Pure, unadulterated agony awaited me the second I put even a quarter of my weight onto my injured foot. It was a miracle I could keep myself upright. And not throw up all over Saint’s boots.
He watched me struggle with this, I witnessed with my pain-drunk gaze. That was what strengthened me. His utter disinterest to my suffering.
I straightened, with effort, but I did so.
“You can leave them in the car,” I said, refusing to invite him inside, no matter how rude that was.
This cottage was mine. It belonged to me and a dead woman. It brought me a feeling of safety I’d never felt and that I hadn’t realized was precious until this very moment. No way was this man entering the space, polluting it.
But he didn’t give me a choice. He looked from the car to me, then turned on his heel and walked straight into the house.
I’d left it unlocked. Because I hadn’t thought I’d be gone for longer than a few hours and I figured if a deranged serial killer was planning on coming back to kill the next owner of the house, he—or she—wouldn’t let a locked door stop them.
Of course, I hadn’t foreseen these events; otherwise, I would’ve welded the door shut.
I had no choice but to follow him inside. It took me considerably longer.
He was standing in the middle of the small living room when I hobbled in, sweating from the effort and pain I’d been through. I was suddenly aware of the grime covering my body from the last twenty-four hours. Carrie had offered me use of the clinic shower but I’d been comfortable staying dirty in my own filth rather than brave a public bathroom.
It was only now, with his unyielding gaze focused on me, I realized what I mess I was.
“You still have all her furniture,” he said. His eyes moved over the shelves. “Her books.”
“Do you think that’s weird?” I don’t even know why I asked that question. Of course it was weird. I was weird. I knew that and I liked that about myself, that I did weird things. Things that made people uncomfortable.
So why was I asking such an inane question? Why did I care about the answer?
He must’ve sensed my desperation; maybe because I wasn’t practiced at feeling it, let alone hiding it. Or maybe he was just practiced at reading people’s weaknesses. So, he let me stew. Tortured me with his silence. With his measured, unhurried and unyielding gaze.
“Weird?” he repeated, prolonging my discomfort. “I don’t think much is weird. But might’ve been surprised if I hadn’t met you. Knowin’ you, no, it’s not weird.”
I flinched inwardly at the seemingly inane statement.
“You don’t know me,” I snapped, making sure to make my voice cold, cruel.
It was then he moved. Quickly. Fluidly. He was directly in front of me before I could figure out how to retreat on my crutches. “Ah, but I do. As much as I don’t want to.”
Then he left.
Showering, as it turned out, was all but impossible with a severely sprained ankle. Luckily the deep, claw-footed tub did a great job at cleaning most of the filth from me. And the whisky I took into the bath with me did a reasonable job at wiping off some of the inside dirt.
My phone sat on the table beside me, Katy on speaker.
I wasn’t calling her so she would drop everything and do something insane, like come here to take care of me. Just write me a prescription and email it to the pharmacy here.
As it was, her first instinct was to do neither once I’d explained what happened.
“You got lost in the woods?” she clarified, sounding not concerned enough for my liking. In fact, she didn’t seem to be concerned at all. She definitely seemed amused. Katy didn’t get amused often. Or at all.
“I didn’t get lost,” I snapped, glaring out the window at the woods in question. “I tripped and sprained my ankle, rendering myself unable to walk back home. Which I knew the location of.”
“You did not,” she called my bluff.
“This is not about whether or not I knew where my house was,” I said.
I totally didn’t know where it was at the time of the fall.
“This is about the man who found me,” I continued.
A pause on the other end of the phone. “If you buried the lead that some sick man came and—”
“It wasn’t that,” I interrupted quickly.
She exhaled in relief. She knew about my past, had a clinical, unsympathetic response to it. Which is exactly what I wanted. But she betrayed something with the exhale. Concern. She wasn’t known to have concern for other humans. She worked with death and illness too often.
“He...” I trailed off. How did I even describe Saint? I couldn’t talk about the way he smoldered because she would tease me mercilessly about uttering the world “smolder.” But it wasn’t my fault. There was no other way to describe the man’s energy, apart from smoldering. And not even entirely in a sexy way. Equal parts scary and sexy way.
Okay, a little scarier. To even admit in my own head I was scared said something about his presence.
“He’s my neighbor,” I said finally.
“Yes, well, even in the wilderness, you have neighbors,” she replied, sounding annoyed. “Lucky you had one, maybe you’d still be out there, slowly dying of dehydration.”
“Your concern is touching,” I deadpanned.
“I’d be concerned if you were still out in the woods, slowly dying of dehydration,” she countered. “Which you are not. Therefore, I’m merely curious about this neighbor that you’re not elaborating on. And since you are the queen of elaborating, I know that means that there is a story here. When Magnolia is silent, there’s shit going down.”
“There isn’t shit going down,” I lied.
Her silence called my bullshit.
“I need you to write a script.”
“Oh, honey, there’s no drug invented for what you have,” she teased. Katy. Teased. I got amused, concerned, and teasing all in one conversation. Was the world ending?
“Don’t I know it,” I muttered, swigging a generous mouthful of whisky.
“You’re okay?” she asked suddenly. “This wasn’t some bungled suicide attempt, but instead of tying rocks to your ankles, you wandered into unfamiliar woods in the winter.”
I laughed. “No, I’m far too narcissistic to do something like that. Plus, Virginia Woolf did the whole, rocks in body of water thing. I’d be original.” I paused. “I guess I was just showing myself what I was willing to do instead of write. Plus, you’re the one who told me to do it.”
Shifting blame seemed the easiest thing right now, rather than the truth.
“I didn’t tell you to trip over your own feet and get yourself carried to safety by a mountain man,” she snapped.
I rolled my eyes.
“Do you love it?” she asked, suddenly and sharply. There was an aggression to the question.
“What?”
“Your work. Writing.” Again, the words were packed full of hostility that had been lurking inside of her for some time. Even over the phone, I could taste how stale it was, how powerful.
I considered the question, since she was urging for an answer, an honest one. Did I love my work?
Well, first, I didn’t consider it work. It was this thing I did that somehow made me money. Essential to my survival. Was breathing considered work?