Chapter 13 Scars
SCARS
ZAYN
It’s been four days since Katherine came down to confront me at Bronwin Home. I’ve caught glimpses of her here and there, as she came and went from Pearson House, but largely I’ve given her space.
Her blonde friend Beatrice has been there every day, bringing Kat food and a bottle of white wine each visit. While I’m glad Kat has her, I won’t pretend that I don’t wish it was me. That it was me cooking for her, taking care of her. With any luck, it soon would be.
I hack away at an old growth fir with my hatchet, ignoring the way some of the larger branches snag and tear at the exposed skin of my forearms. Instead, I lean into the stinging pain.
Embrace it. The discomfort of physical labor tamps down the pain of heartache.
And it was an ache. The constant tension between my guilt and yearning for Kat that played out in my head every day.
I kick the clipped branches into a pile and run my hands through my hair.
After the branches are brought under control, I grab my shears and turn my attention to the multicolor rosebushes that encircle Pearson House like a moat.
I meticulously clip and shape the roses, taking care to go with the natural shape of the blooms—just like Mom had done all those years ago.
A soft, low voice drifts over the railing of the back porch. “You know,” she says, “only serial killers would pay that close attention to rosebushes.”
I glance up to see Kat’s slender form leaning against the railing. Wonder how long she’s been watching me for. Just like Lachlan used to. I’m struck by how similar her body language is to his. He used to talk with me from this very position, not so long ago.
“And who says I’m not?” I quip, offering her a half-smile, “everybody needs a hobby.”
I peer at her over the top of the clippers and take her in.
She rolls her eyes at me and leans further against the railing.
Her dark hair cascades over one shoulder in a soft wave that is so beautiful and tantalizing that for one wild moment, I fantasize about rushing the porch, pulling myself up, and hauling myself over the railing to stand beside her just so I can run my fingers through it.
“Just can’t leave well enough alone, can you?” she spits at me. “One moment you’re straight up haunting me in this fucking house, then you’re the dedicated groundskeeper. Which one is the real you, I wonder?”
She is clearly still pissed at my deception. Honestly, she has every right to be. However, the accuracy in her words bite and elicit a spark of defensiveness from somewhere in my gut.
“Hey, you’re one to talk Doc,” I respond, “It’s you that’s been creating little projects left and right for Pearson House. The home is fine and hasn’t needed half of what you’ve done. What are you trying to avoid, huh?”
Her scrawny black cat suddenly joins us, slowly winding his way between her legs to peer down at me from the porch.
Kat surveys me through narrowed eyes before turning on her heel and heading back inside. Bundy follows her in a clear display of solidarity.
Smug little fucker.
____________________
KAT
Ok, but seriously fuck him, I think, as I stalk back inside.
The man had been a constant presence around Pearson House for the past several days.
Chopping wood, clipping the rosebushes, taking out the trash and compost. It’s as though now that his secret was out, he was fully embracing no longer being a ghost and wanted to be visible to me at every possible moment.
And it’s not that his presence wasn’t comforting to me, because it oddly was.
It was just the tending to, the taking care of me.
The daily checking in, even though he knew full well that Bea was here daily.
I wasn’t used to someone being there, let alone having a sense of obligation to me—even if only in their mind.
I was still acclimating to life post-attack, and uneasy about this new and unusual arrangement of ours.
I rounded the corner yesterday to find him crouched and tightening a screw on the rain gutter at the side of the house and nearly leapt out of my skin.
He apologized for catching me off guard, even reaching out a large hand to steady me.
And just like the night he rescued me from Josh’s attack, his touch had a near instant calming effect on my nervous system. I just felt safe.
But like a total coward, I had recoiled, thanked him for his help with the gutters and quickly scampered back inside.
That night, I awoke from a dream in which someone’s hands were all over me.
A hot, insistent tongue in my mouth. I wasn’t entirely surprised to find my own hand snaking down inside my panties.
The faint smell of rain and woodsmoke seemed to float on the still air of the bedroom.
I’ve regrettably taken notice of a similar and pleasant aroma drifting off Zayn in our frequent encounters both in and around the house.
What was wrong with me?
“Hey, you!” a soft voice calls from the foyer, pulling me from the memory. I shake my head absently and resume my wiping down of the kitchen counter.
“Hey, B, in here,” I call back.
I hear Bea kick off her shoes in the entry way and make her way into the kitchen. Bea has been here every day since the night of the attack, to bring me a hot dinner and a fresh bottle of Rombauer.
I listen half-heartedly to her as she chats about her day and unloads the Chinese takeout she brought onto the dining table.
From the living room, Bundy chirps curiously, looking out one of the floor to ceiling windows.
I follow his gaze but see nothing. He is clearly seeing or sensing something that I cannot.
This wasn’t the first time I wondered if the small, inky feline was perhaps a conduit and could somehow sense what I could not.
Bundy leans in and brushes his body against the window, and out of the twilight shadows steps Zayn, with a broom in one hand and rake in the other. He smiles at us through the glass, giving the broom a friendly sort of raise.
“Oh my god. Is that him?” squeals Bea, “your parttime gardener and mysterious savior?”
“He is not my gardener,” I reply, infusing a sense of neutrality I do not feel into my voice. “As I have already told you, he is my neighbor. Of sorts.” And my ever-constant guardian, I think.
“Christ, he is hot,” Bea says, as she waves back at him, grinning widely. “You failed to mention that little tidbit.”
“Huh,” I reply absently, keeping my eyes trained on the white cardboard boxes now neatly lined up in front of me. The fact that Zayn was devastatingly attractive, I couldn’t dispute.
“Doesn’t matter,” I minimize. “He won’t stick around for long, I’m sure.”
“Are you?” asks Bea. “He looks to be pretty dang settled here. Very man of the house vibes. Almost like he belongs here.”
“Well, I don’t know why he’d stay. I’m always working, have fresh PTSD, and I’m a total loner who only has one friend,” I say, gesturing to Bea, who has made herself comfortable on the chair.
Bea is silent for a moment before eyeing me reproachfully. “Well, when that friend is me, one is all you need.”
She smiles to herself as she pulls out a shiny magazine with bold print from her bag.
“Okay, we have dinner, let’s check those horoscopes. Now let’s see here,” she says, a slender finger trailing down the inside of the folded, glossy magazine. “Cancer… cancer… aha! Okay.”
“This month brings you trouble in both personal and work relationships. Ha! I’d say so.
” She reads on, “As far as romantic concerns go, around mid-month, consider the concept of a twin flame. Twin flames being two entities that once were one being and are now longing to reunite in this lifetime. Often associated with a strong pull, and strong sense of—oh it’s you—as soul recognizes soul. ”
My fingers halt, chopsticks and fried rice hovering halfway to my mouth. I peer over at Bea in utter shock. She’s looking back at me with a devilish sort of gleam in her eye.
“Does that… resonate with you?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“Does it really say that?” I demand.
“See for yourself,” Bea replies, tossing the magazine down onto the table between us.
But I don’t need to see for myself. A now all too familiar jolt of pure electricity had shot down my spine at the words “twin flame.” That electric charge was my body talking to me. And it told me all I needed to know.
My eyes dart up to the window overlooking the back porch. Zayn’s tall, muscular form stands at the far end sweeping dried leaves into a pile in the gathering darkness.
Tending to this home. And to me.