Chapter Four #2
“Or you could ask your nephew, if he’s coming back to paint. That would be fine too.” I swallow, feeling more awkward than ever. “Although in the future, could you let me know ahead of time if he needs to fix something? I mean, it’s fine and everything, of course. I’d just like to know.”
Dina’s eyebrows slowly rise. “Right. Didn’t remember I asked him to do any work. But there’s always something up with that
cottage. Quirks of an old house.”
“Nathan’s fixing things again?” Sharon asks.
Dina just waves her off. “Anything else?” she says to me.
Yes. I have unexplained roommates. It’s right there. I could still say it.
“No.” I rub my temples. My head is pounding again. “Unless you know where I could get a good cup of coffee.”
“I’d go down to the street to Cuppa Cove, as long as you’re here,” Dina says. “Best coffee in P-town. Can’t miss it. The sign
has a crab on it.”
“A crab?” Sharon snorts. “It’s a lobster, Dina.”
Dina frowns at her. “I’ve been there a hundred times. It’s a crab.”
Sharon rolls her eyes. “You haven’t been there in months.” She turns to me. “Just look for the sign with a crustacean. Turn
right out of here and walk a couple blocks. The cold brew’s fantastic.”
“Great. Thanks.” And I turn around and leave, feeling like a fool. The bells rattle as the door creaks closed behind me.
For a second, I’m horribly tempted to fold up right there on the sidewalk and have a full-on meltdown. The only thing keeping
me from doing it is just how embarrassing it would be, especially right in front of Dina’s store. So instead, I do the only
thing I can think of, which is walk toward the coffee shop. At this point, a cup of coffee can’t hurt.
The sidewalks are filling with people, most of whom seem to fit the “brunch crowd” description—moving in couples or groups of friends, all dressed just a little fun, all drifting toward obvious brunch establishments.
For a while, I get stuck behind a very slow-moving group of women in floral maxi dresses who must be here for a bachelorette party, judging by the tiara and Bride sash one of them is wearing.
They peel off at a restaurant with a patio and pink umbrellas advertising a drag brunch.
Even the breeze drifting off the ocean can’t keep up with the sun, and I’m sweating by the time I spot the sign for Cuppa
Cove, which does, in fact, seem to feature a lobster drinking coffee. (Point Sharon.) The coffee shop occupies one side of
a converted Victorian house, with a collection of flyers taped to the big front window advertising open mic nights, comedy
skits, drag shows, and dog-walking services.
I pull open the door and immediately get hit with the comforting, earthy smell of coffee and the buzz of conversation. The
shop only has room for a few tables, but they’re all full. In the background, some Top 40 song I can’t quite place filters
over the speakers.
I join the back of the line and pull out my phone.
Okay. I need to think rationally about this. There has to be an answer to what’s happening; I just need to find it. I cup
my hands awkwardly around my phone, because I really don’t need anybody eavesdropping on what I’m about to google, and open
up a browser window.
Is it normal to hallucinate?
It feels completely ridiculous as soon as I type it, but based on the number of hits that turn up, I’m not the only person
who’s gone down this rabbit hole. I skim a few articles from Psychology Today and HowStuffWorks, and learn that apparently a lot of people experience some kind of hallucination at some point in their lives. Usually in the
evening, when they’re alone. Sometimes just as they’re drifting off to sleep. Sometimes it’s hearing something. Sometimes
it’s seeing something (like spiders that vanish right before they land on your face, which makes me wonder whether I’ll ever
fall asleep again).
But none of these articles mention hallucinating your ex-boyfriend in the bathroom. In broad daylight. When you’re very much awake.
I google various toxic chemicals I can imagine floating around the cottage, but none of them seem to have extremely realistic
hallucinations as a side effect either. And nothing else I read about hallucinations on the Mayo Clinic website or WebMD makes
it sound like they would be limited to one specific location. If I’m seeing Professor MacAndrew or my dad or Jackson, why
aren’t they following me around?
“Be with you in a sec.”
I glance up and realize I’ve reached the front of the line. The barista has his back to me, busy wiping off the nozzles of
the espresso machine with a towel, but his voice sounds oddly familiar. “Sure.” I swipe out of the browser window and stuff
my phone in my pocket. “No rush.”
The barista tosses the towel in the direction of a basket under the counter and turns to me. “What can I get you?”
Any thought of coffee flies right out of my head, along with everything I just read about hallucinations. All I can do is
stare at the man in front of me—at his tanned skin, his bright blue, slightly hooded eyes, his blondish-brown hair, leaning
a little lighter now than the last time I saw him. It’s shorter too. He’s got several days’ worth of stubble on his face and
a thin white scar on his chin that wasn’t there before. But I can still make out the edge of the dolphin tattoo on his inner
forearm and that tiny gold hoop in his ear. I can still recognize him, even though there are fine lines on his forehead and
he must be ten years older than when I saw him yesterday.
Before I can stop myself, before I can think, I say, “Nathan?”