead a few short days ago, like I’m not having vivid nightmares, like I’m not mentally unstable.
Hopefully.
Chapter 4
I twist the knob and step into the hall, wishing the place had an elevator as I slowly make my way down the stairs. I amble past the front desk and am just about to shove the inn’s front door open when a soft voice calls out, “Oh, Miss Adaire!”
Turning, I see a petite girl standing behind the front desk. The same girl who checked me in when I arrived. She looks to be maybe nineteen or twenty, a couple years younger than me. Her smile is big and bright, her hair a sunny blonde, and I automatically know she’s one of those people who are always happy. Like she eats rainbows for breakfast and spends her evenings cuddling with puppies.
“Yes?”
“I have a new key for you.”
“A key . . .”
“Yes, ma’am, a replacement key. You got stuck with the one that gets jammed, right?”
“Oh, yeah.” I cross the room and pull the key from my pocket before sliding it across the counter to her.
“Thanks,” she says sweetly, grabbing it and pulling a desk drawer open. “I had it made the day you got here, but I hadn’t seen you come out till now. Did I say that right? It’s Miss Adaire?”
“Just Lou is fine, but yeah.”
“Lou, great.” Keys chink together as she shuffles through the drawer. “I’m Claire.” She withdraws another bronze key and hands it to me. “Here you go. Should work better than the last, but if there’s a problem, feel free to let me know.”
I slip it into my pocket and smile back. “Thanks.”
“Absolutely!”
She’s looking at me with kind, wide eyes, eager to continue talking, and it’s sweet, really. Just like the nurse at the hospital and like everyone else in this town seems to be so far. But I don’t yet have the energy to keep up with such enthusiasm, so I thank her, wave goodbye, and head back toward the front door.
A crisp breeze hits the bare skin on my hands and neck when I step outside. It wafts through my hair, and I fold my arms around my chest, shivering as I walk. Apparently LA cold has a vastly different meaning than Kansas cold. This is going to take some getting used to.
It’s the first week of January, but the trees and shops are still decked out in red, green, and yellow Christmas lights. A woman pushes past me with her young daughter, muttering something about bringing a scarf next time, and an attractive couple holds hands as they wait to cross the street. There’s nothing sad in these people’s eyes, nothing but signs of contentment, and it brings a slight smile to my lips. It might be silly, but I imagine a young Grams walking beneath the colorful lights,
wearing that same expression on her youthful face. Maybe holding Mom’s small hand as they walked through the neighborhood.
After dropping off the postcard, I notice a library to my right and decide on a whim to step inside. This is the longest I’ve gone without a phone, thanks to Tuttle Creek Lake. I figure I should at least check my email in case the realtor has news on Grams’s house.
Check-in at the front desk takes a while, but then I claim an open computer in the corner and log in to my Gmail account.
Two unread emails: one from the realtor and one from Bobby.
I start with the realtor, hoping against hope there’s good news, even if it has only been a week since I listed the place. It’s a short email, informing me that he’s just sending an update and there haven’t been any hits yet. I groan. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can put it behind me and try to move forward. I type up a quick reply to let him know I’m without a cell phone but can be reached at the Ashwick Inn or by email.
I know I could get a new phone, but I don’t want to just yet. I kind of like being disconnected right now. Jamie won’t be affected by it. We were nine years old when we met through the pen pal program at our separate public schools—mine in LA, hers in Simi Valley—and communicating through good old-fashioned letters is a tradition we’ve proudly stuck with since.
I return my attention to the computer and open Bobby’s email.
Baby, I get it, alright? But you don’t have to ignore my calls and texts. Just wanna make sure you’re okay, see where you ended up. Look, I know it’s been rough but you don’t have to deal with this shit on your own. You know you can always come back to me. I know how to take care of you. Come on, just hit me up.
I let out a long sigh. He rarely calls me ‘baby’ in person anymore, not since we broke up, but he likes to sneak it into texts and emails. It’s only been four days since I left. Just how many times has he tried calling and texting me?
Sure, it only took one day for me to drive into a lake and practically die, but he doesn’t know that.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on him. After all, he and Jamie are the only people left to check up on me now. There’s something that gets under my skin about the way he does it though, like I can’t be out on my own. And, I know how to take care of you, really? Yes, Bobby, for a long while there, you did know how to take care of me. But over these last couple of years . . . I think we both know what that line really means: I know how to take care of him.
I sit up straight and pull my shoulders back like I have something to prove. I don’t know where it comes from, but the words just come popping into my brain, rolling down my arm and out of my fingers until I have a fabulous load of crap typed up on the screen in front of me.
Bobby,
I’m doing well. Found the perfect town in Kansas for me to clear my head. Think I’m going to settle in for a bit, get comfortable. Get a job. Thanks for your concern, but I’m doing great on my own. No need to wait up.
Lou
I hit send with a smug smile on my face, but it’s wiped away by the time I exit the library and step back into the fresh winter air. I’m not doing great on my own, unless being a great liar counts.
Claire is still standing behind the front desk when I get back to the inn, and she smiles and waves when she spots me. “Miss Adaire!” she calls, as if we hadn’t seen each other only twenty minutes ago.
“Just Lou,” I remind her.
“Right, sorry. How was your walk?”
I settle somewhere in between the truth and a lie when I answer, “It was nice, thanks.”
“Gorgeous in the winter, right? It’s my favorite season.” I nod in agreement, surprised that we have something in common. “The holiday cheer, winter festivals, family bonding—it’s just so magical, so full of hope and love.” She stares out the window dreamily, blue eyes sparkling, and suddenly we are back on different wavelengths.
“Something like that, yeah,” I reply, amused by her pink and fluffy cotton candy take on things, and begin to turn toward the stairwell.
“Miss—uh, Lou?”
I look over my shoulder. “Yes?”
“If you want some company or something while you’re visiting, you can always come down here.” There are hints of concern in her bright eyes, and I realize now how it must have looked to her, me staying locked in my room for two days. I wonder if she knew about my accident too, with the town being so small. “Just, you know, if you want . . .”
It takes me a minute to respond, but I give her a genuine smile when I do. “Thank you.”
I feel her eyes on my back as I proceed up the stairs. I expected to be annoyed at the sympathy like I usually would be, but I can’t deny it’s kind of comforting. My new key slides right into the keyhole and the door eases open. I lock it behind me and head into the bathroom, resting my palms on the sink rim as I gaze at my reflection.
“You’re fine. You’re good.” I’ve never actually tried this whole ‘talk to your reflection’ thing, but it’s something I used to overhear Grams doing. Worth a shot, right? Hell, why stop there? “You’re wonderful. The bee’s knees. Bodacious. Supernacular.”
I snort and face-palm myself. Oh god. I don’t even know how I turned British in the middle there, but this has to be a new low.
My sweater chafes my shoulder blade, and I wince as it irritates the raw, tender skin. I hadn’t thought much about the injury since leaving the hospital, having had other things to focus on—or focus on avoiding—but now the memory resurfaces in my mind: rain smacking against the windshield, trees and darkness spinning around me, the booming crack of my window breaking, and shards of glass flying at me.
I pull my sweater off. Eyes closed, I reach an arm across my chest and over my shoulder, tracing the tips of my fingers along the thick, three-inch cut that hasn’t quite scarred yet. It’s smooth beneath the stitches. Too smooth, and it feels foreign; a piece of my body I don’t recognize. I’ve always thought scars were meant to represent strength; all this one does is remind me that I shouldn’t be alive right now.
That I’m lost.
Drifting.
My eyelids flutter open, and my breath catches at the sudden touch of strong, warm fingers moving over my own. A slow, gentle stroke glides over the wound, but it’s not from me. It can’t be. My hand is stuck, frozen in place over my shoulder blade as though not daring to move. The mirror before me proves I’m alone in the bathroom, and yet, I feel it again, the same presence I felt several nights ago. Heat radiates behind my body as though someone is standing right there.
Another stroke caresses the wound, and it’s even lighter this time, like a feather brushing over me. The feeling of skin against skin is as real as anything. I can almost hear my heartbeat pounding within my chest. The fingers move past my wound, never breaking contact with my skin, and slowly trail upward, toward my neck. Though the texture feels strong and almost rough, the touch itself is impossibly gentle, treating me like something fragile.
No matter how loud my mind screams to fight it, my muscles are relaxing like jelly under the heavy sensation. My uplifted arm drops helplessly to my side. The warm touch strokes the side of my neck, wandering up further still until it’s almost in my hair. It’s light enough to send a shiver to my toes, and my eyelids start to close on their own, my head rolling slightly forward.
The presence behind me inches closer, and I hear breaths again. Just like the other night, they’re deep and controlled, right by my ear.
I have no idea what’s happening to me. Half of me is struck with a pang of fear, unease over the impossible experience. Yet the other half can’t help but be soothed by the calming tingles running through the length of me. There’s a trust I can’t explain, like a gentle, unspoken lullaby, and I know I’m safe. The heat, the masculine touch, the warm breaths soft as a whisper that rise and fall at the nape of my neck. I don’t want to think at all right now. I just want to feel.
The caress slides back down the right sid
e of my neck, almost skimming along my collarbone, when it stops. Draws back. I hear a hitch in the breathing, a tremble for a fleeting moment, the smallest hint of the effort it takes to pull back. Then the touch returns, but only to my scar, traveling down the length of it with incredible slowness, taking its time. As though savoring every moment of contact with me, in a way I’ve never experienced. A sigh pours from my lips, and when my head falls back, it’s caught by the solid warmth behind me. It’s real enough that I could swear I’m pressed up against the presence right now, a presence that sure as hell feels like a man—tall, strong, sturdy. The feeling is so vivid I find myself thinking in terms of him instead of it.
A shake breaks his steady breathing again, another warm tremble in my ear, and I feel the tightness of his body rise and fall with each breath.
I’m letting myself go, relaxing every part of me until the only thing keeping me upright is his body, and as I do, the hard curves of muscle tense against my back.
Something in the air changes, and the presence behind me wavers. It’s completely solid one moment, and in the next it’s fluid, as though nothing more than a strong breeze props me up. Soon it’s not even a breeze, just a puff of air, and I’m grabbing the edge of the counter with both hands to keep from tumbling backward.
My legs wobble, struggling to support the rest of me. When I catch sight of my reflection now, my face is flushed. I let out a loud exhale when I remember how to breathe and command myself to get a grip. I’m still feeling like a sloshy puddle when I slip my sweater back on over my head and drag myself to the front door of my room, unlocking it and yanking it open.
I need fresh air like a drug right now, and I can’t stumble down the stairs fast enough. I hear Claire’s bubbly greeting when I fly past the front desk, but I don’t stop until I’m standing on the sidewalk, bending forward with my hands on my knees and soaking up the crisp winter breeze.
