by Tyra Lynn
I felt his lips touch mine, and his kiss was ardent, faintly desperate. I kissed back with the same passion, suddenly afraid he was going to leave. I pulled him as close as possible, wrapping a leg around one of his. He pulled his lips away, “You have to stop,” He whispered.
“Why?”
“You have to wake up.”
“I am awake.”
“Jessie, wake up.” Someone was shaking me gently. “Wake up.”
I opened my eyes and Gabriel was inches from my face. I was lying on the bed, right where he had placed me. I frowned.
“What were you dreaming?” He asked.
I blushed, and then a yawn caught me by surprise. My eyes watered and I started to rub them, but stopped. “I need a bathroom.” I said.
“Of course. Through that door and to the right.” He pointed across the room. “What were you dreaming?”
I stretched first, and then swung my legs around, sitting up. I yawned again. “I don’t remember.” I lied.
“Oh. You were smiling, so it must have been good.” He looked at me, a hint of sadness in his eyes.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
The door he had indicated was slightly open, and I was very glad. I would have felt stupid if I’d had to ask him to open a door for me. “I’ll be right back.” I said, standing up carefully, slowly.
As soon as I was sure of my balance, I walked to the door and pushed it open with my elbow. It swung quietly on the old hinges. I turned to the right, and saw another slightly open door.
The bathroom was small. There was a washcloth lying on the sink, so I picked it up and used it to close the door. I used the cloth to turn on the faucet, and then did what I had to do. I knew from experience that sound carried in old houses. I washed my hands and dried them, turning the faucet back off with the cloth and using it to reopen the door.
I checked my face, fixed a few smudges under my eyes, and headed back to the bedroom. I hadn’t allowed myself to think, trying to forget that dream. It messed with my mind, made me feel like I was closer to Gabriel than I was, and that couldn’t be good. He would think I was crazy.
When I entered the door to the bedroom, he was sitting on the bed with his back to me. His shoulders were down, his head bowed, hands clasped in front of him. I could hear him whispering. Was he praying?
He stopped and raised his head, looking out the window in front of him, then put it back down. I had the urge to go put my arm around him; he seemed to need some comfort. I didn’t, though, because that was exactly the kind of thing that would make me look crazy.
Even from behind, he was gorgeous. The way his black hair caressed his neck made me want to run my fingers through it. The skin of his bare shoulders looked so soft and warm, yet firm and I wanted to rest my hands there. I saw them tremble all of a sudden, just a little.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
His head jerked up, but he didn’t turn around. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Who yields to time finds time on his side,” He said quietly, then louder to me, “Yes, I shall be.” He still didn’t turn around.
I approached slowly, went around the corner of the bed, and sat beside him. He still didn’t look up. I peeked at his face and saw he had his eyes closed. He took both hands and rubbed his face rigorously, then shook his head, as if he was trying to wipe something out of his mind.
“I’ve been preparing dinner while you slept. I was almost afraid to leave you here alone; afraid you would wake up, become confused, and fall down the stairs.” He laughed, but it sounded hollow.
Preparing dinner? How long had I slept? “There’s obviously something bothering you. Want to talk about it?” I asked. I felt brave, so I put a hand on his shoulder.
A wave of anguish—that’s all it could have been described as—crossed his face and quickly disappeared. He reached up and patted my hand. “I wish I could, more than anything in the world.”
“You can.” I said. I immediately wanted to know what it was. He wanted to tell me, I was absolutely certain. Something, or someone, was stopping him. A what or a who. I decided to take a chance. “What, or who, is stopping you? Have you figured it out yet?”
He turned so fast, grabbing my arms, that he nearly knocked me off the end of the bed. “What did you just ask me?” He didn’t look angry, but he looked demanding. It didn’t scare me, but for a second I couldn’t find my voice. “Please, why did you ask me that?”
“It’s what I heard.” I looked at his door. “You said something to your dad. A ‘what or a who’ is tormenting you. Something like that.”
“What were you dreaming?” He asked.
I felt my face flush, and I turned my head. I felt his hand touch my chin, and he gently turned my face back. His eyes were so blue, but slightly bloodshot. They looked tired, and sad, and solemn, and older. They were watery, and he blinked several times.
“Please.” He whispered.
I didn’t want to tell him, it was so embarrassing. I tried to pick through the memory of it, pick the parts I could share and not die. “You asked me not to forget you this time.”
A light sprang up in his eyes. “But did you?”
“Did I what?” I wasn’t sure what he was asking.
I saw the light fade. “Did you forget me?”
“It was a dream. You said something about leaving, and I would forget you, so I said don’t go, and you said you didn’t get to choose, and then I said I’ll choose, I won’t let you go.” I said it all in a rush; it wasn’t as embarrassing that way.
“And then what?” He asked.
“Oh god, please don’t make me tell you.” I was blushing so hard even my ears felt hot.
“I’ll get on my knees and beg if you will tell me. Time is running out.” He paused a second. “Your father will be here soon.” As if to prove he meant what he said, he slid off the bed and got on his knees in front of me. “I’m begging.”
“You’re insane.” As I said the words, something snapped. “I said that, in my dream.”
“You told me I was insane.” He acted as if he was agreeing, and was waiting for me to say something else.
“You were talking, about not choosing and all that.” I said.
“And?”
“And.” I swallowed hard. “And I said ‘stop talking and kiss me.”
“And it was a dream?” He asked.
I closed my eyes. “Was it?”
“Tell me. Tell me if it was a dream.” He took my hands. That electricity. My fingers burned.
“Was it?” I asked again.
“You have to tell me.” His voice was soft, pleading, persuasive.
“Stop talking and kiss me.” Why did I keep saying things out loud?
His lips were crushing mine instantaneously, though the words had barely escaped. He pushed me back on the bed pinning me beneath him a moment, until he rolled onto his side, pulling me with him. My hand found the back of his neck, my fingers tangling in his hair. My other hand found a bare shoulder, one of the shoulders I had wanted to touch. I let myself caress it, feeling the smoothness and warmth of his skin, the muscles rippling beneath.
He pulled back, breathing hard. “Please, Jessie. Please don’t forget me this time. Please.”
The air was explosive, charged, crackling and snapping. “I won’t.” I said. It seemed like the appropriate answer at the time.
CHAPTER XVIII
There is no present or future, only the past, happening over and over again...
—Eugene O'Neill
I sat up in bed, breathless. I had that dream again, the one with the heart carved on the tree. Gabriel was kissing me—I knew his name now—and it felt so good I was almost dizzy. Now that I was awake, I felt a little guilty.
The clock said it was five a.m. and, judging from the darkness outside my window, I knew that it was correct. What I didn’t know was why I kept dreaming about Gabriel, other than the obvious fact that he was gorgeous. B
ut the dream had come first, before I ever met him, and that didn’t make sense. What could make that make sense?
Maybe I had seen him, and my subconscious remembered, but my conscious didn’t. Maybe that could explain it.
I wondered if Steve was awake yet. I rolled over, grabbed my phone, and sent him a quick message. ‘You up?’
The reply was swift. ‘Yep.’
I thought about sending another message, but decided to call instead. Half a ring and I heard, “Good morning, sunshine!”
“Good morning to you. I thought you always slept late.” I said teasingly.
“I used to.” He laughed.
“So, what gets you up so early?”
“Some really cute brown-eyed girl. She torments me in my dreams.”
“Torments, huh?” That word ‘torments’ bothered me, but I didn’t know why. I laughed it off. “How so?”
“Oh, I’d rather not say.” He laughed, then, and I thought better of following that line of questioning.
“You better behave.” I teased.
“So what gets you up so early?” He asked. I felt guilty instantly.
“I always get up early. You know, ‘Early to bed, early to rise.’ I figure that if I do it enough, I’ll finally get the ‘wealthy’ part. I’ve got the other two in spades.”
“Healthy and wise. That’s nothing to take for granted, I should know. I’m flexing my muscles while watching the discovery channel, just so you know.” He joked.
“You’re insane!” I got the strangest feeling the moment I said those words. I needed to start getting some more sleep.
We continued to banter back and forth, laughing a lot. Steve was easy to talk to, and even though I had tried to hate him for so long, we got along extremely well when we let ourselves. We said goodbye after talking for an hour. Steve had to shower and change for work, and I just wanted a long bath.
I tried not to think about Gabriel, but his face kept popping up behind my eyes every time I closed them. He was ruining my bath! I just wanted to lay back and relax, but those blue eyes kept haunting me. I needed to get a grip.
I cut my bath short, and decided to get ready for the day. I wrapped a towel around me and dried my hair, put on some makeup, and went to my room to dress. I started to let my towel drop, but the mirror caught my attention. There couldn’t possibly be anyone there who could see me, but just in case, I grabbed my clothes and took them back to my bathroom to dress.
When I returned to my room, I eyed the frustrating mirror. I knew there was someone in there. How could no one ever be there when I looked? What the heck, let’s see what was there today.
I walked up to it and showed it who was boss. I wasn’t above torture—Jack Bauer style. I pretended I was grabbing it by the neck, and I was going to force it to talk. There was something obviously out of place, I noticed it instantly. It looked deliberate.
On the floor, in front of the mirror, was what appeared to be a watch. It was strange, like a pomander with feet, but it was definitely a watch. The top was open, and I could see the clock face. It only had one hand, and appeared to be very old. I slid my hands down the mirror, never letting go, trying to get my face closer to it.
I ignored everything else in the room, concentrating only on the watch, trying to memorize everything about it. When I thought I had enough, I ran to grab my sketchpad. I drew what I remembered, in as much detail as possible; until I was satisfied I had done my best.
It was close to eight, so I decided to give Julie a quick call. After a couple of rings, she answered. “Hey, Jessie.”
“Hey Julie, so are you having lunch with us today?”
“No. I have to go with Auntie to trade days, you want to come? We’ll be back by two.”
I knew better than that, they stayed all day, every time. “Can’t, duh. Have lunch with Steve. That’s why I was calling.”
“Oh, yeah, duh. Brain’s not working.” She giggled.
“Obviously.” I giggled, too.
We talked for a while until Auntie started insisting they leave. Julie was driving, and she never talked on the phone while driving. It was good that she didn’t.
Now I had several hours to kill, alone. I thought about taking my camera to the park, but I didn’t feel like walking, at least not yet. I went to my open window and stuck my head out. I really should get a screen for it, but most bugs never flew up here, so I generally left it open. I always had to remember to watch for rain though. I’d only forgotten maybe three times, one of those times messed some stuff up on the second floor.
I took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. I hated heights, and it made my feet and stomach tingle, but for some reason I would sometimes climb into my window, sitting down and sticking my legs out. It was the most ‘dare-devil-ish’ thing I ever did. Since it felt so good outside, I thought ‘why not?’
This window faced the street, a tall, arched eyebrow dormer. It was close enough to the floor at the bottom that I could sit on my butt and scoot to stick my legs out. I barely had to bend over when the glass was fully raised.
I hadn’t put on any shoes, so I stuck my feet out wearing nothing but socks, and put my arms on either side of the window like braces. I scooted all the way forward and stuck my head out, my butt perched on the sill. I could hear Mrs. Watsons' piano, and it sounded like ‘Last rose of summer.’
I closed my eyes and listened to the slow, haunting, Irish melody, humming with it. I heard a rich, baritone voice start singing along from somewhere down on the sidewalk.
“So soon may I follow, when friendships decay; and from love's shining circle, the gems drop away. When true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown. Oh! Who would inhabit this bleak world alone?”
The voice was beautiful, and sad. I watched that singing show on TV sometimes, and they always told the contestants to ‘feel’ the song they were singing. Whoever was singing was definitely ‘feeling’ those lyrics. I scooted out the window a little farther, trying to see through the trees and catch sight of the singer.
Someone was walking, and I got little peeks through the branches and leaves. When he came into sight, I lost my balance and started sliding forward. I screamed and grabbed the sides of the window for dear life. What the hell? I picked now to be jumpy?
My feet were kicking, scraping at the cedar shingles, my butt was sliding, and there was nothing I could do but hold on and pray. I couldn’t see a thing below me; my face was pointed toward the top of the trees and the sky.
“Hold on!” I heard a voice yell, “I’m coming, hold on!”
“I can’t.” I yelled back. My hands hurt on the rough window casing and I hysterically thought I should have sanded and painted the stupid thing. Or maybe not. Maybe all those bumps and splinters were the only things letting me hang on.
“You can! Hold on!” I heard the voice to the right, near the kitchen door.
I would almost rather die than have him come in my house. If it weren’t for my dad, I think I really would rather die. I concentrated on imagining dad’s reaction, on the look he would get on his face if he knew I had fallen to my death, and it gave me the strength I needed to hold on. I could hear feet on the stairs now, coming closer and closer.
“In here! I’m here!” I shouted, keeping my eyes squeezed tightly closed, and holding as still as I could. My socks had caught on the shingles edges, which helped my feet stop sliding, but didn’t give me any traction.
My door burst open with a loud thud and I suddenly felt hands around my wrists, pulling me back in. I tried to help push with my feet, but he was pulling faster than I could try to push. I flew through the window and we both landed unceremoniously in a pile on my floor, me in his lap.
“Are you all right? Are you injured anywhere? Cuts, scrapes, bruises?” His hands were running up and down my arms, checking my elbows and hands. My palms and a couple of fingers were bleeding, and there were some splinters that I was now starting to notice.
He touched one with a probing fi
nger, and I hollered “Ouch! Stop! Ouch!”
“Splinters. Lots of them.”
‘Duh!’ I thought. I pulled the throbbing hand around where I could see. My hand was full of them. My other hand was hurting, too, and I was sure it was more of the same. I tried to push myself up, but it hurt too much.
“Here, let me help you.”
He pushed me off his lap carefully, stood, placed his hands beneath my armpits, and hauled me to my feet. I held my hands out in front of me, palms up and feeling helpless.
“We need to clean your hands first with an antiseptic, and then try to get those splinters out. Where would I find what I need?”
No reason to argue at this point. “Out my door, the bathroom is straight across. In the medicine cabinet.”
“I’ll hurry.”
I turned around and watched him go out the door. What the heck was Gabriel Knight doing on my street? He’d almost got me killed! Maybe it wasn’t his fault, and maybe I shouldn’t have been hanging out the window—but still!
I could hear him in the medicine cabinet, digging around for a few moments. “You should come in here to the sink.” He called.
I walked slowly out my door and across to the bathroom, my hands out as if in supplication. Of course I had left my towel lying on the floor instead of putting it away in the hamper. At least the room was clean, and my sink was clean. No hairballs from my brush anywhere in sight.
He turned the water on a medium temperature and checked it a couple of times. “Rinse your hands.” He instructed.
I stuck them under the faucet and rinsed. He turned the water off, and while my hands still dripped over the sink, he poured peroxide over them both. Several places bubbled and stung. “Ouch, god, why does that have to sting so much?”
“Because you’ve punctured the skin exposing the nerves and...”
“It was a rhetorical question.” I cut him off, hopping from foot to foot and grimacing.
“I didn’t see any tweezers. Where would I find them?” He asked, taking no offense to my snappiness.
