by Meg Evans
“Why?” I do my best to sound casual, but the outrage emanating from me is too much to hide.
“Take my word for it.”
“But—”
“It must remain the way it is,” he cuts in, getting into his car.
“But last time you said—”
“Goodnight, Zara.” He’s done it again: just shut me down. “Don’t ask any more questions.” He closes the door, but rolls down the window as he pulls out of his driveway.
When he’s driving past me, I can’t bottle it up anymore and simply say, “You’re strange, Dorian.”
“You have no idea how strange.” He stops the car for a second and looks me deep in the eye. “And we’d better leave it at that.”
“I want to know,” I tell him as the window starts rolling up.
“No, you don’t,” he assures me, and finally drives away.
“I’ll find out anyway sooner or later,” I say to myself, turning to go inside.
Rita has been watching us all along, presumably thinking that I don’t realize she’s been standing at the kitchen window. Ignoring her, I return to my house as if the last twenty minutes never happened.
CHAPTER seven
For the next week, I don’t have an opportunity to speak with Dorian. We keep missing one another. I often see him driving off as I look through the kitchen window before I leave for my morning classes and hear him come back when I’m already in my bedroom, getting ready to turn in. There’s no way we can talk unless I take the first step—which isn’t happening after what he told me last time we saw each other. Admittedly, once we sort of run into each other, but Dorian only raises his hand to greet me from afar and vanishes into his part of the house, without coming up to me or even asking how I’m doing. The questions I have about him must therefore go unanswered for the time being.
We’ve only interacted with each other a handful of times, so I can’t exactly count on any special treatment from him, but I still can’t get rid of the impression that the incident in the basement has affected Dorian’s behavior toward me. I feel like he’s ignoring me on purpose.
On Monday the May weather is beautiful, so I decide to pull out my dusty bicycle from the garage, wipe it down, pump the tires, and hit the road to work. The ride is easy; the only catch is the way back—after dark, which I don’t take into consideration when I mount my bike and head out.
When I leave work several hours later, the sun has already gone down. Murky clouds have covered the stars and the moon, making the night inky dark. The road is mostly lit by streetlights, but there are some stretches with limited visibility, and as I head to my place a hazy, ominous feeling accompanies me. Darkness always does that to me. To keep my mind busy and prevent my vivid imagination from kicking in, I listen to some upbeat music. I even start to sing. If there were any harassers in the area, they must be all gone; my shrieking would drive away even a deaf person.
The music is swirling in my head, and I get so lost in the rhythm flowing through my headphones that I don’t notice a pothole in the road. My front wheel falls into it with a crash and jerks me to a stop. In a split second, the world spins before my eyes as I fly over the handlebars. My left side slams against the asphalt. Acute pain shoots through my arm, taking my breath away.
For an instant, time seems to stop. I can’t register what’s just happened and how I wound up on the ground with the remains of my bike next to me. I sit upright. The streetlamp looming above me illuminates the useless remnants of my transportation. The front tire has blown, and the wheel is all bent out of shape; on top of that, the handlebars are twisted at an odd angle. This bike will need some serious repairing if I ever want to ride it again. My body feels like it’s bruised all over, and I can taste blood in my mouth. My brain slowly starts processing the course of events that have contributed to my current state. I had a bicycle crash. In a daze, I check myself to make sure that all my limbs are still attached. Since I don’t see three bikes, I can get up to move it off the road.
As soon as I try to lift myself up, the excruciating pain throbbing in my shoulder hits. I’m unable to get up. I need someone to get me out of here.
Unluckily, my cellphone is inside my purse, next to my bike, beyond my reach. I can only dream about dialing anybody’s number. I can’t even call 911.
God damn it!
I want to cry from pain and despair. There hasn’t been even a single car driving past me over the last couple of dragging minutes. This route is rarely frequented—in fact, that’s why I used it in the first place. I thought that the less traffic there was, the safer I’d be. In my wildest dreams I didn’t expect to have an accident. Now it dawns on me that the fewer travelers, the smaller the chance of me being rescued. In other words, I’m screwed.
My shoulder is clamoring for a painkiller. I squeeze my eyes and clench my jaw, as if that’s supposed to help me deal with the radiating pain. I flop onto my back and lie still. My breath is shallow. The accident must have been more serious than I initially thought.
I have no idea how much time has passed; I’m drifting in and out of consciousness. Maybe a minute, maybe two hours. When I finally see sky-blue eyes inches from my face, at first, I think that it’s just a hallucination caused by a blow to my head. Then I hear a familiar voice.
“Zara?!”
It’s Dorian.
“Am I dead?”
“You’re not dead, you just had an accident.” He helps me slowly sit up.
“What are you doing here?” I’m a little confused.
“I was passing by when I noticed someone lying on the ground with a broken bike next to them. That was enough to make me stop. It was only when I got closer that I recognized you.”
Of course. If there was anyone who’d choose this isolated piece of road to drive, that would be Dorian. It fits his persona perfectly.
“I should take you to the hospital; you might have broken something,” Dorian says, looking at me holding my shoulder.
“How long have I been here?” I rasp.
“I have no idea. You must have passed out. You need to be checked by a physician—let’s go.”
As he’s about to help me stand on my feet, I gently push his hand away. “Take me home, please. My aunt will take care of me. I don’t want to be a bother to you.”
“You’re not a bother.”
“I don’t even have all the documents on me now. I left them in my other purse.”
“You’re not being serious. You may have concussion. There’s no time to waste.” He gingerly sweeps me into his arms as easily as if I weighed nothing. I wrap my good arm around his neck.
“I truly hope you didn’t have any special feelings for that one,” Dorian says at the sight of what used to be my bike. From a distance it doesn’t look that bad, but when we’re two steps away, I notice more damages than just a blown-out tire and messed up handlebars. This thing is ready for the scrapheap.
To make matters worse, the contents of my purse are strewn all over the street. Dorian accidentally steps on the tampon that fell out of one of the compartments. I also find my cell phone with a smashed screen, some raspberry hand sanitizer, my wallet, and more junk.
“I’ll pick this up myself,” Dorian announces.
Only now that he’s carrying me to the car do I realize that the pain has greatly diminished. It doesn’t take away my will to live anymore. Maybe I’ll be fine without going to the hospital at all.
Dorian is holding me close. Aware of his strength and warmth, my body immediately reacts, and I slide my gaze down to his lips. He seems not to notice, or maybe he’s just ignoring it.
He places me in the backseat, buckles me up, and goes back to pick up my stuff. As I watch him through the windshield, I can’t shake the feeling that I do know him from somewhere other than the house next door. Even though we’re technically strangers, I know that I’m safe with him; there’s nothing to worry about when he’s close. It’s the third time he’d helped me in need now. Dorian
is my savior.
When he gets into the car, all the dizziness is gone. I can think clearly again.
“I actually don’t feel as bad as I thought. I can definitely go home first.”
Dorian turns in my direction and gives me a questioning look. “Are you sure? You didn’t look that good when I found you.”
“I’m sure.”
A shadow flits across Dorian’s face, his expression serious. “Are you scared of me?”
“Not at all, but I started to feel like I should be after the basement incident.”
“Just forget about it,” he says curtly.
How can I forget about something like that?!
“You’re intriguing, not scary, to me.”
“Intriguing,” he repeats slowly. “And you know what you are?”
“No, tell me.”
“You’re an enigma.”
At first, I think I misheard him. “Enigma? But there’s nothing mysterious about me. My life is boring.”
Something intense flares in Dorian’s gaze. “There’s more than you think.”
He turns on the engine, and we drive off in silence.
CHAPTER eight
The ride doesn’t last long, as my accident took place only three miles away from my house. Dorian helps me get out of the car. I wrap my arm around his neck again, but this time he slides his hand down my spine and helps me hobble along the pathway. Even though I’m injured, I still enjoy his solid frame.
The house is dark. There is no sign of anyone inside. Only now do I recall that Maddie’s out on a date with the new object of her desires, whereas my aunt is hanging out with one of her besties. Neither will be home within the next hour. My house is empty at the worst possible moment. But who could have predicted that I’d run into the only bump that exists on the Walgreens-Keizer road section and would need medical intervention?
“Damn it!” I cry in the foyer.
“I’ll say it again: I can take you to the hospital.”
I detest hospitals. I’ve given them a wide berth since my appendix surgery. It was such a traumatic experience for me that as an adult I’d need to be dying to show up in one—not to mention the fact that I’m wondering if my shoulder has already bounced back. The piercing pain that developed right after I ended up on the ground has calmed. Now I can only feel a slight pulsation in the injured area.
“I don’t know what to do. My shoulder is doing better. The pain seems to be fading.” I look at him. “Isn’t that weird?”
“Your body has produced a tremendous amount of adrenaline that’s probably dulling the pain. Besides, it’s not only your shoulder—are you sure you didn’t suffer a severe head trauma?” Dorian pauses and draws his eyebrows together. “Rita could examine you. She’s a registered nurse.”
“Why do you even care that much?” I ask suspiciously.
“I found you, so I want to make sure I didn’t drop you off at home with some severe brain damage and leave—but apparently you’re too stubborn to let someone help you.”
I feel bad and quit my sharp tone. “That’s very considerate of you, but it can’t be that serious. I don’t even have a headache.”
“Fair enough, then; I’ll see you around.” He waves his hand in farewell and opens the front door to leave.
“Wait!” I grab his shoulder. “I’ll go with you.”
Although I’m fine walking by myself, I lean against Dorian on the way to his place anyway. I enjoy his wide shoulders too much to let such an opportunity slip.
When we step inside, the first thing I do is look at my reflection in the horizontal mirror in their narrow hallway; even from afar, I almost scare myself to death. I can see multiple abrasions and bruises all over me, torn shorts, a dirty T-shirt, a cut lip, and a bleeding elbow.
No wonder Dorian couldn’t believe that I’m doing just fine.
“I was waiting for you.” I hear an antsy voice coming from the living room. It’s Rita.
“We have a visitor,” he says right away, as if he’s signaling to her to be alert and keep her mouth shut in case she says something I’m not allowed to hear.
“Zara!” Her tone becomes friendlier at once. “It’s so good to see you again.”
Her grin, though sweet, contains some odd quality. It seems like only her mouth smiles, not her eyes. I haven’t seen her for less than two weeks, but there’s something strange about her. Rita’s lost her vibrant charm. Her face is paler, and she has dark circles under her eyes. Her tension is almost palpable. I get the impression that she urgently needs to discuss something with Dorian, something that can’t wait, but my presence bars her from going ahead.
“Zara had an accident.”
“Oh my God,” Rita exclaims, looking at me more closely.
“I fell off my bike. All my relatives are out of the house and Dorian said you could help me determine whether or not I need some medical intervention.”
“You should’ve gone to the hospital straight away—you may have concussion!”
“Yeah, we’ve already gone over that,” Dorian says, and pulls me toward the couch. “Zara is very unwilling to be taken to the hospital unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
She keeps a poker face, but it’s visible to the naked eye that Rita is waging an inner struggle with herself. On the one hand she seems eager to help; on the other, I can’t help thinking that she’d love to ignore me and drag Dorian upstairs to talk to him about the issue that’s bothering her. If I’m able to notice her distress, so must Dorian. It’s obvious to me that he’s the only person who can put her mind at ease, yet I can’t see him doing anything to bring her relief. Instead, he sits down beside me and thoroughly checks out my face. He grasps my head with his hands and gently twists it left and right, inspecting me thoroughly.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“You have a quite deep scratch on your cheek.”
“It may leave a scar,” Rita says, marching to us. Apparently, she’s decided to bottle up her need to talk to Dorian for as long as I’m at their place. “I’ll be right back.” She strides out of the living room.
“I’m sorry for being so stubborn.”
“Stubborn is an understatement.” His hands release my face. “You’re a character.”
Dorian continues to study me. It seems like he can’t tear away his gaze from me. He’s closer than ever. A pleasant spasm runs down my spine. I slide my eyes from his blue eyes down to his lips and then further to his chest. Dorian’s black T-shirt, which perfectly highlights each muscle, triggers an avalanche of sinful thoughts in my head. In my attempt to resist them, I move my eyes back up to his neck, and then I notice it—a thin silver ball chain necklace. I can’t tell whether it has a pendant or not, because the bottom part of the necklace is underneath the T-shirt.
“You wear a necklace. Is it a memento?”
Dorian grabs a little rectangle that’s visible beneath the fabric as if he’s making sure it’s still safe on him.
“Yes and no.”
“What does that mean?”
Our eyes lock. I can’t escape the feeling that he’s looking into my soul, trying to spot something deep inside me. My body tingles.
“I didn’t receive it from anybody special, but it reminds me of something significant.”
“What’s that, if I may ask?” My eyes travel up to his full lips, which tease my imagination again. I’m curious to know how they taste.
“I can’t tell you that.”
Same old, same old, I think to myself with bitter disappointment. “Why are you so mysterious?”
“Don’t ask me any questions,” he commands. “It’s better this way.”
“Can I at least see the pendant?”
Dorian pulls out a flat silver rectangle, resembling a military tag.
“Can I take a closer look?”
“You can.”
I lean forward to have a better view. His pleasant, masculine scent hits my nostrils, sending a heat wave down
to my abdomen. I’d never mistake this smell for anything else.
I take the necklace in my hand. I can feel Dorian’s warm breath on my forehead while I examine the pendant cautiously with my curious eyes. It’s shiny and polished, and engraved with the number 2001.
“Does this number have a special meaning to you?”
“No.” He pulls away from me as though I just said something bad.
“Then why have it?” My gaze drifts to his face.
His eyes become hazy. “It’s just a random set of digits.”
Dorian squeezes it in his hand and places it back under the T-shirt, so I can’t look at it anymore. I’m sure that this is his way of discouraging me from asking further questions, but I’m not done yet.
“Didn’t you just say it was to remind you of something significant, though?”
“You don’t need to understand everything,” Dorian says with a taut face. I find his answer quite rude, but I strive to seem unfazed.
Eventually Rita reappears, clutching a first aid kit. She takes Dorian’s place beside me and shines a pen light into each of my eyes to check the reaction of my pupils, measures my blood pressure, and cleans the bleeding wounds with some stinging liquid.
“Did you lose consciousness?” she asks.
“I think so.”
“Do you have a headache or feel nauseous?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Rita regards my shoulder for a moment and then continues her interview. “I’m assuming that you fell onto your shoulder. You were holding it when I first saw you.”
“Yes.”
“Alright, let me take a look at it.” She pulls herself up to me. “The most common result of a fall is a clavicle fracture. You also might’ve dislocated it, but honestly if that were the case, you’d be writhing in pain right now.” She gently lifts my shoulder up and then adds more pressure at the end of the range of motion. “Does it hurt?”
“Not at all.”
“Okay.” She puts it back down. “Can you lie down, please?”