Chapter 26
TWENTY SIX
STRONG ARMS SHIFT, lifting me…
The scent of chlorine fading, replaced by the crisp smell of soft bedsheets…
A low, deep voice near my ear, the words indistinct but the tone soothing…
Like an echo from a great distance, my voice, small and thin, whispers…
I always end up alone…
Always…
A comforting pressure settles over me, warm and secure…
Darkness…
Complete…
Until it isn’t.
Consciousness surfaces slowly, reluctantly. A dull, persistent ache throbs behind my eyelids. My mouth is cottony dry. My limbs are leaden, buried under a thick duvet.
Where…?
With immense effort, I peel open my heavy eyelids.
Muted daylight filters through closed curtains, painting the room in soft grey tones. My gaze drifts sluggishly across unfamiliar surroundings before landing on a distinctive pattern of giant blush roses climbing a cream wall.
Recognition clicks, slow and fuzzy.
Matthew’s guest room.
Teeth gritted, I push myself up onto shaky elbows, the duvet pooling around my waist. I’m still in the oversized navy tracksuit.
My head swims slightly.
How did I get here?
Fragments of last night flicker…
Hydra, the stranger, the diving board panic, sobbing in Matthew’s arms, my pathetic confession…
Did I actually say it out loud?
Did he hear me say, I always end up alone?
Oh God.
A sick heat crawls up my throat, scalding the back of my neck.
Mortification, so potent it feels like another wave of nausea, momentarily silences the hammer-blows inside my skull.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and bury my face in my hands, my palms a useless shield against the memory burned onto the back of my eyelids.
Standing up sends the room tilting precariously.
Taking shallow breaths, I squeeze my eyes shut.
I wait for the dizziness to pass, one hand gripping the edge of the mattress, the other pressing the heel of my palm against my throbbing temple.
My whole body feels fragile and utterly spent.
I navigate the short distance to the adjoining bathroom, my steps slow and unsteady.
My hands grip the edge of the sink, eyelids flinching shut against the harsh reality in the mirror.
The reflection is a ghost of the person who tried to put on a brave face last night.
Puffy, red-rimmed eyes are underscored by deep smudges of exhaustion.
My skin looks pale and almost translucent, stretched taut over cheekbones that seem too prominent today.
My blonde hair, ravaged by sleep, sticks out in a wild, tangled mess around my face.
Even the navy tracksuit, which swallows me whole, emphasizes how small and depleted I feel.
Shoulders slumped, I lean over the sink and splash cold water on my face before doing what I can to tame my hair.
Feeling only marginally more human, my need for coffee overrides the potent desire to crawl back under the duvet and disappear. My hand rests on the banister, but my body refuses to move. Panic whispers to turn back now. But caffeine is a primal necessity I can’t ignore.
I descend slowly, each step careful on legs that still feel shaky. The house is quiet, filled with soft morning light. Following the rich aroma, I round the corner into the bright, sunlit kitchen.
My sluggish thoughts short-circuit.
Matthew leans against the far counter by the sink, his back to me.
My eyes travel down the strong column of his spine to the low-slung waistband of his navy sweatpants.
A stripe of morning sun bathes his skin, highlighting a fine sheen of sweat.
It’s the healthy glisten of a body that has already worked, already moved, while mine is still struggling to simply exist. Every movement he makes as he lifts a tall glass of water to his lips is effortless.
My body is an ill-fitting suit made of static and aches, but the man by the counter is all solid lines and quiet energy.
Heat crawls up my neck and across my chest. The fabric of the tracksuit, meant to be a comfort, suddenly feels too heavy, too tight against my prickling skin. Shame twists in my gut. My eyes drop to the floor, fixing on the pattern of the slate tile as if it can anchor me.
Matthew sets the glass down with a soft clink.
“Good morning.”
I rub a nervous hand across my forehead as I mumble ‘good morning’, risking the briefest glance upwards, just to his chest level.
Those defined muscles, that damp skin…
My eyes dart away again, landing on the gleaming chrome of the French press.
“Feeling better?” he asks, the concern in his tone unmistakable.
I manage a jerky nod, still not meeting his eyes.
My throat feels tight. Words seem impossible.
Coffee.
I just need coffee.
“Coffee,” he says, as if sensing my single-minded desperation.
The grind of beans fills the silence, a welcome mechanical noise that gives me something else to focus on. I shuffle further into the room, stopping at the large central island to lean over the cool stone edge, face settled between my palms.
When he turns his back again to scoop grounds into the press, my eyes betray me.
They lift involuntarily, drawn to the broad expanse of his back, the way the muscles in his shoulders move as he reaches for the mugs.
That raw, banked power I glimpsed last night is right there, undeniable in the morning light.
And then, just below his left shoulder blade, a small, faded scar catches the light.
He shifts, and for a second, his shoulders seem to tense. I snap my face away, heat flaring in my cheeks.
Can he feel me looking?
Can he sense me cataloging his strength while I’m standing here falling apart in his clothes?
He presses the plunger down on the French press, hands steady and capable, the corded muscles in his forearms flexing with controlled force.
It’s the same power that carried me from the club last night, the same strength that held me together.
But now, as I watch him perform this simple, patient act… it feels more intimate.
My lips part. A low, unfamiliar warmth unfurls deep in my belly. It’s a slow, insistent pull that feels utterly alien after a night of being hollowed out. A flicker of life in a place I thought was only wreckage, and the shock of it is almost as dizzying as my hangover.
He turns, a steaming mug in his hands. A sharp gasp tears from me, deafening in the sudden silence.
A faint, knowing smile plays on his lips.
I’m caught.
Burning with embarrassment, I have nowhere to look. I can feel a furious blush creep up my neck and burn my cheeks. My eyes dart to the floor, to the sleek cabinets, anywhere but his face.
“Careful, it’s hot,” he says, a gentle murmur that seems to absorb all the frantic energy in the room.
Yes, hot…
I wrap my trembling hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. “Thanks,” I manage, the word raspy.
He nods, leaning back against the opposite counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The silence stretches out, filled only with the ragged rush of my own too-loud breathing.
My eyes stay trained on the swirling black depths of my coffee, but I can feel the weight of his stare.
The trembling in my hands begins to subside, replaced by a slow, insistent thrum of energy, a lingering echo of the pull I’d just felt.
I take a sip, the hot, rich bitterness a welcome jolt to my system. Steam curls from the mug, a fragile wisp in the sunlit air. The silence doesn’t feel awkward; it feels loaded. Every instinct tells me to break it, but I can’t bring myself to look up, to meet his gaze.
“Why don’t you take it outside, get some fresh air?” he says. “The sun’s coming up over the pool now.” He gestures vaguely towards himself. “I need to clean up. Shower. Give me fifteen minutes?”
Relief washes over me, swift and potent.
A reprieve.
A chance to breathe without his eyes on me, without my traitorous awareness of him filling the space.
“Of course, take your time,” I agree immediately, perhaps too quickly. I lift the mug, needing the excuse to look away again. “I’ll be by the pool.”
“Good.” He pushes away from the counter and heads out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with my coffee and the echo of his presence.
I take a long sip and turn towards the glass doors.
I step out onto the cool flagstones of the patio, the morning air hitting me crisp and clean.
It carries the damp, earthy scent of dew on grass and the faintest hint of chlorine.
It’s a welcome shock after the humming tension of the kitchen.
The sun, already climbing, filters through the tall pines surrounding the yard, dappling the stone beneath my bare feet.
Coffee mug held carefully in both hands, I walk toward the two wide stone steps leading up to the pool level.
My steps feel heavy, my body still thrumming with exhaustion and the lingering tremors of last night’s breakdown.
As I reach the top, the pool comes into view.
Its turquoise surface is impossibly bright and completely still now, reflecting the trees like a perfect mirror.
My heart stutters when I see the diving board at the far end.
It waits, stark white against blue, a silent witness to my complete unraveling.
I force my eyes away, focusing instead on the wrought-iron gate.
My fingers feel clumsy against the metal latch, but it clicks open easily.
I step through onto the smooth, pale concrete.
Somewhere high in the trees, a bird chirps, the sound mingling with the soft whisper of a breeze rustling the leaves.
Drawn toward the promise of stillness, I walk over to the nearest lounger to my left. Its cushion sighs softly under my weight when I sink down. Leaning back, I lift my face to the sky, closing my eyes.
The sunlight feels warm on my skin.