“Come on, Ian. I’m tired.” When I lay my hand on his chest, his instability pounds against my hand.
“It is, isn’t it?” Before I can deny anything, he charges across the living room.
“Ian, stop!” I yell, but he is gone. Ian is a big guy, but my watcher is a beast comparatively. “Ian!”
The metal stairs shake, sending reverberations through the halls, and when I reach the door to the street, it is slightly ajar. Just a small push sends it slamming into Ian’s heels, but he doesn’t care—the poorly lit street is more interesting.
“What are you doing?” I ask. He ignores me and runs to the other side of the street.
“Where did he go?” Ian asks heatedly when he can find no one. “You said people have been watching you. You want me to just let that go?”
“Just a minute ago, you made me feel like an absolute idiot for this! So, yeah! I remember the times you told me my mom was crazy, Ian. You’re frickin’ lucky we broke up because I’m going to be just like her.”
There’s truth to what I’m saying so he remains quiet despite his heavy breathing.
“Go home, Ian. Not back to my apartment . . . but home.”
Like an angry football coach, his chest flares as he paces the cement. When I chuckle, it exacerbates his irritation. Before long, he retreats. His boots pound the pavement back to the apartment building and the metal door makes a loud clang behind him.
The street is suddenly silent and strangely peaceful. There are several frogs somewhere having a conversation under the city drum. Until footsteps pad the street behind me, so I turn.
Just down the road he’s there, standing calmly with his hands in his pockets, and the sight of him wakes my nerves. It is possible that he can see my hands shake or the instability in my footing when I nearly trip. He confidently closes the distance between us.
I pull my cardigan around my shoulders and we meet each other in the middle of the street. “Hi,” I finally whisper.
“Hi.” His voice is deep, but familiar. It takes only seconds before my revelation brings me physically closer.
“It’s you.” How had I not realized this? Instinctively my hands revisit my healed wounds beneath my sweater. “Arek?” There is a need within me to tread lightly so that he will stay.
He nods.
“Why’d you leave that night?”
“I couldn’t stay,” is all he says. He comes closer until I am forced to look up into his eyes—a stranger invoking in me a powerful nostalgia as though we can stand within inches of each other or reminisce about days long ago. Why does it feel this way?
When he is about to say something, Ian yells from the second story window, “Willow, I’m leaving!”
“Then go!” I yell back. Ian growls then disappears.
Yet even this doesn’t force me to look away from the man who saved me.
“You’d better go,” he nearly whispers.
“I don’t want to.”
“I don’t want you to either,” he says and my heart flips. “But it’s late.”
For the first time, he drops his head to the side with a grin and raises his eyebrows to inform me that there is no other option. Against my will, I head back even though my heart searches for reasons to stay.
After some distance, I peek behind me. He is gone. From side to side I search, but the road is uncomfortably empty.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I don’t sleep. Since the incident, it is impossible to settle down my body or, when sleep finally comes, the man with arthritic fingers and white hair appears, turning my dreams upside down until I wake drenched in sweat.
The light flickers for just a moment as my feet shuffle heavily across the floor. The kettle clinks the sink when I’m filling it and sizzles when it’s on the burner, yet when the tea box won’t open, I fling it across the floor and the tea bags scatter.
“Ugh!” I growl, as I grab my head in my hands. A tear runs down my cheek and I realize that I haven’t cried since my mom’s funeral. Yet even when my fingers are moist from wiping the tear, there is nothing beyond this. No chin quiver, no convulsion of my chest, no ability to dig deeper—maybe release more.
I don’t want tea. I want sleep. I want answers. Movement outside my window draws me there. My hand presses against the cold glass as I see an owl swoop from one tree to the next, leading my eyes to fall on Arek standing below. He’s looking at me. My heart excites, patting against my chest, and it no longer feels alone.
Before I think—because thinking is my enemy right now—I hurry out of my apartment. No one in their right mind is awake currently so the lobby is empty. Finally, the cold temperature of winter hits my face as I walk through the doors, but my coat is upstairs hanging on a hook. Deep within my chest my panic warms me, and I easily forget about the biting weather when I look up.
He’s there, across the street. After a moment, he walks to me, his hands deep in his pockets and we meet on the centerline of the street. For a moment we are silent, despite his concerned and piercing eyes that seem to be able to dismantle what’s left of me.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “You can’t sleep.”
Immediately I wonder what I must look like for him to ask this.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
The smell of moisture fills the air, as it seems to grow colder by the minute and my body shakes. One drop at a time, a cold sprinkle begins. He acts unphased so I try to as well.
“Why are you here?” I finally ask.
“I’m always here.”
