Collision

by Stefne Miller

  I unpacked my stuff, threw all my clothes into a pile on a chair, slid the suitcases under the bed, and then stood, looking around the room. I’d been waiting months for a chance to relax, and now that I had the opportunity, I didn’t have a clue what to do with myself. I had books I could read, but I wasn’t really interested; business to do, but I certainly didn’t want to do that; nature to watch out the window; movies I could watch on pay-per-view; or I could sleep.

  I chose sleep and evidently needed it, because I didn’t wake up until midmorning the next day.

  A quick search through the small kitchen revealed stocked cabinets but no coffee, which, at that moment, was what I wanted most in the world. Coffee was my life-blood, and survival without it felt close to impossible.

  Oliver gave me permission to help myself to anything on the property, so I walked to the main house and forged through the kitchen. I didn’t fail to realize that it was the first time breakfast hadn’t been prepared for me in over six months.

  I’d just found the coffee maker when a fiery redhead stumbled into the kitchen, wearing nothing but an oversized sweatshirt that hit her mid-thigh. Even with her hair in total disarray, she was stunning—stunning and surprised to see me.

  I wonder if Oliver gave me permission to help myself to her?

  “I didn’t think anyone was home,” she grumbled.

  “Only me.”

  “Only you?” Her legs were long and lean but not too skinny like the girls back in Los Angeles. They had some muscular definition to them. And they were white, very white, like they rarely saw sunlight.

  She tried to run her fingers through her rat’s nest hair but gave up and somehow managed to tie it into a knot on the back of her head as she wandered aimlessly around the kitchen. Her eyes were only partially open, and she looked a little worse for wear.

  “Hung over,” I assumed.

  She stopped wandering and looked over at me, her eyes squinting. “Pardon?”

  “A few too many drinks. I’ve been there, done that…a lot.”

  She shook her head and laughed, showing bright white teeth. “No. Not quite. It’s jet lag. I just got in a few hours ago, and I feel like rubbish.”

  She sounded British. “Then you might want to get outside,” I said.

  Some of the hair she’d just tucked behind her head fell back in her face as she flipped her head, looked toward the glass doors off the kitchen, and squinted more heavily.

  “Get outside and do what exactly?”

  “Get some sunlight. That’ll help with your jet lag.”

  “Hmm.” When she looked back at me, her eyes opened enough to reveal that they were hazel. She re-tucked the loose piece of hair.

  Does she really not know who I am? Is that even possible? Everyone knows who I am. My God, I’m an arrogant jerk.

  “Are you a physician?” she asked.

  No. I’m an arrogant jerk. “Not even close. I’ve just done some travel of my own,” I told her.

  “I see. Splendid.” Rummaging through the refrigerator, she pulled out some eggs before turning back to me. “In hopes of clarification, would you be so kind as to tell me who are you and why you’re in my uncle’s kitchen?”

  “Your uncle?”

  “Yes. Oliver is my uncle.” She picked the fry pan off the stove and cranked up the heat before turning to me. “You haven’t answered my question. Who are you, and should I deck you with this pan instead of cooking with it? I pray to God I don’t have to deck you, because I really don’t have the energy for it.”

  Is this girl from another planet? “I’m Cabot. Oliver’s letting me live in his guest house for a while.”

  Her face lit up a little. “Oh. You’re him,” she said with a nod as she dropped the pan back onto the stove.

  So she does know who I am but just doesn’t give a rip?

  “I apologize. I’m feeling a bit daft this morning. Not thinking properly at all.” She cracked an egg into the skillet, but most of it ran down the outside of the pan. With a moan, she grabbed the skillet and scraped the egg into the trash with her finger. “I’m about to nod off. Why am I trying to cook?”

  I walked toward the stove and, afraid that she might actually hit me, carefully grabbed the skillet out of her hands while leaning as far away from her as I could. At least if she was going to hit me, she wouldn’t get my face. “Here. You sit. Let me do this.”

  She leaned back and pulled the pan away from my grasp and up into the air. I think I might have cowered. I do know for a fact that I threw my hands in front of my face in defense and waited to get pounded. As she tried to figure out whether or not to hit me with the pan, I studied her face. Her skin was pale, smooth, and covered with light red freckles.

  Finally, she relaxed and even smiled a little. “Lovely. Thank you.”

  “Sure.” I snatched the pan out of her hand and tossed it onto the stove. “So you’re Kei?”

  She nodded as she leaned against the counter.

  “You’re a girl,” I added.

  “One moment.” She pulled out the neck of her shirt, looked down at her chest, and cocked her eyebrows. “Yes. I do have bits, although not very large ones, so I suppose I am.”

  Bits? Her frankness caught me completely off guard, and I didn’t know if it was safe to laugh or not, so I just pretended it didn’t faze me. “Um…um…they told me that someone named Kei was coming for a visit, but I didn’t realize you were a girl.”

  “I apologize for disappointing you.”

  “I’m not disappointed. How do you want your eggs?”

  She left my side and sat down at the kitchen table. “Over easy. Thank you.”

  “So why the jet lag? Where’d you come from?”

  “Uganda.”

  “Uganda, Africa?” It practically is another planet!

  “Yes.” She laid her head onto the table and watched me from the corner of her eyes. “I attempted to sleep on the flight, but it was bloody uncomfortable. Nineteen hours crammed in the middle seat of an aircraft is my definition of hell. Not literal hell, of course. I presume that’s much, much worse, but it’s close enough to hell for me on this planet. And unfortunately, I experience that particular hell on a yearly basis. It’s atrocious, simply and utterly atrocious.”

  “Sounds miserable. Salt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes to which, being miserable or salt?”

  “Both.”

  “Why don’t you go sit out on the patio? I’ll bring your food out there. Do you want cream or sugar in your coffee?”

  “Coffee and I don’t care for one another, actually. I boiled water for tea. There are tea packets over there on the counter. I brought them from home.”

  “What do you put in it?”

  “Raw sugar and powdered milk. Would you like some?”

  I hate tea. “Sure, but I’ll do it. I don’t trust you with a kettle of boiling water.”

  “Everything’s right there on the counter. I usually do two scoops of each.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Are you good then?”

  “I’m all good. Just get outside. You need the melatonin.”

  She saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t wear sunglasses,” I yelled at her over my shoulder. “The whites of your eyes need to absorb the sunlight.”

  “Whatever you suggest.”

  The door slammed behind her as she stumbled onto the patio and finally fell into a chair, although she managed to do it with some grace.

  I threw some bread in the toaster and got busy making eggs. I glanced out at her every once in a while and noticed that she wasn’t paying me any attention. As a matter of fact, she acted like I didn’t even exist.

  The fact that she didn’t recognize me made a little more sense. She lived in Africa. What were the chances anyone would know me there? Maybe I should move to Africa.

  I was strangely relieved that there might be somewhere in the world I could still go without being mobbed,
even if it was a village in the middle of the African plains.

  As soon as I started to believe her story and accept that maybe she didn’t actually know who I was, my mind flipped the opposite direction and I thought that I might be part of a prank. Without wanting to be obvious, I scanned the kitchen for mirrors or anything reflective that might actually be a two-way mirror with a camera sitting behind it, capturing my reaction on film for all the world to watch on MTV or YouTube.

  I looked back at her again. Still not paying a lick of attention.

  Several minutes later, when I walked onto the patio, her eyes lit up as I sat the plate in front of her. “Blimey, this looks amazing.”

  “Thanks. Don’t get too impressed; they’re just eggs.”

  My eyes scanned the backyard for anything that might look out of place or fishy. I saw nothing. All the windows were clear enough to see into the house, and there weren’t any buildings outside, other than the guesthouse I’d just come from.

  My paranoia calmed a little as I sat down across from her.

  “Still, I’ve never seen eggs look so nice. Are you a foodie or something?”

  A foodie? I assumed she meant cook or chef. “No. I’ve just made an egg or two in my time.”

  “You know, it’s hard to make the perfect egg over easy, but I think you did it.”

  “Enough about the eggs.”

  She cut them with her fork before stacking some on a piece of toast. “It’s an abominable shame they’ll be gone in less than sixty seconds. How’s your tea?”

  “I haven’t tried it yet.”

  “Why the wait?”

  “I need it to cool some.”

  A one-sided smile formed on her face before it disappeared when she took a large bite.

  I blew on my tea and watched her while she ate. She mostly ate with her fingers but did it with style. The procedure was a strange combination of polished and indigenous. Combining the way she ate with the way she talked, she was fascinating. The girl slipped in and out of talking with a British accent like someone slipping in and out of silk sheets, with ease. It was downright sexy.

  “So tell me about yourself, Kei.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Whatever you want to tell me.”

  “What if I prefer not to clue you up on anything?”

  “Come on. You came from Africa. It’s intriguing. I just made you breakfast. The least you can do is tell me a little.”

  She shrugged as she scooped more egg onto the toast. “I’m twenty.”

  Not jailbait. Go on.

  “I live with my parents in Gulu a portion of the year and here with my aunt and uncle the other portion. I’ve lived that way for years.”

  “And you’re British?”

  “No. My nanny was British. Blame her for the way I talk. Actually, between my Southern parents, my British nanny and tutors, and my Acholi housekeepers, cooks, and friends, you never know what might come out of my mouth. I can also cuss like a sailor, although a thousand rounds of soap in the mouth banned the foul language from my vocabulary for the most part.”

  “And who taught you to cuss like a sailor?” I must personally thank this person.

  “One of my tutors, but it was our secret. It’s the only way he could get me to pay attention during mathematics. Oh, and my cousins from here in the States. I suppose they got a lift out of hearing their all-too-holy cousin talking like a man just out of prison.”

  “I’m sure they did. And what does your dad do in Uganda?”

  “He’s a Devil Dodger.”

  The term caught me off guard, and I almost dropped my mug of tea. “A what?” I shook the spilled hot liquid off my hand and tried not to show that I was in pain.

  Her head tilted, like she was surprised I didn’t know what a Devil Dodger was. “A Devil Dodger…you understand? A Sky Pilot, God Botherer, Holy Heckler. You understand. A preacher…missionary.”

  “Missionary?” I spilt my tea again. “As in spread-the-gospel missionary?”

  “That’s the type.”

  “Very interesting.” Crap. She’s got morals.

  “You think I’m batty, right? A lunatic?”

  “No. Like I said, I find it interesting.” And depressing.

  “Anyway,” she said, taking her last bite, “that’s about it.”

  “That’s about it?” I laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You talk about living in Africa like everyone does it, like it’s no big deal.”

  “It isn’t a big deal to me. Africa is amazing, but you’d get an ear-bashing if I gabbed on about it. I doubt you want to hear it.”

  “You’d be wrong. I’m willing to sit and listen for hours.”

  Her eyebrows cocked. “Well, that’s extremely pitiful of you.”

  “What?”

  “Being willing to sit and listen to me for hours. It suggests that you don’t have much of a life?”

  “I guess I don’t.”

  For the first time since we met, she took a few seconds to look at me. I mean, really look at me, like she was trying to read something from the way I looked or sat or maybe from what I wasn’t saying. Her eyes were clear, piercing even, and looked right through me, or at least that’s what it felt like.

  Then she shrugged as if she’d gotten nothing out of her inspection. “Then you’ll have to wait until I’m fully awake. I can’t put together a complete thought right now, and if I’m going to bore you to tears, I might as well do it brilliantly.”

  “I’ll take you up on that.”

  She grabbed the bottom of her sweatshirt and held it in place as she pulled her legs up and put her feet on the chair. The sweatshirt jammed between her legs kept me from getting a show, but I couldn’t stop myself from checking every once in a while just to make sure, although I managed to do it when she wasn’t looking my direction, which was most of the time. She hardly even knew I existed.

  “So what about you?” she asked, reaching for her tea. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Cabot.”

  “And what’s your story, Cabot?” she asked just before taking a slurp of her tea.

  Lie. It’s time to lie like a dog. “Nothing. I don’t really have a story.”

  “Everyone has stories.”

  “Oh, I have a lot of stories. It’s just that none of them are mine.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Multiple personalities?”

  “Practically.”

  “Look. If you don’t want to fess up, I won’t make you.”

  “As if you could make me do anything.”

  The crooked smirk briefly appeared on her face again, but it was partially hidden behind her mug. “Oh, I could make you,” she lightly threatened.

  I wish you would. “You could?”

  “Of course.”

  “How?”

  “I can’t unveil my secrets, Cabot. I lose my power if I do.”

  “I feel the same way.”

  “Okay. Then we’ll both keep our secrets to ourselves. Thanks for the eggs.” She kicked her feet off the chair, stood, grabbed her dirty dishes, and went inside without another word.

  I waited a good ten minutes before realizing that she wasn’t coming back outside and figured that if this were some sort of prank, someone would’ve gotten bored and stopped the entire thing a long time ago. Not to mention, her story was too good. Who would make up something like that?

  I accepted that she was for real and honestly didn’t know who I was. But still, her lack of interest in talking to me left me completely confused. Even if she didn’t know who I was, we were the only two people within a ten-mile radius. You would think she’d at least want a little company.

  Choking down the last gulp of tea, I debated in my mind whether or not to take the cup back inside. If I did, there was a chance of seeing Kei. If I didn’t, there was no telling how long it would be before I saw her again. I wasn’t willing to wait.

  I jumped out of the chair and
made my way back into the house. She wasn’t in the kitchen, and I didn’t see or hear her down the hallway. Thinking some noise might draw her attention, I dropped the mug into the sink, and clinked it around in the soapy water with the other dirty dishes. It didn’t work.

  I gave up and decided that if I wanted to see her, I was going to have to go hunt her down.

  “Hello?” I walked slowly down the hallway and looked into each of the rooms as I passed. “Kei?”

  “Did you need me?”

  My eyes trailed up the stairs until they landed on her as she looked over the railing. She’d put on a pair of sweatpants, and it upset me deeply.

  Still, something about her made me unable to speak. I was now a stuttering idiot who could barely put together a sentence. “Uh…uh…I-I-I just wanted to thank you for the tea.”

  “You’re welcome.” She turned to head back into the room.

  “G-guess I’m going to head back out to the guest house.”

  “Okay,” she said over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I won’t bother you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I made it halfway up the stairs after her before she turned back around.

  “My uncle left me a note instructing that I stay out of your way. He said that you prefer privacy.”

  “He told you that?”

  “A note told me that, yes.”

  She disappeared into the room, and I was afraid she was gone for good, but in just a few seconds, she came back out with a basket of dirty clothes and walked toward me down the stairs.

  “I like a little privacy, but I’m not a recluse or anything,” I explained as she passed.

  “Well, I’ll be here at the house, piddling about and minding my own business. If you get lonely, come and find me. Otherwise, you won’t see or hear from me.” She dropped the basket onto the floor next to the bottom step. “Will it bother you if I swim in the pool at some point? I won’t make a row or anything.”

  “A row?”

  “A ruckus. Noise. I won’t make noise.”

  “Oh, and no. You hanging out in the pool won’t bother me a bit.” I’d enjoy the scenery.