Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
He shouts again, and I run over the left side, behind the lighthouse, as close to the edge as I can get.
“Dylan!” I scream, looking around for him, but I don’t see him anywhere.
“Down here,” he calls back. I look down and spot him, his hands holding on to a jagged piece of rock that sticks out from the cliff wall. Hanging on for his life.
“Dylan, hold on!” I yell down to him. Turning around, I race back to the lighthouse, trying to find something, anything, I can use to pull him back up.
Rope. He has to have rope.
There’s nothing outside, so I go back inside the door I just came out of and frantically search the main level of the lighthouse. There’s an old wooden trunk along the wall, and I open it up.
“Thank god,” I cry as I pull out a long, thick cord of rope.
I race back outside and run over to the cliff’s edge, careful not to slip myself as the rocks are wet from the waves. How has he managed to hold on? What would he do if I weren’t here?
“I’m going to toss down this rope. I need you to grab onto it, and I’m going to try to pull you up and over, okay?” I call down to him as I let go of the rope and angle it toward where he’s hanging from.
“Can you even lift me? I’ve seen your arms,” he calls back up.
“You better hope so!” God, even when he’s literally hanging from the edge of a cliff, he’s giving me grief.
I feel the rope tighten in my grip, and he yells up to me that he’s got it.
Saying a silent prayer to who knows, I bend my knees to keep steady and slowly back up, minding the wet spots of rock around me.
“Slow and steady. Slow and steady,” I whisper to myself as I inch backward while gripping the rope.
I can’t imagine how torn up my hands must be now.
It wants to slip out so badly, but I must have a huge adrenaline rush because somehow, I keep holding on to it, able to back up until, finally, his hands make it to the edge, and he pulls himself the rest of the way up.
“Oof,” he grunts as he stands up and walks toward me.
“Dylan!” Tears are streaming down my sweat-covered face as I rush over to him and wrap my arms around his cold, hard body.
He lifts me up and pulls me in so tight I can barely breathe.
He’s shaking, and his heart is beating rapidly against my chest. What are the chances that I would arrive at the exact time that he’s fallen and needs help?
Help only I seem to be able to bring. It’s kismet.
He keeps holding me, his breathing slowing after a few minutes.
Finally, he places me down, and we stand there facing each other, neither of us moving, hearts beating, breath slowing.
I’m locked onto his emerald-green eyes. He brings his hand up to my face, his lips pressed together in a hard line as he tucks a fallen, sweaty strand of hair away from my face.
As he tucks it behind my ear, I bite my lip.
Then, he’s gripping my waist and pulling me closer to him.
I find my hands moving up to his long hair and pulling it tight.
The strands are wet, and his breath is warm on my face.
He smells like mint. He must have just brushed his teeth before coming outside.
He leans closer toward me, and I part my lips, meeting his as they lightly brush against mine for the first time.
Sighing, I open my mouth wider, and his tongue finds mine. He pulls me tighter and brings his hands around my back as we kiss like we’re running out of time. Tongues exploring. Breath hitching. Heat rises in my lower belly the deeper and longer we’re glued together.
My brain finally catches up to my heart, and I pull away from him, placing my hands on his chest. “We can’t do this, Dylan.” His mouth twitches to one side, but his eyes stay locked on mine. “I have to talk to you about something.”
He looks down at my hands before answering and takes them in his. “Lucy, you’re bleeding.” I look down, completely forgetting about the rope and how I tore them up pulling him over the cliff.
“It-it’s fine,” I say as the raw pain kicks in. I squeeze them into fists, hoping that will help it die down.
“No, it’s not.” He takes off his jacket and then wraps it around my hands to stop the bleeding. “Let’s get inside and clean you up.”
He starts to lead me back, but I stop him. “Okay, but then we have to talk. I need to tell you something.”
“Did you finally come to your senses about what year it is?” There’s that smirk I love. Mischievous and sexy at the same time, always trying to distract me.
“Let’s just go inside,” I say, letting him take my hand and lead us back toward the lighthouse. “You should sit down too. Tell me what happened out there.”
“Okay,” he says as his fingers intertwine with mine, and we go back into the lighthouse.
When we’re inside and up on the second level, he leads me into the kitchen and turns on the tap, washing my hands with warm water and soap to clean them off. Bending down, he opens the cupboard under the sink and pulls out a white first-aid kit filled with bandages, gauze, and ointments.
My hands are mostly just scratched up. Now that they’ve been cleaned and have stopped bleeding, I can see the damage isn’t as bad as we originally thought, though there are a few spots where the cuts run a little deeper.
Those are the ones he fixes up for me. The whole thing is quite soothing, to be honest. He flips my hand so the palm is facing up and very gently rubs ointment on the cuts, covering them with bandages.
His fingers run along my open palm before I close it and peer up at him.
His teeth are chattering, and his lips have turned from berry stained to blue tinged. I can’t believe I’ve let him stand here and take care of my insignificant little scratches after everything he just went through. I place my hands on the sides of his shoulders.
“Hey, why don’t you go up and have a hot shower? I’ll make coffee. Then we can talk.”
He nods and gives my hand one more light squeeze before heading toward the stairs. ‘I won’t be long,” he says as he climbs the curved staircase that leads up to the bathroom.
“Take your time. Warm up,” I reply as I walk over to the kitchen to try to figure out how to make this coffee I promised.
Almost like he can sense my worry, he calls down, “Coffee is in the cabinet above the coffee maker. Eight scoops—the scoop is in the canister—and fill the pot to the eight line. One scoop per cup. Your creamer is in the fridge. I’ll have some too.
” After a few more seconds, he yells down once more.
“Thanks, Lucy.” I get the sense that thank you has more to do with what just happened than with me making him coffee.
“You’re welcome. Now, go shower!”
I get to work making the coffee for us. Grabbing the scoop, I mutter out the steps while attempting to make it as good as he does.
“Five, six, seven, and eight.” Placing the scoop back in the container, I clap my hands together.
“Good job, Lucy.” I click the button at the bottom, and the green light illuminates.
As I’m about to praise myself, it starts to make an angry sputtering sound. “What the…” I turn around and realize my mistake. “Ah, the water!” I quickly flip the button back off and pull out the pot, rushing over to the sink.
I fill it to the eight line like he instructed and pour the water in the container at the back of the machine, flipping the button once more.
Green. I stand and wait while I watch it brew, just to make sure there’s not some other step I’ve somehow missed.
I feel very embarrassed to say I work at a coffee shop right now.
It makes a small sputtering sound, and I start to panic, but then the coffee begins to pour down into the pot, the rich and bitter cocoa smell taking over the space around me.
“Yes!” I silently cheer as I go over to the cupboard and pull out two cups, one chipped and one not, along with the ceramic sugar bowl.
“Two scoops of sugar in his,” I say to myself.
Once the coffee beeps, I listen to see if the shower is still on.
Silence other than footsteps above. I pour us each a cup and grab the creamer out of the fridge and top up our cups with the sweet, cinnamony liquid gold.
He makes his way downstairs as I’m stirring our drinks. When he walks over to me, I place the chipped mug in his hand. “Perfect timing.”
He grins and takes a sip, keeping his eyes on me as he tries my coffee. “This is great, Luce.” Luce. I like that.
“Coffee is pretty easy to make.” I shrug, keeping my little mistake a secret all to myself. “I do work at a coffee shop, remember.”
“I do. I’ll have to stop by one day when you’re working.” He grins, and I hold back a flinch. “Okay, let’s go sit. Then we can talk.” He motions toward the couch, and we sit side by side. He pulls the fleece blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over us.
“Okay, first,” I start as I take a sip of the delicious coffee before continuing. “Tell me what happened outside.”
He places his cup down on the dark wooden end table beside him and turns to face me. “We had a bad storm last night, so I went to check on the foghorn this morning. To make sure the wind and rain didn’t cause any damage.”
I tilt my head, unsure what he means by foghorn.
He laughs. “Sorry, I forget the average person doesn’t know everything there is to know about lighthouses.
It’s, ah, for when fog rolls in and the light up top is useless.
The horn kicks in and emits a long blast that shakes the ground, so any ships know to steer clear.
On my way down there, I slipped on a wet spot, lost my balance, and fell over the edge—thankfully, there was a piece of rock that was jutting out, and I was able to grab it and hold on to it when I slipped down. ”
His hands are shaking, and he takes a deep, calming breath.
“Lucy, you saved my life. Thank you. I don’t think I could have gotten up without you.
I can’t believe I almost died.” He leans forward over his legs and places his head in his hands, trying to slow his breathing and stop the shaking.
I put my hand on his knee and give it a light squeeze, giving him space to work through these emotions, but also letting him know that I’m here for him.
A thought creeps into my mind. I wonder if this is what happened to him in the storm that actually takes his life.
One of the boys said he pushed them up after they fell, but something happened.
He fell again and couldn’t pull himself back up.
The amount of strength and energy exertion it would take to get those kids up was probably too much for him.
And no one was around to help him. I wonder if he even called for help or if he knew his fate as it was happening.
I shudder, thinking about how scared he must have felt.
How helpless. Like he knew he was going to die.
The way he’s feeling right now, it doesn’t seem right to tell him about that night.
Not yet, at least. I store that information away for a later time.
I know it’s not right to withhold something like this, but it doesn’t seem fair for someone to know their death is imminent.
Maybe I can figure out a way to save him so he never has to know.
You can’t change the past, my dear.
We’ll see about that, Iris.