by Meg Evans
“We’re not done here yet,” she informs me.
In this house, there’s one golden rule: be honest, no matter what. My aunt has forever hammered away that the worst truth is better than the smallest lie. In my defense, I myself don’t quite understand what’s going on either, so how can I explain it to anybody?
The morning breeze cools down my temper a bit. I don’t feel like killing the unsuspecting Rach for showing up unannounced anymore, but I’m still irritated.
“What are you doing here, for God’s sake?” I grumble as I get into the car.
“You left your phone in my car yesterday.” She brandishes the cell inches from my face. “I thought you’d appreciate it if I dropped it off first thing in the morning, because we won’t see each other later. I called your aunt last night, but when I asked her to give you the phone, she told me you were locked in your room.”
Fuck! If they’ve talked, I’m in real trouble. They adore one another and whenever they have a chance to talk, they do so thoroughly. Sometimes they’re on the phone for close to an hour. I can understand that; Cynthia is a great listener. Although she can be judgmental, she’s at least there when we need to talk to her. Rach’s mom, in spite of being more laid back than Cynthia, is too busy to carve out time to chat with her daughter. She’s barely ever at home.
“Did she say anything else?” I demand.
“Not really, we just talked for a minute or so.” She shrugs. “So what? Why did you hole yourself in upstairs?”
“What did you talk about?” I’m persistent.
“Nothing in particular. I only told her we went shopping, and obviously how stunning you look in your new dress. You look really gorgeous, honey! Then I mentioned something about that ridiculous cashier…”
At this point, I stop paying attention to her words. Firstly, I tell myself off in my head for how seriously I have betrayed Cynthia’s trust. Secondly, I rack my brain to try to remember where all the things I bought even are.
Rach is relentlessly badgering me to reveal what I was fuming about, but I’m stubborn and tell her to drop it and leave me alone because I’m not in the mood to talk about it. She’s starting to get on my nerves, and I’m inches from blowing up at her.
“What if I list all the possible things that you might be angry about, and if I get it right, you’ll tell me?” she suggests, proud of the smart solution she’s just come up with.
“I said no!” I lose my cool and shout. She can be so stubborn.
“Okay, okay. There’s no reason to be rude and raise your voice, Zara. I’m sorry I came here to make it easy on you. What a terrible friend I am.” She shakes her head.
Rach makes me feel bad, but she’s right. I’m not being fair toward her. I’m angry because she contributed to my lie coming out, but how could she have predicted my confrontation with Cynthia? We drive in silence for the rest of the journey.
When we finally get to school, there’s no way I’ll make it to my first class on time. With all those tardies, what if I need to repeat this semester? I’m so disappointed in myself that it makes me see red.
I’m too angry and frustrated to master an apology for my rudeness, so I toss a simple “See you later” to Rach.
Maybe Professor Sullivan will be unusually understanding and forgive me being thirty minutes late.
* * *
When I’m back at home, Maddie and Cynthia have already gone to Portland for the girls’ weekend. They’ve left me a note on the kitchen table: Going to Portland, back on Sunday around 6pm. Love you.
Rach hasn’t spoken to me since this morning. I don’t blame her; if I were her, I wouldn’t want to call my friend who gave me attitude last time we spoke either. I’m aware that I’m the one who screwed up. Neither she nor my aunt deserved to be mistreated. All the emotions I’ve recently experienced and the frustration coming from them are my problem—they have nothing to do with it. I have no right to take it out on the people closest to me.
I reluctantly grab my cell phone, but I stop myself from dialing Rach’s number as it crosses my mind that she’s most likely hanging out with Sara and Natalie, her besties from college. The last thing I want to do right now is disturb the Friday night fun they must be having. Not everyone has a boring evening by themselves like I do.
Instead, I check my inbox, where I find two unread messages from Charlie.
Charlie: Hey girl, are you ready for the party tomorrow? Got an outfit yet?
I didn’t respond to that text, so he sent me another one twenty minutes later.
Charlie: What time would u like me to pick you up, beautiful?
I throw myself on the bed, fixing my eyes on the ceiling. Replying to Charlie or calling up Rach seems like too much of an effort right now. I don’t even have the energy to go downstairs and put on a TV show. At the thought of the birthday party tomorrow, my guts are twisting. I accepted Charlie’s invitation only because Matt was going as well, but currently I truly regret my decision to go. I’m so sluggish that I could spend the whole weekend doing absolutely nothing, without even getting out of bed.
What am I, seventy? Why has there been so little life in me recently? I should at least take advantage of the fact that I’m home alone and throw a house party or invite my girlfriends for a sleepover.
I roll over my back and close my eyes. Immediately, in my mind I see Dorian.
I recall his handsome face, then his blue, hypnotizing eyes and his strong, chiseled body. I take a deep breath at the memory of his irresistible, overwhelming scent. Finally, I reconstruct the moment when he touched my skin. The flashback of him sliding his finger along my ribs sets me on fire.
I bite my lips and place my fingers on the same spot that Dorian touched yesterday, imagining that it’s his hand gently playing with my bra right now. I put my other hand on my stomach and brush my skin with my fingertips, climbing higher and higher until I reach my neck. I can picture him lying right next to me, caressing the sensitive spots on my neck. Dorian moves his face close to mine, but he stops inches from my mouth, keeping me unsatisfied, working up my appetite. I feel his warm breath on my parted lips. His tongue runs over my lower lip, causing chills to rush over me. He plants dozens of soft kisses on my chin, neck, and collarbone. As he explores my body with his lips, my desire flares up. A volcano of passion roars through me. There’s so much built-up tension that I need to release it somehow, otherwise I’ll erupt.
BANG!
I startle as something explodes loudly and open my eyes. My room is enfolded in darkness. At first I think the light bulb has burned out, but the moment I leave my room and turn on the light switch in the hallway, I realize that the fuse must have blown because there’s no electricity in the whole house. I have no idea where to look for the fuse box.
I hate the thought of looking for it throughout the house because I am, for some reason, terrified of being home alone when it’s dark. It’s most likely a side-effect of all those horror movies I binge-watch. Every time the fuse box blows in a movie, someone is either killed, wounded or possessed. Watching scary scenes on the screen while sitting comfortably on the couch and eating popcorn is one thing; being alone in the dark is a different ballgame.
My stomach roils, and I swallow hard. I have to handle the situation; I’m the only one at home for the remainder of the weekend. I don’t even remember where I put my cellphone to use its torch function. Luckily, in my closet I always keep a spare flashlight just for this kind of situation. I push the button on it with a wobbly finger, praying it’s not broken. Luckily, it’s working, but the battery is about to die. I sigh, frustrated.
My imagination has been activated, and I can’t focus on anything else other than the idea that at any moment some vicious thief will break into my house and attack me. The only weapon that I have on me is this little flashlight, which wouldn’t pass the “knock the burglar out” test. At most I could bruise him—maybe.
I look around the hall. Even the faces of people in the pictures on t
he walls seem to be ferociously distorted in the dark. They’re staring at me with bloodthirst. My limbs begin to shake as I move along, holding on to the wall. I need to think straight, but it’s hard when my body is in fight-or-flight mode.
Fear and helplessness push me to make a desperate move. I head out to knock on my neighbors’ door to implore Dorian or Rita to help me. The embarrassment generated by yesterday’s incident isn’t enough to prevent me from begging him for rescue.
I only make it halfway down their path when the door opens. I see Dorian looming in the doorway, and my heart speeds up. I feel a lump forming in my stomach and dryness in my mouth. He’s wearing a black, skin-tight button-down shirt, which perfectly emphasizes his muscular form, matched with gray, low-rise straight jeans. He looks breathtaking. I stop dead in my tracks, unable to move even an inch. His outfit makes me assume he must have some commitment and is heading out just as I’m about to ask him for a favor. It doesn’t seem like perfect timing. I feel like turning around, but it’s too late for that.
He spots me. “Zara?” My pulse skyrockets.
“Hi.” I blush. “I wanted… I need... Are you leaving?” This incoherent blend of words comes out of my mouth. I feel dumb.
“Why? Do you need anything?”
Does my face look that desperate?
“No… I mean, if you have something arranged, I wouldn’t like to mess up your plans.”
“What’s the matter?” Dorian goes down the porch. With every step he takes, my pulse spikes again.
“For some mysterious reason my fuse box has blown. I’m all alone in the house and have no clue where to find it or how to fix it.”
“And you came here to ask me to help you out with that?”
“Yeah, roughly speaking.” My deadly fear of the dark I leave unspoken.
Dorian doesn’t hesitate. “Lead the way.”
We walk shoulder to shoulder, and, to my surprise, Dorian doesn’t rush me, regardless of his previous engagements.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yup,” I answer. I owe him an explanation, but until he asks me any specific questions, I’d prefer to avoid the subject.
“Last night you rocketed out of my place. Why was that?”
I knew it was coming.
“It dawned on me that I’d left the stuff I’d just bought on the porch. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but there’s been a decent amount of thefts in the area. That’s why I didn’t waste even a second.” What a stupid and unbelievable excuse. I feel like curling up and dying.
“Why didn’t you come back?”
“My aunt was back from the hairdresser’s, and I was able to get inside, so I thought why bother you any longer? I’m sorry I didn’t even say goodbye, though.”
“You weren’t bothering me.” When he says that, I feel a warm glow flowing through me.
“Anyway…” I don’t want to dwell on the topic. “Do you know where the fuse box is?”
“We need to go to the basement,” Dorian informs me as we go into the dark house.
“I have a flashlight.” I switch it on, but it sheds so little light that even a candle would be more useful at the moment. “Well, better than nothing.”
“Turn it off.” He pulls out his cell phone from his pocket and immediately turns on the flashlight on it, which brightens the whole foyer. “Now at least we can see something.”
I’m much more confident having someone with me. We make it to the basement door and I open it. Beyond is a narrow staircase, wooden steps descending into the dark. Even though a cold basement isn’t the most romantic place to be, the awareness that it’s just the two of us in the house makes my stomach flutter.
I lumber right behind Dorian, running my hand along the cold wall for balance. I have the impression that his scent is pulling me after him like an invisible thread. I inhale it deep into my lungs and let it go to my head. I need to be careful not to miss one of the steps and end up tumbling all the way down in front of him.
The basement is small, but Cynthia has managed to pile up a lot of clutter in here anyway. There is an old TV up against the wall, a lawn chair, dozens of shoe boxes, pots and pans, a coffee maker and a bunch of other junk. Everywhere is dust.
“Do you have a tenant living here or something?” Dorian asks, shining the flashlight on the items scattered all over the basement.
“I’m starting to wonder myself.”
“Do you see that little box by the ladder?” He directs the light to a steel square on the wall.
“Uhm…”
“That’s the fuse box. Bear it in mind for the future.”
“I want to forget, because then I’ll need to ask for help again.”
I don’t even know why I said that. It’s hard to keep myself in check with Dorian next to me. His presence triggers some puzzling chemical reactions in my system that cause millions of hormones to buzz through me, making me think and say things that I shouldn’t.
“Oh, will you?”
“Yeah. Nothing wrong with that, right?”
He fixes his eyes on my face with the deepest attention, as though he’s trying to read something from me. “Absolutely nothing.”
It’s incomprehensible to me that we only spoke for the first time yesterday. Not only does it feel like we’ve met before, but also as if we know each other very well. There’s something familiar about him that gives me a peculiar sense of peace and comfort. I’m curious to know if he shares the feeling.
As I thoroughly study Dorian’s face, he suddenly turns the flashlight off. We’re shrouded in shadow. I swallow hard. Tension hangs in the air, both scary and exciting.
“Why did you turn off the light?” My eyes haven’t adjusted yet, but I don’t need them to realize how close Dorian is standing; his body is beaming heat straight into me.
“You know all too well,” Dorian whispers, inches from me. His scent wraps around me from every direction, and I’m locked in. I can’t get away, but I don’t even want to.
“I do.” Pure lust washes over me, and I part my lips in anticipation for a kiss.
Instead of the soft touch of his lips, I feel a wrench. Unexpectedly, Dorian grabs me by my wrist, which jerks me out from my erotic trance. Freezing cold embraces the skin on my wrist where he’s holding tight. An unpleasant chill travels up to my elbow then to my arm. The left side of my body feels as if it’s been thrown into arctic water, and it’s stabbing me like a thousand needles.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I strive to extricate myself, but in vain; his grip is too strong. “Dorian, what are you doing to me?”
He doesn’t even budge, but grasps my other wrist and pushes me toward the wall behind me forcefully. He lifts both my hands above my head, making it impossible for me to move. I don’t understand what’s going on.
“Who are you?” he demands, standing no further than an inch from my face. His voice is high-pitched; he’s not kidding.
“My name’s Zara Logan. Born and raised in Keizer. I’m in my third year of psychology studies, I work at Walgreens and live next door to you. What else do you want to know?” My voice trembles.
Does he think that I’m lying? But who else am I supposed to be? A spy? Or maybe an undercover agent?!
“Why can’t I see it?”
“What’s it?”
He squeezes my wrists even tighter. The biting cold piercing my arms is unbearable. My fingers feel numb. Dorian doesn’t say another word; instead we stand suspended for a lingering moment. His rapid breathing is the only sound reaching my ears. Even though I’m defenseless and subdued, I still don’t believe he’s a menace to me. I’m not frightened. I’m confused.
All of a sudden, I feel a warm spot in my chest. The warmth is gentle—it feels like a single sunray falling somewhere around my heart—but with every passing second, it’s expanding like a bubble. When my entire chest is full, and it seems that there’s no more space in me, it explodes into thousands of tiny flickers spreading through my b
ody. A hot wave courses through me, causing Dorian to spring back.
The basement is lit up by a couple of light bulbs arranged in a row on the ceiling that turn on by themselves. Miraculously, the electricity has come back on without us doing anything. But how is that possible?
Pure disbelief is etched on Dorian’s face. He tosses me a suspicious look, apparently deeply reflecting on something, then says, “There you go. Your electricity is back!”
Having pointed it out, Dorian swings around and makes his way to the stairs without bothering to say anything more.
“Hold on!” I scuttle after him and grab him by his shoulder. He can’t just walk away like that. He owes me an explanation for the whole incident. “Can you explain to me what is this all about? You just hurt me, in case you didn’t notice!”
Dorian slowly turns around. His face is indecipherable. “If you really don’t know what’s going on, then let’s keep it that way. It’s better for you.” He takes my hand off of his shoulder and climbs the steps.
I stand, stunned, for a good moment after he vanishes from sight. It gets through to me that most likely, it’s not a doctor I need to help me with my weird chest pains. Dorian obviously knows something, and I’m going to find out what it is.
CHAPTER six
Saturday hardly ever means sleeping in. To me, it almost always means a morning shift at Walgreens. On my break, I usually browse through social media to keep myself updated on what all my friends, who don’t have to moonlight on the weekends, are up to. Today, however, when stuffing my face with a turkey sandwich, for the first time in forever I don’t even bother to pull out my cell phone. My thoughts are twisted up in last evening. I can’t come up with any logical explanation for what happened.
What was the ‘it’ he couldn’t see?
Why did I feel that freezing cold in my wrists when he grabbed them?
What was the deal with the miraculous way the electricity came back on without us even touching the fuses?
That enigmatic man is intriguing me more and more. I get a thumping headache from all these questions.