Chapter 11
Eleven
“I’m leaving the door unlocked.”
My phone buzzed just as Mia finished her rant about the shortage of family doctors, inflation, and increasing daycare fees.
Paul?:
Still thinking about my plans for you, Alicia King?
Perfect timing, as always.
I smirked to myself, typed back without hesitating:
Me:
“Maybe I have some plans of my own, Paul Andersen.”
Paul?:
Is that so?
Me:
So when can I see how you live?
To all the things sacred on this planet: did I just type this? He didn’t reply straight away. Or after an hour. My hand started trembling uncomfortably, and my index finger started rubbing against my right thumb involuntarily.
We were already back at the office after the emergency lunch break, which extended to 3 p.m., when I found a Post-it note with his address and a short and simple message: “Darlin’, I’m yours to take, you choose when.
” A few minutes later, a buzz on my phone, with a link to a new song added to “New songs for you” from @PChinaski’s playlist: Cheers Darlin’ by Damien Rice.
I listened to it on the bus back home, all giddy, but the lyrics scared me a little—they sounded like a warning. Will he become my favorite mistake?
The day I chose wasn’t special: no anniversary, no date to mark on calendars—just an ordinary Tuesday.
But somehow, it felt right. Maybe because I woke up that morning and didn’t feel broken or because when I caught my reflection after my shower, covered in a simple towel, damp hair, and water-kissed shoulders, the girl blinking back at me didn’t look afraid.
Anxious, yes, but not afraid. Still nervous, still scarred, but alive.
Could I see beyond my scars? I wondered.
The question hovered in the steam around the mirror, followed by a thought: perhaps I could try. By lunchtime, I sent the text.
Me:
Tonight. After work. If you’re around.
Simple and deceptively casual—like my pulse wasn’t galloping hard enough to knock down walls.
No immediate answer. I tried to focus on managing ferry delays—it was high season after all—payroll documents, coffee stains blooming like Rorschach tests across Tom’s memos.
Failed spectacularly. It wasn’t until I was stepping out of the office, dusk curling low against the Vancouver skyline, that my phone buzzed.
Paul?:
For you? Always around. Tell me when you’re on your way.
And Alicia? How can I make you feel invincible tonight?
I stood on the sidewalk for a second, heart tripping over itself.
People streamed past, commuters, families, street musicians setting up amps, as usual during a busy Nanaimo summer, and I just… floated. Invincible. Did he know what he was doing with words like that?
At home, I stood in front of my closet like a soldier before battle.
Pulled out skinny jeans that accentuated my waist and thighs a bit better than the regular navy pants I wore to work, a simple black silky top, long sleeves, soft neckline, clinging in all the right places, but not too showy—just me, if a little braver.
Underneath, the gold set Mia made me buy.
The second I pulled it on, I felt it: a different kind of armor, not to hide behind, but to step forward with.
My scars didn’t miraculously disappear. They were still there, along with the faint trembling of my right hand.
The old ache in my ribs flared as I bent down to lace my Sambas.
All of it: still there. And still — so was I.
When I glanced in the mirror one last time, golden blond hair falling loosely around my shoulders, a soft flush on my cheeks, I didn’t see the girl who survived: I saw the woman deciding she was allowed to desire, the woman who used to master a glider and fly.
I smiled, shaky, ridiculous, and whispered, “Go.”
Only a ten-minute ride from home, toward Bruce Avenue, the Uber ride to North Nanaimo stretched forever.
I clutched my phone in my lap, trying not to stare obsessively at the driver’s ETA updates.
Outside, the city blurred: it was already getting darker, neon signs bleeding into one another, traffic lights flashing hollow warnings.
Paul?:
Are you nervous?
I smiled, tapping back before I could overthink.
Me:
Wouldn’t you like to know.
Seconds later:
Paul?:
I’m picturing you: hair down. Biting your lip. Rubbing your thumb over your fingers the way you do when you’re trying not to bolt. Am I close?
Was he hiding in the backseat?
Me:
Scary accurate.
Paul?:
Don’t be scared, girl, you’re the one to set the rules, as you always do.
Something loosened inside me: a tiny knot I didn’t realize I was still carrying.
The Uber turned onto a quieter and dimmer residential street: his neighborhood.
The apartment buildings grew older, with typical Pacific Northwestern grey, blue, and yellow siding, the streetlights further apart, giving the surroundings a cozy intimacy.
I knew this road well; it followed the path to the airfield, my airfield, located on the northern end of Nanaimo.
Another buzz.
Paul:
I’m leaving the door unlocked.
Just in case you change your mind and decide to turn around.
But hoping you won’t.
The car stopped, and the driver nodded at me in the rearview mirror. “Here you go.”
My hands shook slightly as I reached for the door handle and stepped out, cooler Pacific air rushing against my skin, lifting goosebumps on my arms and neck.
His building loomed in front of me: three floors, ivy curling along the side.
A light burned in one window on the upper floor. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, nerves hammering. Then I climbed the steps. One. Two. Three. The corridor smelled faintly of coffee and old metal. At the door, I paused, fingertips grazing the worn brass knob.
From inside, faintly, music floated out, a smooth jazz rendition of My Funny Valentine and I knew straight away I was at the right door.
I almost turned back. But then I thought about the way he’d looked at me like I wasn’t broken, but brave.
So I closed my eyes for half a heartbeat and decided to be brave too.
I found his door half-open, just as he promised.
“Hello,” I said, voice stupidly small.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Just the low hum of the city beyond the balcony, the faint scent of rain approaching from the east, and him, leaning casually against the doorframe, a wine glass in his hand, staring at me for a lingering moment.
“Hey, girl.” The light behind him was soft, warm, and a slow smile curved his mouth. His hair was still damp, curling slightly around his forehead, a dark grey T-shirt, faded jeans, and bare feet. Home, unfiltered.
“You came,” he said, voice low, almost like he hadn’t believed it until now.
“Well, I kind of invited myself,” I said, lifting my chin slightly.
He chuckled, pushed the door open wider.
I stepped in, almost into him, and before I could say another word, he bent, one arm circling my waist. The kiss was slow.
Deep. His mouth tasted faintly of red wine and something darker, something all Paul.
He had to lean in to reach me properly, the difference in our height almost ridiculous, but he didn’t seem to mind.
His hand rested easily at the small of my back, drawing me closer until every inch of me was pressed against him.
And when he shifted, when his fingers slid lightly under the hem of my sweater at my hip, he brushed something: my bra strap.
He stilled for just half a second, pulled back, just enough to look at me.
Then, with a lazy, wicked smile, he hooked one finger under the tiny, golden strap peeking out, gave it a tiny, delicious snap against my skin.
“Interesting choice,” he murmured, voice low and approving.
I flushed, but his smile turned softer, almost reverent. Like he liked that there was still more to discover under the plainness of my sweater.
“Come here,” he said roughly, and let me wander inside first.
His apartment was… very him, sparse but comfortable.
Tiny kitchen on the right, a living room slash bedroom ahead, dark wood floors, grey couch, a big window looking out toward Newcastle Island.
A record player on a low table, a small but overflowing bookcase lined with old records, novels, and a collection of empty whiskey bottles.
Above the desk was a framed black and white poster: Albert Camus looking straight into the camera with his famous crooked smile and a leisurely cigarette in his mouth, beside his quote in bold black letters: Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal.
I ran my fingers lightly across the spine of a guitar resting against the corner.
“I thought you didn’t play?” I asked, glancing back.
He shrugged, raking a hand through his messy hair. “I don’t. Not so much anymore.”
A flash of something, regret, maybe, passed through his eyes, but it vanished before I could grab it.
Paul smiled crookedly and answered my question before I could ask it, “Sometimes music brings back things you’re trying to forget.” I nodded, understanding more than he knew.
“So,” he said, voice casual, moving toward a different subject. “What do you think?”
“About your place?” I looked around, pretending to consider. “No plants. Questionable liquor collection. Peculiar music taste.”
He laughed, a warm, low sound that vibrated somewhere from his chest. “Fair. I’ll work on the botanical situation.”
We fell into easy conversation, the kind that had become our rhythm without either of us trying.
Books we hated. Music he loved. The pilot life I missed more and more every day.
Childhood crushes (he confessed he had a thing for Natalie Portman since the first time he saw Leon the Professional when he was twelve, mine was Robert Pattinson—but only the vampire version).