17
Sailor
Trespassing Guardians
MY HANDS WERE COVERED IN EXTRA VIRGIN olive oil, beeswax, gotu kola extract, orange blossom, and witch hazel by the time X replied four excruciating hours later.
He’d taken so long, I’d had second thoughts about what I’d written. I’d doubted and pouted and driven myself stupid, wondering if I was the one who’d stepped over a line when he’d been the one to drop a phone in my letterbox and barge his way into my life.
Wiping my hands clean, I made sure the empty crystal bottles couldn’t blow off my counter, seeing as I had the kitchen window and door open, then snatched my phone off the dining room table.
X: Sorry I couldn’t text sooner. Had to deal with an emergency.
Wait. That’s it?
I’d panicked all day about the level of neediness in my last message, and I only got a one-line response?
Oh my God, do you hear yourself?
He doesn’t owe you a thing. He doesn’t know you. You don’t know him.
Maybe this wasn’t healthy. I’d somehow latched onto the only person I felt safe and seen with—someone I didn’t have to pretend to be okay with—and I’d made it mean far too much, far too quickly.
You’re cut off starting this very second.
Slamming my phone down, I didn’t reply.
I forced myself to go back to making Nana’s special face cream, absolutely determined to go to the market this weekend and sell like usual. I’d let our From Soil to Soul customers down and the amount of internet orders that’d come in meant I had an entire suitcase of product to wrap and drop off at the post office.
My phone chimed again.
And then another little buzz.
Don’t you dare.
I kept ladling the wonderful-smelling mixture into the cut crystal bottles I bought in bulk from a local glass-blower Nana had become friends with a decade ago.
My cell vibrated one last time before falling silent.
As the sun set, I finished the batch of face cream, printed off our special labels listing all the natural ingredients and contact details, then carefully put them in the storage room off the downstairs laundry to cool and solidify.
Every part of me wanted to lunge for my phone, but I forced myself to cook a quick pan-seared fish and head outside to harvest a fresh summer salad. I even made a gooey lava cake in a mug like Pops used to enjoy.
Nightfall had well and truly blanketed Ember Drive by the time I’d punished myself enough, got my head back on straight, and believed I was sane again.
I can talk to a masked stranger without getting weird. I know I can.
My silly heart fluttered as I grabbed my phone and turned off the kitchen lights. Thanks to what Milton had done, I’d stopped going into the living room, but I was being brave tonight.
It was just a couch. Just a coffee table. Just a carpet.
He was locked up. I was here.
No one is going to hurt me.
Throwing myself on the couch, I pulled my legs up, draped a blanket over my lap, and dared to open X’s messages.
X: I know it shouldn’t, but it makes me happy to know you slept better because of me. And you can be mad at me for trespassing. I’m mad at myself for breaking my rules so soon into this. You have my word. I won’t do it again.
My teeth ground together with annoyance.
If I admitted I’d liked him trespassing, why was he adamant that he’d never do it again?
I paused, assessing the swelling feelings inside me.
I smiled.
It’d been so long since I’d felt anything but out of control and lost. The faintest tinge of frustration felt good. It gave me back a spark, a flame, and I scrolled eagerly through the rest of his messages.
X: I’m not saying I can help with the depression you mentioned, but I’ll try to give you back your happiness. Not sure how but…I’m always here to talk.
I scanned the next one.
X: If I were a doctor—which I’m not—I’d say you’re suffering from rising agoraphobia because you can’t trust open spaces, but you’re also claustrophobic because the house is closing in on you. Talking about what sets you off might help, but you should also probably see someone with expertise in these conditions.
Why did he sound exactly like a doctor even after professing he wasn’t one?
X: How about you start now? Talk to me as if every word you say gets deleted the second you type it. Give it a voice and then let it go.
Cradling my phone, I read and reread that last one.
The idea of whatever I said suddenly un-existing as soon as I said it was resoundingly enticing. Whoever X was, he was good at this. Good at giving me pathways out of the dark forest of my mind.
Me: It’s my turn to apologise for my late reply. I was busy making face cream for my business.
I sent it but immediately felt guilty.
Me: That’s a lie. I stayed busy because I didn’t want to message you back.
My phone hummed in my palm a second later.
X: Why didn’t you want to message me back?
Me: Because I sounded like a clingy girlfriend demanding to know you won’t judge or pity me. I don’t like how weak I sounded.
X: Would it help to know it’s physically impossible for me to pity you? I can’t because I’m in awe of you.
There went my heart again.
Me: What about judging me?
X: The only thing I’m judging is myself and how much I’m fucking this up.
My heart flutters switched into full skipping rope hops.
Me: What do you mean?
He took a few minutes as if gathering his thoughts.
X: I’m going to take our vow of honesty at face value, okay? I guess this is me asking you not to judge me now .
I shivered and cuddled deeper in my blanket.
Me: I won’t.
X: I think I made a mistake messaging you.
Every bubbly feeling crashed and burned.
Oh.
Tears pricked my eyes, revealing just how stupidly invested I was over a masked watcher who didn’t have to cover me in a blanket the night he kept me safe, but did. A faceless stranger who knew more about what happened than Lily, my best friend.
I went to type a generic—‘That’s fine. Have a nice life’—but my phone buzzed.
X: I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop watching you. And I’m afraid that when you no longer need me, I’m going to need you, and I honestly don’t know how this is gonna end for me.
The stinging tears from his previous message spilled down my cheeks. I’d never been a crier. I’d never been one to weep at movies or books or silly things like messages.
But lately…God.
Swiping the wetness off my face, I typed.
Me: I should reply like a normal person and say we don’t know each other. That what we’re doing is absolutely ridiculous…………
X: But…?
Me: The more we talk, the more I don’t want to stop.
X: You know you can trust me, right? No matter what? No matter what happens, I vow on my life, I will never ever hurt you.
Me: Why does that feel like foreshadowing?
X: Probably because it is. Eventually, we’ll have to stop. We can’t be pen pals for the rest of our lives.
A short laugh escaped.
Me: Oh, I don’t know. I think pen pals are very underrated.
X: I used to have one as a kid, actually. My family signed me up to converse with some kid in China as some sort of global networking. It was fun. We still flick emails every now and again.
Me: That’s actually super cool. Does writing notes to flower fairies count as having a pen pal? I posted them by leaving them in the garden. My nana always said if we gave thanks to the flower folk, then the blooms would be brighter.
X: I can see you being a flower child as a kid.
Me: And there you go again making me wonder if you’ve been in my house and snooped through the family photo albums.
X: If there are photos of you in there, don’t tempt me.
I gasped. That message felt decidedly unsafe and entirely too…fun.
God, fun.
Just like frustration, I’d missed fun.
I missed the highs and excitement. The long-lost art of flirting.
Flirting?
Have you lost your mind? You don’t know this man. How on earth can you think about flirting?
Especially after Milton. Especially after—
It was because of Milton that I even contemplated such a dalliance. Bracing my shoulders, I sucked up courage and threw myself into the first step toward freedom.
Me: Tell me something, X.
His message was slightly slower, but I shivered when my phone pinged.
X: Tell you what, Lori?
Ugh, my heart reacted again. That silly skip. That buoyant little bubble.
Who would’ve thought a nickname given to me by Alexander North could make me melt?
Every muscle locked as Alexander exploded in my mind. His trim chest as he appeared in his bedroom in just a towel. The droplets rolling down his lean muscles. The blinding pain in my scalp as Milton yanked me backward by my hair.
Sucking in a breath, I shoved Alexander away and focused entirely on the skull-masked stranger who’d stood like an immortal guardian in my garden last night.
Me: Do you watch me because you’re some closeted vigilante trying to be Batman, or do you watch me because you like me?
This time, his message took a while. I’d probably freaked him out. I didn’t send another one, dragging out whatever nerves he had.
Finally, my phone chirped.
X: I said I’d give you honesty, so…here’s honesty. I’ve watched you for a while. I’ve watched you far more than I should admit. And you’re right, it’s not entirely for the reasons of protecting you.
Me: How long?
X: That I can’t answer.
Me: Have you seen me naked?
His reply was instant, almost a knee-jerk reaction.
X: No! God, no. I wouldn’t. I look away if you ever get close to stripping .
He sent another one.
X: Fuck, I really, really suck at this. I didn’t mean anything by that. Look, I’ll make the decision for both of us and say we should stop this. I’ve probably freaked you the hell out, and I’m sick to death that I even admitted something like that.
He sent a third one before I could reply.
X: I’m sorry. You’re safe. I won’t contact you again. Goodnight, Lori.
My chest pinched at the thought of him following through with that promise. He couldn’t take away something I didn’t even know I needed.
Somehow, he’d made me feel seen without being pitied. Wanted without being terrified. Despite what’d happened, he still found me attractive. But he was gentle enough, human enough not to take something that didn’t belong to him.
I found that…
God, I’m turned on.
I laughed out loud as I pressed my thighs together and marvelled that I could feel even the inklings of pleasure after Milton.
Yet another cloud dispersed from my soul, leaving me warm and toasty instead of cold and empty.
Stroking my thumbs over the screen, I bit my bottom lip.
I had two ways of playing this.
I could play the victim that I’d become. I could allow the percolating panic in my gut to make him a bad guy and twist every message from honest to creepy. Or…I could be guided by instinct, which said that despite his actions, he was a good guy. After all, what did I know? I’d lived with an asshole and never seen the signs. Could it be possible that I spoke to a saint hidden behind a mask?
Me: I keep saying this but…I truly don’t know what it says about me when I admit…I like that you watch me.
X: You sure you don’t want to hand your phone into the police again?
Me: I rather like talking to you, so no.
X: You’re unlike anything I expected.
Me: You sound as if you’re disappointed?
X: Disappointed?
He sent another one straight away.
X: I think you mean in big fucking trouble.
Me: What sort of trouble?
X: I can’t believe I’m going to say this. Even thinking about writing it makes me break out in a cold sweat.
Me: You’ll definitely have to tell me now.
X: I watch you because I find you drop-dead gorgeous, smart, brave, and… Damn, this honesty clause keeps biting me in the ass.
Me: Go on………
X: The real reason I watch you is because. Fuck, it sounds so cheesy. If it doesn’t freak you out, it’s going to make you laugh.
Me: Try me.
X: I watch you because I have a crush on you. I think I always have. But now I’m ending this conversation before I say something else that gets me into trouble. I’m around if you need me. Message me if you’re struggling. Sleep well.
I fell onto my side in a dramatic swoon.
He has a crush on me?
How long had it been since I’d heard that word? When I was fourteen at school? Why did it deliver the same delicious shivers and tingles as it did back then, knowing a boy liked me?
He said he was in trouble?
What about me?
How had this happened?
How did I stop it?
Did I even want to stop it?
Snuggling on the couch, I drew the blanket up to my shoulders and shoved a cushion under my head.
I lay there in the soft light of the Tiffany lamp, rereading every message we exchanged.
And then, I fell asleep in the very spot where a man tried to kill me, all while thinking of the one helping me move on.