Chapter 11 Maya
Maya
I wake up to the scent of apples and the faint smell of smoke.
My heart pounds in my chest, desperate to escape.
For a moment, I can’t remember where I am, or if I’m alive, dead, or somewhere in between.
The ceiling isn’t familiar. The rain on the window isn’t New York’s.
Then it hits me: Inverness. The dream—no, the memory—sticks to me like a damp scarf.
I get out of bed and press my hands to my face, unsurprised to find my cheeks streaked with dried tears.
I never really cry. Not for myself, not for anyone, except in these dreams. In them, I lose someone almost like Heath, but not quite.
He has green eyes, rough hands, and a smile that cuts through the gloom. The pain settles deep inside me.
The hotel is quiet at this hour. Only the steady sound of rain and the creak of old wood fill the space.
For once, I hate the silence. I shouldn’t have come here alone.
My mother said it was reckless. Blair said it was just like me.
But neither of them understood. Sometimes you have to break your own heart to see what remains.
I shower, get dressed, untangle my hair, and tell myself I’ll text Heath.
But I know I won’t. I’m not the type to ask a man to follow me into the unknown, no matter how long I’ve waited for him.
The idea doesn’t seem real, but it feels true.
I put on my boots, ignore the shiver in my arms, and pack my bags quickly.
Downstairs, the small dining room is empty except for a sleepless couple whispering anxiously and the faint smell of a wet dog.
I sit by the window and order black coffee, a croissant, and soup.
I eat slowly, savoring every bite, hoping it will keep me grounded.
My mind replays last night’s visions: hooves pounding, the smell of gunpowder, a man’s silhouette holding on until he couldn’t.
Sometimes I scream in the dream; sometimes I just wait. Either way, I wake up with empty hands.
I check my phone. It’s just a reflex, a nervous habit I can’t break.
Blair: WHERE R U?
And from my mother:
I’m told you’re traveling to Orkney alone, is it true? I type a reply—Alive, will call later—but I don’t send it.
There’s no message from Heath.
It's fine. He's a stranger with good timing, not a promise kept. We’re fine. He’s a stranger with good timing, not someone who made a promise.
We’re just two people who shared the same bit of morning mist, like planets that lined up for a moment.
I can still taste apples on my tongue. I rehearse what I’ll say to the rental car clerk, keeping my words short and my tone casual.
I want to seem like a woman who doesn’t need anyone to find her way north.
it seems unnatural. “Oh, you’re the one with the red Audi,” she says, as if this is the most interesting thing in her week. “It’s waiting right outside, darling.”
I thank her and put on my coat, not feeling at all like ‘darling.’ There’s no real reason to stay, except for the foolish hope that someone might stop me before I vanish into the Highland mist. I pay my bill, leave a tip, and head for the car.
Then I hear a voice behind me, low and clear, with a hint of warmth that draws me in.
“I hear it’s a treacherous drive to Orkney in this weather,” Heath says, as if this is a conversation we’ve been having our entire lives. “You wouldn’t happen to need a navigator, would you?”
I turn and see him, rumpled and wet from the rain, standing close enough that I can see the silver in his hair.
His leather jacket is dark at the shoulders, where the rain has soaked in.
A drop of water hangs from his eyelash before it falls.
His eyes are deep green, with flecks of amber near the pupils.
He looks at me as if I’m the answer to a question he’s been asking for years.
"Get in," I say, though inside I’m caught between relief and longing. What I really mean is, don’t ever leave. My voice wavers, showing the mix of hope and fear I feel.
He follows, and together we step into the rain.