by Lexie Ray
“It’s just right here, at the end of the hall on the left,” I said. “You don’t have long to walk. Are you sure you’ll be steady on your feet? I could—I could help you, if you think you need it.”
“I think you’re just trying to see me naked again,” the man joked, grinning at me.
I thought I would die of embarrassment. “I’ll meet you at the bathroom, then,” I said, hurrying down the hall and into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. What was wrong with me? Why was I acting like this?
The answer was easy enough: I hadn’t been around another living soul besides the creatures of the forest and my chickens for half a decade. Of course I didn’t know how to act. Of course things would be awkward.
But did they have to be this excruciating?
I tried to distract myself by riffling through my drawers, looking for something that could possibly fit the man. I needed to ask him what his name was. With a rush of realization, I understood that I needed to introduce myself. God! How was this so hard? I didn’t get how I could be failing at this so badly.
I located a pair of athletic shorts and held them up, trying to visualize if they’d fit him. Blushing, I realized I was visualizing his bare pelvis, measuring the span of his naked hips, as I’d seen him while undressing him yesterday.
I buried my face in my hands. This was unbearable. My only comfort was that he probably hadn’t seen my terrible scar yet, but I figured it was only a matter of time before he asked me why I was always looking at him sideways.
What was I doing? What was I thinking, bringing him here? I was obviously incapable of being normal around him, and that was because I wasn’t normal. I was a freak of nature and a hermit and just not suited for any of this.
“Anything yet?” The man’s voice carried weakly through two doors, across the hallway in the bedroom. Crap! Of course he was done, waiting for me to stop freaking out and find him something he could conceal his nakedness with. If he ever found out how I’d ogled him, a terribly disfigured, fascinated girl, he’d probably run screaming into the woods, no matter how injured he was.
“Coming!” I hollered back, pawing through the rest of my clothes until I turned up an oversized T-shirt.
I pushed myself to my feet, forcing myself to walk to the door and across the hallway. I raised my fist to knock on the bathroom door, but it cracked opened before I could make contact. Swiftly, I averted my eyes, turning to the right.
“Here you go,” I said, holding the clothes up. “It’s not much, but it’s the best I could find that I thought would fit you. I live alone, so I don’t really have much in terms of menswear.”
“No, I appreciate it,” he said, his voice so warm that I wanted to chance a glance up to see what his lucid face looked like, but kept my eyes firmly focused on the wood floor.
“Well, I’m going to go hang the laundry outside to dry,” I announced. “That way, you’ll have some real clothes to wear. Afterward, I’ll make something for breakfast. Are you hungry?”
The man made a small noise in the back of his throat. “I don’t think I have much of an appetite, I’m afraid,” he said. “My ribs are hurting pretty bad.”
“You need rest,” I said. “I’ll boil some water for tea.”
“All right,” he said, his voice soft. I wanted nothing more than to look at him, but I still refused myself.
“I’m Michelle, by the way,” I said, studying some point on the wall near the front door in the other room. “What’s your name?”
The long silence that followed the question worried me, and I quickly looked at him, forgetting his nakedness and my hesitancy to let him see my scarring.
His handsome face was pinched with concern, his look turned inward, his dark brows drawn together. I realized for the first time that his eyes were a gorgeous shade of blue.
“What’s wrong?” I asked softly.
“I don’t know my name,” he said, almost wonderingly. “I just can’t remember it.”
I bit my lip. He must have hit his head harder than I thought. It was probably a miracle that the gash wasn’t deeper than it was. He reached up and winced as he touched the bandage covering the wound.
“I guess I must’ve hit my head,” he said, apparently bewildered. “You patched me up, huh?”
“Yes,” I said. “Do you remember what happened?”
He shook his head, looking even more worried. “No. I have no idea. I just woke up here, and it’s like my life is just starting.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “Is there anything you can remember? Can you remember where you’re from? What you were doing in the woods? The storm?”
The man looked more worried with each of my questions, and I fell silent. I didn’t want to cause him any more pain than he was already in.
“How about you lie back down on the couch and rest for a while?” I prompted gently. “That might be the best thing. I think you’ve had a shock of an accident, and you need to regain your strength. Maybe your memory will come back with it.”
“All right,” he said dully, clutching the clothes to the chest. “That’s what I’ll do. Rest.”
His flat voice worried me, but I waited until he closed the bathroom door until I launched into action. Maybe it would help him if he had his clothes. Maybe that familiarity would help jar some sort of memory back into his head. I piled the clean, wet clothes into a basket and set out.
The cooler than usual morning made me inhale, made me almost forget all my problems. It was going to be a beautiful day. I’d throw all the windows in the cottage open to let in the fresh air.
I hung the clothes to dry on the line behind the cottage in double speed, then jogged to the barn. It felt good for my lungs to run. Plus, it helped to get around a little faster. I didn’t want to leave the man alone for too long in the cottage. He needed me.
“Sorry,” I said to the chickens, tossing a scoop of feed into their coop. “I have someone else I need to watch today. You’ll get your time outside soon. I promise.”
I checked on the garden again, frowning at the encroaching weeds that had enjoyed the rain just as much as the other plants. It wouldn’t be an invasion overnight, but I’d have to deal with them soon. There were also some ripe tomatoes and peppers, and I spotted an almost ready cucumber. Perhaps I’d come back later this afternoon to pick the vegetables. I could make something light for the man to eat. Maybe he’d be able to manage a salad or a soup. He had to eat something to help rebuild his strength.
I ran back to the cottage, peering around it to make sure all of the clothes were still pinned firmly to the line and fluttering in the breeze. They’d be dry in no time, and he could have his own clothes back.
When I reentered the cottage, I frowned in concern. The man wasn’t on the couch, as I’d expected him to be. I stepped quickly down the hall and to the bathroom, hesitating for half a second before knocking on the door.
“Are you okay in there?” I asked. “Did the clothes fit all right?”
“I don’t think I’m okay,” he said, his voice even weaker. “I don’t feel well.”
Gash on the head? Injured ribs? Can’t remember anything that happened or even his own name? Of course he didn’t feel well.
“Do you need help getting back to the couch?” I asked. “I can come in and help you. Are you decent?”
“I got the shorts on,” he said tiredly. “But the shirt hurt too bad.”
I opened the door cautiously to see him sitting on the edge of the tub. The shorts fit him just a shade tightly, but it was all we could do until his other clothes dried. I took in his hanging head, his fine muscles, the bruising on his ribs, then looked quickly away—to the right, hiding the scarring—as he looked up at me.
“You’re pretty shy, aren’t you?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay. I don’t bite.”
“I’m just not very used to people, I’m afraid,” I said apologetically. “I’ve been out here for about five years now, and you
’re the first person I’ve talked to since then.”
“Is it because of your scars?” he asked gently.
My hand flew up to the right side of my face in dismay before I could stop it, trying to conceal the stretched and puckered pink skin that was too widespread for me to cover completely.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to hide it. I don’t mind.”
I stared at him for a long time, not lowering my hand a fraction of an inch. The scar was monstrous. He was obviously lying to me, pitying me because I couldn’t show my face in public if I ever even wanted to. Being pitied was an ugly, ugly feeling—probably as ugly as my scar.
“You really don’t mind it?” I asked dubiously. “The scar?”
He shook his head. “If it doesn’t bother you, it doesn’t bother me.”
“It bothers me,” I whispered, the words stunning me as they left my mouth. Why was I confiding in this stranger? I didn’t even know his name.
“Well, it shouldn’t,” he said. “They’re just scars. How did it happen?”
I shook my head quickly, trying to keep the memories from settling in there. That, I couldn’t tell. I hated thinking of it. Saying it aloud to another person was something I just couldn’t do.
“Fair enough,” the man said, smiling wanly. “We’ll both be mysteries, then.”
I swallowed and approached him. “Let’s get you back to the couch.”
With my help, the man leaning heavily on me, we got back to the family room. I had to focus on everything else possible to try to distract myself from the feel of his muscles against my body, the sensation of his arm wrapped around my shoulders, the fact that I hadn’t been able to maneuver around fast enough to put my right side nearest him. The hardest part about helping him was trying to hide myself.
He seemed strong, but I was sure whatever happened in the woods yesterday had taken the wind out of his sails. We eased onto the couch, the man hissing in pain, and then I stood again, an idea dawning in my mind.
“You know, I found some things in your pockets last night when I was washing your clothes,” I said. “You had a cell phone that didn’t work—sorry for snooping, but I was trying to figure out who you were. Maybe if you held it, it’d bring back some kind of memory for you. Worth a try, right?”
As I babbled nervously, I bustled over the table where the cell phone still rested from my sleuthing. I handed it to the man, watched eagerly as he turned it in his hands, trying to figure it out.
“It doesn’t really seem familiar,” he said sadly, looking up at me. “I mean, it’s obviously a cell phone. But it could be anybody’s for how attached I feel to it. Maybe if it worked …” His voice trailed off and he studied me silently. I turned to my right quickly, unwilling to let him to look at me fully. We were trying to get him figured out, not me.
“I don’t have a cell phone,” I said. “Do you think you’d recognize the charger to this one if you saw it? We could always order one. Who knows? It could just be a dead battery. There would be numbers on there, numbers of people who know you. What do you say? Should I fire up the old laptop?”
He gave me a small smile and shook his head. I was in the middle of opening my mouth to call him a pessimist and defeatist, but he held his cell phone up and shook it a little bit. Droplets of water flew out, illuminated by the lights overhead.
“Pretty sure it’s safe to say that the phone’s dead because of the water,” he said. “If only I could just remember my name! It’s the easiest thing in the world. Why don’t I know it?”
“I think you hit your head pretty hard in the woods,” I said. “It’s good that you’re at least awake, up and moving, even if you still don’t feel well. Or can’t remember your name.”
“What happened out there, anyway?” he asked, looking down at the cell phone in his hands, toying with it. “How did you find me?”
“I was walking in the woods after the storm,” I said. “We’d needed rain for the longest time, and I was curious to see what the creek was doing. I—I’m kind of a nature enthusiast, I guess you could say.”
“It’s apparently lucky for me that you are,” he said. “What happened next?”
“When I reached the creek, it was flooding,” I continued. “I was about to head down to see where it meets the river—that’s where I usually fish—when I heard a voice. I thought it was my imagination at first, but I realized I was curious and wanted to see what it was. I crossed the creek—”
“You crossed a flooded creek?” he interrupted, looking up at me. I covered the right side of my face with my hair, flipping it forward and knowing I looked foolish, but still unable to allow him to gaze at my scar.
“Yeah,” I answered, shrugging as casually as I could. “I worked up the bank until I found some shallows, but the water was still flowing pretty fast.”
“That’s crazy,” he said, shaking his head. “Why would you do something like that?”
“I felt like something was pushing me to figure out what the sounds were coming from,” I explained. “I thought they sounded like a voice.”
“You came to live in this place five years ago to get away from people,” the man said. “Why would you go to investigate something you thought sounded like a voice?”
I shrugged again. “I was curious.”
“So curious that you risked your life by crossing a flooded creek?”
He was getting upset, that much was clear, but I didn’t understand why.
“Would you have rather I hadn’t?” I asked, my brow furrowing. “Because once I crossed the creek, I found you, unconscious, wet, freezing, and bleeding.”
“I just don’t like the idea of you risking your life for mine,” he said. “I’m sorry. Please go on.”
“I wouldn’t have been able to leave you there,” I said, frowning. “If I hadn’t been able to bring you back, I would’ve stayed, done what I could there until you woke up and were able to try to make your way to the cottage.”
The man scowled deeply. “Wait. How far away is the creek from your cottage?”
“Maybe about two miles,” I mused. “I don’t know. I’ve never really tried to figure out the distance. I just like walking in the woods.”
The man’s eyes bugged practically out of his head. “You mean to tell me that you carried me—Jesus, back across the flooded creek—and all the way back to this place?”
I just didn’t get why he was so angry. “Yes,” I said. “That’s exactly what I did. That’s what I had to do. I had to help you. Though it probably didn’t help your ribs. I apologize for that. I didn’t know exactly what your injuries were until I got you back here.”
The man shook his head, incredulous. “A girl carries me across a flood, two miles through the woods, and then apologizes for doing it. Do you know how ridiculous that is?”
“I mean, would you rather me have left you there?” I asked shortly, beginning to feel cross. What was his problem? I’d done what I had to do. I’d gotten him to safety, and neither of us was too terribly worse for wear. I was getting a little sore, but that could have as much to do with the night I’d spent in the chair as hauling him through the woods.
“If it meant keeping you safe, then yes,” the man snapped, wincing as he held his ribs. “Damn. Ugh, sorry. I don’t mean to curse in front of you.”
I snorted at how ridiculous that was. “I’m not some wilting lily,” I said. “You should’ve heard my blue streak the time I cut myself in the garden. Good lord, I think the chickens were blushing.”
“Chickens?” the man asked, curious. “You’re pretty serious about this nature thing, aren’t you? You’re just a kid. Kids shouldn’t be serious about anything.”
“I’ll have you know that I’m 23 years old,” I said haughtily. “I’m not a kid. How old are you, anyways?”
The man shrugged and smiled, looking back down at the cell phone in his hands. “I wish I could tell you.”
I felt terrible. “I’m sorry,” I said quick
ly. “I didn’t mean—”
He gasped suddenly and I stopped talking. “The engraving.”
“Engraving?” I asked. “Did you remember something?”
“No,” he said. “Not remembered. Found. There’s an engraving on the back of the phone.”
Shocked, I sank down on the couch beside him. I’d been so disappointed at the phone not working last night that I hadn’t examined it any further.
“Well, what does it say?”
“Jonathan.”
“Jonathan,” I said, trying it out. I liked the way it sounded. “I think you look like a Jonathan.”
“I hope so,” he laughed.
“Jonathan?”
“Yes?”
“Nothing,” I said, smiling. “I just wanted to say it. To try it out. To see if you’d answer to it. But just Jonathan? No last name?”
“No,” he said, gazing at the phone as if it would reveal something else to him. “Just Jonathan.”
“Just Jonathan is a big step, anyways,” I said, trying to make him feel better. Without a last name, though, there’d be no Google searches trying to help him figure out his identity—or answer my questions.
“You know, I think I actually might be hungry,” Jonathan said, grinning at me. He was so handsome when he smiled. “Thanks for making me feel better, Michelle.”
“You’re welcome, Jonathan,” I said, smiling back at him. It was good to have a name to call him by, and not just “the naked man on the couch.” It was even better to hear my own name on his lips.
Chapter Five
I woke suddenly. I had the feeling that something had just echoed throughout the cottage. The cry that followed made me sit up quickly.
Not another nightmare.
I felt sorry for Jonathan. This kind of restless sleeping, the pained tossing and turning, the night terrors and sweats and talking, was bad for him. It was also bad for me. I needed my rest just as much as he did.
His nighttime travels—wherever he happened to go in his mind that scared him so terribly—had been waking me up for the past few weeks. I knew that I couldn’t fault him. He probably didn’t want to wake up screaming every night, either.
