by Lexie Ray
I froze. “What do you mean?”
“What was that back there?” he asked. “You looked freaked out, like you’d seen a ghost, after I mentioned a theory about a crash.”
“I don’t really talk about that,” I said, my voice sounding shrill to my own ears.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to,” I said, hating how sharp my voice was. I knew I was being unreasonable. Jonathan didn’t deserve to be lashed out at because of my past. “Now, I’ve packed some sandwiches…”
I started to root around inside the backpack in earnest, but Jonathan snagged my wrist, stilling me. His touch seared my skin, took my breath away, made me wish that things were different.
“I think it would be good for you to talk about it,” he said. “You put on a happy face, Michelle, but I know that you’re holding onto some deep things. Maybe it’d be best if you let them out, seeing as how you finally have someone to let them out to sitting right beside you.”
“I don’t think I can,” I whispered.
“I’m right here,” he said, and somehow, the simple statement was comforting and caring, enveloping me like a hug. I realized that Jonathan was still holding my wrist and blushed a little bit, pulling my hands into my own lap. Was I really going to do this? I’d left everything behind when I moved to the cottage, but somehow, it all seemed to be rushing to catch back up to me. This was exactly what I didn’t want, but I felt like I owed Jonathan something. He had his own problems to deal with, and I didn’t want to distract him with keeping secrets.
I took a deep breath.
“It’s nothing—well, it’s something. My parents, they—they died,” I said, hating myself as I did, my voice too soft, too shaky.
I stared, unseeing, at the ground in front of us. Unwillingly, I was transported back to that dark night.
I had been so happy, telling my parents about the summer job I was planning on starting. I was going to make some money to save for college, which would start in the fall. Even though I’d just finished high school, my life seemed like a wide open door in front of me. I had been aware of everything seeming like it was just beginning.
I had been so full of hope.
Then, my dad had cursed. He never cursed, so I remembered being a mixture of shocked and amused. Then, terror.
The screech of tires was one of the things I remembered very well. My dad was trying so hard to stop the car, but the tires against the wet road couldn’t handle the sudden necessity. They screeched on and on like terrible, panicked birds. They’d made the panic build inside of me, too.
I don’t know who started screaming. Maybe it was my mom. She was sitting in the front seat, so she would’ve seen it coming, the unavoidable collision. But I probably would’ve screamed, too, hearing her scream. She never screamed.
Then, everything was swallowed by the bone-crunching thud. It silenced everything, became the new ending to all my nightmares. That thud was the end. There was no hope after that. What my dad had been trying to avoid, what my mom had been screaming at, had come to pass.
Things were confusing, after that. I’d had so many people try to explain it to me—well-meaning relatives and counselors, hoping it would give me some sort of peace or closure or understanding or something—but I preferred my version. My version was cleaner, less definitive.
After the life-ending, future-ending thud, there was a strange, jarring sense of weightlessness, as if we were floating away somewhere, much too gently for what had just happened. There was utter silence: no screeching of tires, no screaming, no thuds.
The next thing that had grabbed my attention was the smell. It was corrosively sweet, and it made my stomach turn. Looking back, I knew that it had to have been a mixture of gasoline and oil, of all the fluids that worked together to make the car run. They were all leaking, their various containers punctured in the crushing crash.
The silence, the smell, then, the heat—God, the heat. Nothing was that hot. Nothing could be that hot. I remembered screaming myself hoarse, screaming so loud and long that I coughed blood for days after. Even when strong hands pulled me from the crumpled wreck of the car, the heat was still there. Then, there was nothing.
They told me that a drunken driver had crossed the centerline and hit our car head on. They told me that my parents had died instantly, that our car had caught fire in seconds, that if a cop pulled to the side of the road to bust speeding motorists hadn’t been there to pull me through the shattered back window, I would’ve burned alive, the flames licking more than just the side of my face.
Sometimes, I wish I had burned. All of me. It was too hard, much too hard to just keep going, knowing my parents had died while I still lived.
I buried my face in my hands, shuddering on the log in the middle of the woods. The memories were still too fresh, even five years after the fact. They were too terrifying to examine. Too horrifying to share with anyone.
A strong arm around my shoulder made me gasp, but it was insistent on drawing me against Jonathan’s chest. He hugged me, wincing a little at his ribs, but persisting.
“Your parents died in a car crash,” he said, resting his chin on top of my head. Somehow, in this position, I felt safer. The terrible memories were still there—the screech, the screams, the thud, the smell, the heat—but it was as if he were somehow holding them at bay. His arms were protecting me from something inside of my head, and I marveled at the strangeness of it. I’d become so used to protecting myself all these years that it was a relief to have someone else take a crack at it.
“Yes,” I murmured. “My parents died in a car crash.” It felt better to say it like that, to leave the terribly vivid experience out of it. It was as simple as a sentence: My parents died in a car crash. No matter what else might lie behind those words, that was the truth.
“And that’s how you got your scar, too,” Jonathan said, readjusting his hug to bring his fingers close to my face. That was too much. Too much, too soon. I couldn’t handle him touching my scar. I could hardly touch it myself.
I scooted away from him, out of his embrace, and felt immediately bereft. His muscular arms around me felt really, really good—like nothing bad could happen to me. A girl could get used to being in a pair of arms like that.
“I wish I had something to tell you,” he said. “I wish I had an anecdote to tell you that everything would get better, but I can’t remember if I know anyone who died in wrecks. I’m basically a blank slate, Michelle, for better or for worse. My first memory is waking up on your couch, and before that is nothing.”
I hesitated for a moment before I took his hand, squeezing it.
“We’ll get this all figured out somehow,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
“I don’t want to be a burden,” he said. “I want to help around the cottage, in your garden, with the chickens. If I’m going to be a part of your life, to stay with you to try to figure this out, I want it to be an equal partnership.”
I smiled wanly, worn out from my memories. “I’d like that,” I said. I really would. His simple hug had helped me escape the memories that were dragging me down. As long as he didn’t look at my face, didn’t touch it, everything would be just fine.
Chapter Six
Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. Jonathan got stronger, his bruising faded, and the gash on his hairline mended into a thin white scar.
“I think it gives me a mysterious look, don’t you?” he asked, feeling his scar with his fingers.
“Everything about you is a mystery,” I laughed. “You have an overabundance of mystery.”
Work seemed to agree with him, too. He’d been idle too long, I figured, and it had soured his spirit. When he had a list of tasks in front of him, he seemed to be happy. He liked having a goal to achieve and reveled in completing one after the other.
He was learning the ins and outs of the kitchen with my guidance, so that was one good thing. Jonathan enjoyed the same things that I enjoyed—foll
owing a recipe but finding ways to put a unique stamp on the end product.
We made bread—which Jonathan had more of a flair for—cookies, bars, pies, cakes, muffins, and more. And it turned out that he was pretty handy in places other than my kitchen.
Jonathan, inexplicably, knew his way around a toolbox, could tinker with things, and actually constructed a working grill out of some old metal parts he found in the barn.
“You live here, don’t you?” he laughed as I studied the metal with some suspicion. “Why don’t you know what you have in your own barn?”
“I’ve salvaged a lot of things from the woods,” I said. “And I’ve stored even more. I can’t remember every little thing I squirrel away.”
“Well, now we can have barbecues,” he said, patting the ramshackle but functioning device fondly.
The first steaks Jonathan cooked on it were delicious—better than anything I could do on the stove or in the oven.
With Jonathan’s extra pair of hands around the place, I could work on projects I’d always wanted to do but didn’t have the time or resources for. With his help, I expanded the garden, working hard to till the soil to the same quality as the rest of the plot. Then, we made flowerbeds all around the cottage, planting my very favorite seeds.
“And what are you going to do with even more flowers, missy?” Jonathan teased, putting his hands on his hips. “You’re not going to know what to do with yourself when these start growing, are you?”
And the more time I spent with Jonathan, the happier I was. He was a true joy to be around, always excited and joyful when he was working on something he was interested in, cheerfully pleasant even if it was an unpleasant task, like unclogging a toilet or working outside in the heat. His memories remained out of his reach, however, and he tried to put on a brave face about it. I knew it pained him.
A stifling heat wave settled over the countryside, and it felt like as soon as I got up from my bed, I started sweating. It was hard to even get ourselves to leave the shade of the cottage to work outside in the swelter. We carried heavy bucket after heavy bucket to keep the garden and the new flowerbed properly watered.
But it felt like we lost as much water from our bodies as we hauled buckets of across the property in the sweat that ran down our skin and soaked our clothing.
“Is there anything we can do to get out of this heat?” Jonathan groaned as we sat in the grass in the shade of the barn—me, as always, keeping him on my right side—and watching the chickens get their exercise. They seemed as listless as we did, pecking at the dry ground with nary a cluck among them.
“Walk in the woods?” I offered. “There’ll be plenty of shade.”
“Only if it leads to a swimming pool,” Jonathan said. “Or a water park.”
“You know, it does lead to a pool of sorts,” I said. “I usually go fishing there, but I think it’s too hot to be anywhere other than the water. There’s just one problem.”
“What’s that? Is it far away? I’ll walk wherever and for however long you tell me to as long as you promise we’re going swimming.”
Jonathan looked hot and a little bit manic, and it made me smile. Cooling off in the pool by the river would be a much-needed respite from the sticky heat of summer.
“We don’t have swimsuits,” I said.
“How do you usually go, then?” Jonathan asked, cocking his head with no small degree of interest.
I blushed heavily. “Well, no one’s ever there,” I said. “I usually go without, um, without clothes.”
“As nature intended,” Jonathan said admiringly, giving a nod of approval. “I’m in. I won’t peek if you won’t.”
I laughed and shook my head. “I’ll be wearing at least my underwear,” I said. “A bra and panties are practically a bathing suit.”
“Think of how uncomfortable that’ll be, though, putting your dry clothes over your wet underwear and walking back after we’re through,” Jonathan said. “You might as well just skinny dip. That’s what I’m going to do.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you were just trying to get a look at me naked,” I said crossing my arms over my chest in mock indignation.
He shrugged, grinning. “Well, you have one over me,” he said. “Remember when you saw me naked?”
I flushed. “Those were dire circumstances,” I said. “And I don’t even remember what it looks like. It is absolutely gone from my mind.”
“Oh, so you’re saying I’m forgettable?” Jonathan asked, raising his eyebrows. “Wow. I—I’m speechless.”
“Stop it,” I said, laughing and giving him a playful punch in his arm. “Let’s go swimming.”
All we carried with us to the pool were a couple of bottles of water apiece. I sat down on the tree trunk that extended over the pool and stuck my bare foot into the water.
“Ooh,” I said, delighted and grinning. “It’s pretty chilly.”
“Sounds perfect,” Jonathan said, stripping off his sweaty shirt. His muscles glistened with sweat in the sun, making my mouth drier than it already was. He dropped his shorts and I looked quickly away. He hadn’t been joking about swimming au natural. Still, his ass was gorgeous. For the split second I’d seen it, bare and muscular, it was imprinted in great detail my mind.
Jonathan groaned as he waded into the pool, me relaxing a little once he was in waist-deep water, covering up his butt.
“This is like heaven,” he said. “You need to get in here immediately.”
“Okay,” I said, “but turn around. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to look.”
“You act as if catching a glimpse of you naked would burn my eyes out or something,” he said.
“You never know,” I said mildly, wriggling out of my clothes but leaving my bra and panties on. The last thing I wanted to do was give Jonathan a show. My wet underwear would probably even feel good beneath my dry clothes as we walked back to the cottage after swimming.
I crouched in the water, sighing deeply. “Oh, you’re right. This is amazing.”
“I told you,” he said, turning. “Oh. You’re overdressed for this pool, I’m afraid. You might make other swimmers feel insecure.”
I laughed. “Is that right? Well, we wouldn’t want that.”
“Your body’s under the water, Michelle,” Jonathan pointed out. “You don’t have to feel embarrassed or shy. We’re friends, aren’t we? Besides, who am I going to tell I saw you naked? If you tossed your bra and panties up to the bank, I’m sure they’d dry before we decided to leave.”
I turned away, suddenly aware that he’d been looking full into my face. Honestly, that was the part of me I wanted to hide, not my breasts or ass or privates.
“Fine,” I said. “If it’ll make you happy.”
“All I want is for you to be comfortable,” he said. “That’s all.”
I swiftly stepped out of my panties and pulled off my bra, throwing the sodden items away.
We floated lazily in the pool for many long minutes, me leaning back so I could stare at the cloudless sky. It was as blue as Jonathan’s eyes. I couldn’t help but revisit the sight of his butt as he got into the pool. Everything about him was sexy, but the bigger truth was that I really enjoyed being around him. Life had become unexpectedly richer ever since I’d found him.
“How long do you plan on living out here, by yourself?” he asked suddenly, after we’d been in the pool for about an hour.
I had been floating on my back, napping a little and not caring what he caught a glimpse of. The water felt too good to care, but now I resumed my defensive crouch, my careful turn away from his gaze.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’d always planned on being out here forever. When I came out here …” I trailed off. It was hard to think of that difficult time.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he said, his steady gaze comforting despite the fact that we were both naked. Somehow, not having any clothes on made me feel more forthcoming, like I didn’t have to hi
de anything.
“I—I want to, but it’s just hard.” I took a deep breath. “When I first came out here, I was in a lot of pain. My parents had—had just died, and I couldn’t bear to be around anyone. Somehow, being out here by myself, here in nature, helped heal me. And I’ve never had any desire to leave.”
“That’s kind of like me,” Jonathan said, smiling faintly. “This place healed me, too. Well, except for my memory. But you know, I’m caring less and less about that as the days go by. Do you think it would be okay if I stayed out here with you? I really like it. And I like being with you. You make me feel good, too, as much as the work and nature and everything.”
I had no way of knowing how much that question would affect me. My heart lifted and soared. He liked it out here, and he liked me.
“I would be disappointed to live out here without you,” I admitted. “I’ve gotten used to you being a part of my life.”
I looked over at Jonathan, and he was grinning. His happiness was infectious, and I grinned back. I was so buoyed that I hardly cared when we both clambered out of the pool in the early evening. He liked me. It didn’t matter if he caught a glimpse of anything.
Later that night, he insisted on preparing dinner, with me trying not to insult him by hovering. He was cooking us an Italian dinner, he claimed, and he was experimenting by seeing if he could concoct his own sauce. I gave him a few pointers and tried to back off, cleaning the cottage a little bit until I couldn’t do anything without seeming like I was fidgeting.
“Relax,” he said, laughing at me. “What do you usually do when there’s nothing for you to do? Read a book or something.”
I bit my lip as I looked at the bookshelf. There was nothing I wanted to avoid more right now than a romance novel, especially with the way I was feeling. Who knew that a man who knew his way around the kitchen would be such a turn-on? I figured that a lot of it had to do with what was said at the pool today.
Jonathan liked me, and I liked him. The admission had changed everything for me. He’d become a friend and a companion over time, and I’d enjoyed watching him grow more comfortable and confident the longer he stayed. Now, the fact that he liked living out here as much as I did and wanted to be here as long as I was lifted my heart and made it do dizzy little loops in my chest.