4. Chapter 4
four
Noel
A disturbing thud yanks me from my sleep.
Sitting up sharply, I clock my surroundings in the dim light from my nightlight—my blue suitcase lying open on the dresser, my glass of water on the bedside table—and let out a shaky breath.
It must have been a bad dream. I’ve always slept like the dead here, with the ocean air and Nana’s cozy quilts, but this isn’t a normal trip.
Something scrapes along the wood outside the cottage, and I freeze.
I’m not dreaming now, and I definitely heard that. So did Pixie. Her ears are pinned back, tail puffed.
I look at the clock. Only just past eleven, but with the rest of the street put away for the season, it’s pitch black outside.
Hands shaking, I swing my bare feet to the floor and creep toward the window.
A light breeze rustles through the dying beach roses, not nearly hard enough to cause the noise I heard.
To the left, a silver sports car is parked haphazardly in the driveway, like someone killed the engine the minute all four tires were off the road.
No normal visitor would park like that, and since it’s the middle of the night and I don’t know anyone in Maine besides Kate, there’s no such thing as a normal visitor in this scenario.
My chest goes clammy, sweat springing up even in the mild, indoor temperature.
It can’t hurt you if you don’t let it, Noel .
Though, externally my mantra loses some of its power. I’m small boned, and gravitate toward therapeutic exercise like walking and yoga versus the strength-building kind. If whoever is out there lurking wants to hurt me, no amount of self-hype can keep it from happening.
This was a terrible idea, sleeping here alone in the off-season. I’m just asking to end up on a true crime documentary. I don’t know why I ever listen to Kate.
I grab one of my high heeled pumps out of my suitcase and hold it over my head as I slink down the narrow staircase in a cotton cami and a pair of sleep shorts. I wish I’d grabbed a sweatshirt or something. If I’m going to die, I’d rather it not be with my nipples pointed at my murderer.
I slow at the landing, pushing to the balls of my bare feet, listening. Nothing .
Maybe it was just a friendly raccoon or a lost seagull. Though that last thump sounded at least two hundred pounds heavier than a bird.
Channeling a whole lot of fake courage, I lunge for the front door, ripping it open with one hand, weapon in the other, and see… nothing.
My breath rushes out, a puff of mist in the chilly night air.
But when I turn to go back inside, something catches in my peripheral vision, and I turn back into a statue.
A sneaker. That was definitely not there before.
Heart in my throat, I peek my head out a little farther despite my body screaming at me to go back inside.
The sneaker is untied, seemingly on purpose, and it’s attached to a bare leg—hairy and definitely male—sticking out of athletic shorts.
I have to crane my neck a little more to see his torso and the white T-shirt that’s covered in some sort of…
Oh my God, that’s blood . There’s blood on that guy’s shirt!
At my banshee-like shrieking, the man on my porch startles upright, then clutches an arm around his middle and makes a sound like a wounded animal before crumpling back to the floor.
“ Fuuuuck .” His voice is like air whistling over sandpaper as he brings his knees to his chest.
“I have a weapon,” I shout. It’s a stretch but given he’s already bleeding, I might be able to take him.
He coughs, then whimpers again. “What?”
“I have a weapon and I’m not afraid to use it.” I picture myself actually attempting to subdue this man with a shoe and I realize I am absolutely afraid to use it. He doesn’t need to know that, though.
He glances at me through slits, then rolls to his side and seems to go back to sleep. “Just kill me if you’re going to. I’m in too much pain to care.”
What in the holy hell is happening here? Did this guy get into an accident and crawl all the way to my porch? Does he owe someone money? I can safely say that out of all the nights I’ve spent in this house, this is the first time I’ve found a bloodied man at the door!
Moonlight shines on his body—curled in the fetal position, labored breathing—and I creep closer. Rationally I don’t think he’s in any condition to hurt me. There’s no way he’s faking the pain on his face, unless he’s hiding an Academy Award in the gym bag at his feet.
I loosen my grip on the shoe and attempt to speak without shaking. “Why are you here?”
“Needed to pass out.” He makes a face like he’s trying not to puke. “This was the closest place.”
“My porch was the closest place?” I look up and down the empty, dark road. “To what?”
“There shouldn’t be guests here this late in September,” he grumbles.
“I’m not a guest. What the hell are you doing on my porch?”
“Bob’s porch.”
“Who is Bob? This is my Nana’s house.” I have no idea what he’s talking about, it’s pain induced nonsense.
My hackles settle a little since this is clearly a huge misunderstanding and he really doesn’t look good.
I reach out and pat his shoulder like I’m greeting an unfamiliar dog.
He’s hot to the touch and his T-shirt is damp with sweat.
He turns his head and squints through one eye at the number beside the door. “Shit.” Then he laughs and it’s borderline hysterical. It makes me think he really needs to get this head wound checked. “Wrong house.”
“No kidding. Look, are you lost? Can I call someone for you?”
“I’m not lost—” He winces but manages to point a finger behind him. “I’m just supposed to be next door.”
Well, that’s just great. If he can’t walk by himself, he’ll be sleeping where he is. There’s no way I can drag him across the driveway.
He stares at the porch ceiling for a few slow breaths before blinking his gaze toward me. When our eyes meet, his mouth falls open like he’s the one startled. “Holy fuck.”
“What?” I shriek. I’m on a hair trigger.
“I’m dead, aren’t I?”
I shake my head and consider yelling: “You’re going to be if you try anything” but that would be an idle threat.
I’m quite sure that unfurled to his full height, he’s over six feet, and definitely looks strong enough to disable my shoe-weapon if he wants to.
“You’re not dead,” I tell him. “Why would you even say that?”
He blows out a shaky breath. “Because you’re the angel.”
Angel ? Is he hitting on me or just really out of it?
“I’m not an angel, and you’re not dead.” Still clutching my shoe, I kneel down beside him, trying to figure out an angle I might be able to lift him from.
But before I can decide whether I’m actually willing to touch him to get him off my porch, he whispers something that sounds strangely like, “Noel.”
Blood rushes, pounding in my ears. Did he just… ?
I scramble backward, inadvertently trapping myself against the porch railing, and my pulse goes haywire. “How do you know my name?”
The man’s bruised cheek lifts, deep dimples cutting through his stubble. “I can’t believe I found you again.”
That smile .
It hits me like, well like whatever hit him, and my stomach flips. I know this man. The dark blanket of scruff on his face is new, and his eye is swollen and purple, but it’s him—the comma dimples, the cream soda eyes, the way they crinkle at the corners.
Oh God. He’s even wearing the same hat. How did I not notice that?
I mean, besides the fact that half of the guys in this city are wearing that hat right now—the blue one with the red B.
But I recognize the frayed brim on his, a rogue splash of something that looks like paint on the side. It had looked old even then.
Then being the night I’ve been trying to forget about for two years.
“It’s Jamie,” he says. “Jamie Bishop.” He tries to lift a hand to his chest but he can’t make it. It flops down by his side.
“What is happening ?”
“Hockey,” he says, clearly misunderstanding the information I need from him. “I think my ribs are broken. Don’t you remember me?”
“No. Nope. No.” I want no part of this reunion. For God’s sake, when I said I wanted to feel something, I didn’t mean abject terror.
He keeps going, though, oblivious to my internal spiral. “From the party that night. On the roof—”
“Uh, you’re bleeding from the head,” I say, cutting him off. “Maybe try not to talk so much.”
At that, he presses his fingers to his forehead, inspecting a gash that seems to have opened back up. His eyes go comically wide, then roll backward.
“Woah. Jeez.” I barely catch his head, lowering it into my lap. “What the hell is this? Are you stalking me?”
“Are you stalking me ?” he asks.
“Of course not. I’m on sabbatical!”
He looks like he’s going to question that but quickly clamps his mouth shut. After a thick swallow, he says, “I think I need to go to the hospital.”
“Um, yeah. I think you do.”
“Could you please call me an Uber… or an ambulance?” His head flops to the side and he makes the most pathetic sound.
I sigh, regretting immensely what I’m about to do. “I have a car.”
The ER is a slog of hurry up and wait, which gives me plenty of time to continue my spiral into madness.
They put Jamie in a curtained area but there’s little privacy.
He’s sitting up on the bed, an ice pack strapped to his bare torso which, incidentally, is as well-defined as I remember from The Dream.
That’s what I’ve taken to calling it, the thing that happened between me and Jamie that night. Whatever I saw at that party was some weird lucid dream brought on by an ill-advised shot of J?ger, not a glimpse into the future.
The drunken dream theory is something I can explain—sort of—and for two years, I haven’t been able to bring myself to consider any alternative.
Until Jamie’s pain meds started to kick in and his questions had intensified. Where have you been all this time ? How can you not remember me ? Did you know I was going to show up tonight ?