Chapter 8 #2
And then I was gone: car pulling away, the old town blurring behind me, but his taste was still on my lips. And I knew nothing—absolutely nothing—was going to be the same. But that was kind of a new normal for me recently, wasn’t it?
The town was quiet, too quiet for how loud my mind was.
I lay sprawled across the apartment bed, the thin sheet tangled around my legs, the open window leaking in the breezy breath of the harbour.
My body still thrummed, not just from the walking, not just from the chilly evening air, or the jazzy bass, but from him.
From the way his mouth had found mine like it had been hungry for months.
I pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead, trying to cool the heat behind my skin. My phone buzzed.
Paul:
You’re not sleeping.
No question mark, just a fact.
Me:
Neither are you.
Paul:
No. Still outside. Been walking for ages.
The city’s drunk tonight. So am I, maybe a little.
I still taste you and my jacket smells like you. Vanilla. Orange.
Then, another ping.
Paul:
It’s fucked up, isn’t it? How fast something can wreck you if you let it. I wasn’t prepared for this at all, girl.
Me:
You sound philosophical.
Paul:
You sound breathless. Are you rubbing your index finger over your thumb now?
I closed my eyes for a second, the weight of the night pressing down on me. He could feel me, even now, through the distance.
Paul:
I’m back at the hotel now.
Took a shower. Didn’t help.
You’re still here.
(somewhere between my ribs and my teeth)
A shiver threaded down my spine.
Me:
Maybe you’re just still drunk.
Paul:
Maybe.
But that’s not what’s making me ache.
I swallowed hard, my pulse pounding between my legs. This was bad. This was worse than bad.
Another buzz.
Paul:
Come to me.
Three words: simple and devastating. I stared at them, my heart a slow drum in my chest. God, I wanted to.
Most of all, it felt arousingly good to be wanted.
But somewhere in the back of my mind, I saw the clock blinking: 2:31 a.m. Four hours until I needed to be up, driving back to reality.
Four hours until this night became a secret folded into the creases of my life. My fingers moved over the keyboard.
Me:
I can’t. I’d never leave if I did.
I imagined him, lying on hotel sheets, still damp from his shower, water-soaked curls on his forehead, phone balanced on his chest, the ghost of my name in his mouth.
Paul:
That’s the point, Alicia.
My chest cracked open, but I didn’t reply right away. Instead, I tucked the phone under my pillow, pressed my hand to my racing heart, and closed my eyes. I knew that somewhere out there, Paul was awake, and somewhere out there, the stars above the harbour still burned.
I woke up wrapped in too many bedsheets, heart still beating in a rhythm that had nothing to do with dreams and everything to do with Paul. My whole body felt different: like it finally remembered being touched and wanted.
For a long moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead, wondering if the night had actually happened or if I’d somehow fabricated it all from sheer loneliness and an overactive imagination.
Then my phone buzzed against the nightstand.
I blinked, sluggish, and rolled over to grab it.
From: Paul Andersen.
Subject: New Playlist for you.
Attachment: [New playlist for you: @PChinaski]
Drive safe today. I need you safe.
P
A curated list: Glen Hansard, John Mayer, Nina Simone, Chet Faker.
Soulful, smoky voices threading through acoustic guitars and slow-burning melodies.
Each song heavy with longing and aching.
Something that pulled at the same places inside me that Paul had barely touched but somehow already knew.
I closed my eyes. For a second, I just let the words wash over me, ridiculously simple and dangerously much.
I need you safe. Not I need you here. Not I miss you already.
Like he knew exactly what kind of care I didn’t know I needed yet.
I pressed play, letting the first few bars of Glen Hansard’s voice fill the room, raw and rasping.
Somewhere between the second and third track, I finally threw off the covers and started packing.
The road stretched out ahead of me, familiar and green, but it felt different somehow, like I wasn’t quite the same person driving through it.
Tom Waits’ gravelly voice growled through the speakers as I steered the car up Highway 1, the windows open just enough to let in the salt air.
I kept thinking about last night. About his mouth on mine, the way he smelled: soap, skin, a trace of leather, the way his fingers had found the small of my back like they’d known exactly where to put the pressure.
The way he’d said “Come to me,” and I hadn’t.
It felt like more than just an invitation for sex.
It was asking for a lifeline, to continue a need, a moment of blissfulness, away from home.
I’d wanted to, I wanted to give in to the urge to just touch him, but I was also proud: fiercely, stubbornly proud that I hadn’t given in to the easy version of this story.
Because this… whatever this was… wasn’t going to be easy.
When I finally pulled into the driveway back home, the sun was climbing higher, burning away the mist that clung stubbornly to the tops of the trees.
The house looked the same: peeling paint on the porch railings, Dad’s battered pickup slumped sideways in the gravel, Adam’s sneakers abandoned next to the front step. Life.
I killed the engine, sat there for a second, then grabbed my bag and headed inside.
Adam was in the kitchen, rifling through the fridge like a raccoon.
Hannah, Dad’s caretaker and nurse, sat cross-legged at the table, scribbling down recommendations for his protein intake and exercise schedule for the day.
“Oh, hey, you’re back,” Adam said, not looking up.
“Thanks for the parade,” I said dryly, dropping my keys in the dish by the door.
Dad poked his head out from the living room. “Good trip?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. It was… good.” Understatement of the century.
Hannah gave me a look: the kind experienced women seem born knowing how to give, the one that suggested she suspected way more than she let on. She had known us since we were both kids, after all. Adam, bless him, looked uncomfortable, like he’d swallowed a live toad.
“What’s up?” I asked, suspicious.
He coughed. “Uh, you got some mail.”
He shoved a crumpled envelope toward me: no return address, again. Inside: another photo stared at me. Same strange quality, like a memory caught mid-flight. This time, it was a shot of an old hangar. Faded paint, broken windows, the ghost of some lost summer trapped inside the frame.
“Where did this come from?” I asked.
Adam shrugged, avoiding my eyes. “Mailbox. Same handwriting as the other one.”
Hannah was staring at me now, wanting to ask questions but holding back, either out of politeness or strategic survival instinct. I tucked the photo back into the envelope, feeling a prickle of unease. Who was sending these? And why now?
I escaped upstairs under the pretense of unpacking. Mia called about fifteen minutes later.
“Welcome back, traveler,” she chirped.
I flopped onto my bed, staring at the ceiling fan again. “Thanks.”
“So.” She dragged the word out. “Anything… interesting happen down there?”
I froze. Was she fishing? Did she know?
“Define interesting,” I said carefully.
“Well, rumor has it you bumped into Ella at some jazz thing. Reception knows all, babe.”
Relief flooded through me so fast my head spun.
“Oh. That.” I tried to sound casual. “Yeah. Weird coincidence.”
Mia was silent for a beat too long.
“You sure that’s all that happened?” she said lightly. I could practically hear the grin on her face.
“You’re terrible,” I said, laughing despite myself. “And nosy.”
“Only because I love you. Get some sleep, Alicia. And I’ll see you tomorrow at work. You sound… different.”
Different. Yeah, that was definitely one word for it.
The next day, the universe decided to punish me for being remotely happy by hitting me with a killer migraine, shivers all the way down to my toes, and a low-grade fever.
I could barely make it from bed to the washroom to reach the medicine cabinet.
Which was empty. Minus Dad’s expired prescriptions.
I called in sick, asked Mia to cover for me, put on my oversized hoodie, flopped back into bed with a wet washcloth over my forehead, and surrendered.
Somewhere in the haze of the afternoon, a text pinged through:
Paul:
Survived your first day back?
I blinked at the screen. My hands were freezing.
Me:
Barely. The universe decided I was getting too cocky. Me—fever—bed—this week.
Paul:
It has a way of doing that. Rebel.
There was a pause.
Then:
Paul:
The second sentence… Is that an order, girl?
Me:
Order? Very, very incoherent right now… Brain fog.
Paul:
I’ll correct and take that order:
You—me—fever—bed or other venue(s) of your choice: this week, or the next. When you recover. Occasional fried food. I really do like to watch you eat.
I stared at the screen, heart doing that annoying jumpy thing again. I tapped out a reply:
Me:
Working on it.
Paul:
Stay alive, girl. I’m counting on you.
I tucked the phone under my pillow and closed my eyes, feeling the edges of sleep pull at me.
For the first time in months, I let it take me, with a smile.