2.
At last, Imogen Bly has returned to Lake Blair.
He knew she must have come back to find him, homesick for him. Why else would she return? Others might say grief brought her back here. But he knew better. Imogen wasn’t here for her dead mother. She was here for him.
He’d found her in Seattle four months ago, years between their last meeting.
His surprise was evident when he noticed her behind the counter of Bar Henry, a spot he’d stumbled into by chance.
But it wasn’t chance. He knew it had to be fate, walking into that particular bar on that particular night.
He didn’t even like wine, and that was virtually all they served.
Fate.
The man didn’t know what she’d say if she saw him, or if she would recognize him after all that time.
So he’d visit, night after night, watching from the end of the bar as she’d pour booze into the empty glasses of strangers, flashing a bewitching, coy smile their way.
How he yearned for her to look at him with such fervor.
But he kept his distance and eventually moved to observe her from a high-top table in the corner, shrouded in soft candlelight, promising himself that someday he would speak to her.
Until that day arrived, he watched her from behind novels to remain as inconspicuous as possible, worried a coworker would notice if he blatantly stared in her direction.
Planting a tiny spy camera behind a wall sconce came to mind, but he swiftly dismissed the idea.
He wasn’t a stalker, he assured himself. Admiring an old fling was all it was.
One rain-drenched spring evening a short while later, he finally gathered the courage.
He pulled up a stool right at the bar and gave her the chance to remember him.
But she didn’t seem to recognize him. Maybe she was feeling sheepish, he thought.
Keeping all the thrill of seeing him imprisoned inside her, ready to flood out like wine from all the bar’s bottles.
But if that’s how she felt, she never showed it.
When she turned around to make his drink, he dashed outside, his exit only visible by the flash of his coat out the doorway.
He hoped she’d think she dreamt it, of him.
As the rain pattered down, he waited, and waited, and waited in a diner across the street for her to finish work. A mug of lukewarm coffee in his hand, he did nothing but stare out the window waiting for her to stroll by.
Each time the bouncy-haired waitress stopped by to check on him or refill his cup, he became more enraged.
Had he missed Imogen walking past? Had she taken a different route home?
Sometimes he didn’t even reply to the inquisitive waitress.
Unflinching, his gaze would hold on the street beyond the glass.
He wasn’t going to let this woman ruin his chance of spotting Imogen.
But still, she’d hang around and ask, “Sir, would you like more coffee?” or “Can I get you anything else?”—impatient for an answer that would never come.
In his mind’s eye, he’d heave the coffee at her face and demand she leave him alone.
Such a thought brought a tiny, satisfied smile to his lips, as if he’d actually done it.
Two hours into his stakeout, his eyes burned, begging him to surrender.
The glaring diner lights reflecting off the window were becoming impossible to bear in his peripherals.
He rubbed his eyes, one eyeball at a time, keeping his gaze fixed outside.
Until finally, Imogen strolled by in a hurry.
Hands in her pockets and scarlet coat buttoned tight against her, she squinted her eyes against the downpour.
The man slammed the laminate tabletop with cash and discreetly rushed up behind her, keeping a healthy distance between his front and her back.
Another smile cracked his face, feeling as though he was escorting her home.
It was romantic, he thought. Better to guide her from the shadows, the way a man guards what’s his.
When they reached her building a few blocks away, he bid her good night inside his head and waited across the street for her unit’s lights to turn on, ensuring she had gotten inside.
Considering she lived on the fourth floor, he could only see the top half of her body as she came in.
But that was enough to satisfy him. The man couldn’t help but hold his gaze as she dropped the coat off her shoulders and hung it on the rack by the front door.
Even though she shut her blinds seconds later, he sensed that she wanted him to stay, protecting her from the dangers of the city.
So he remained at his post, his mind on fire imagining all the things she could be doing.
It was so ablaze that he considered marching up, letting himself in. But he knew it wasn’t time.
He’d tried to focus on other girls after Imogen, thinking he’d never see her again after what happened.
For a stretch, the other girls worked as distractions.
But they teased him, mocked him, neglected him, even though he’d given them everything.
In the end, they twisted things, made him out to be cruel.
As if loving someone too much was a bad thing.
What he had to do to the last girl was such a pity.
So here he’s been. In Blair. Patiently awaiting Imogen’s return.
He’d wondered if Alice’s passing would prompt her to come back and meet him where their story budded.
And it came true. Because as he’d sat in the window admiring the dark skies overhead this afternoon, he could see across the way as her car rolled up the Bly driveway, heading toward her dead mother’s house.
The man’s gut tumbled in knots so violent that he almost became sick at the fleeting sight of her shadowed profile as she drove past. All he wanted to do was chase after it and take her into his arms. But he’d calculated every move thus far to bring them together again, and he wasn’t about to spoil his plans.
Seattle wasn’t the right setting for their reunion. It had to be here, where it all started.