by Teri Harman
Finally, she cleared her throat. “Well, I can’t wait another second for some of Estelle’s fresh donuts. We better get to the bakery before she sells out.”
Henry nodded, still not looking at her, and followed as she continued down the sidewalk. When she wasn’t looking, he glanced over his shoulder. Matilda sat on the steps of the library, eating her lunch and watching him. Their eyes met, held for half a breath. At the same moment they looked away.
n
In the gauze of sleep, the pain always returned with a ferocity that left Henry sweating and breathless. Tangled in his sheet, he dreamed the thing he often did, the details vague, cloudy, but the pain blindingly real. He might have been in a car—it felt like a car—but it was so hard to tell through the coagulated gray shadows. Everything looked blurry, like seeing through murky water, shapes distorted, possibly imagined. Someone was crying, another yelling. Was it him? Maybe. The voices meshed into a discordant, warbling fog.
Besides the hot pain ravaging his body, Henry felt a paralyzing need to help someone. As white and burning as the sun, that need. But who and how? Was there someone with him or was he alone? Despite the pain, he managed to reach out his hand. There was a tremor of heat, like a body just under his palm … and then he woke.
Ripped away.
Henry blinked at his ceiling, gasping. “Leave me alone,” he whispered. “Leave me alone!” Parched, he untangled his legs from the sheet and got out of bed. He threw his soaked shirt to the floor, content to let the cool air-conditioned air assault his moist skin. He gulped down a glass of water, his heart still pounding. He set the glass down on the white quartz and pressed his palms flat to the surface. Leaning forward, weight into his hands, he let his head drop between his shoulders.
He’d never had nightmares as a kid, a point his foster parents always remarked on. The other kids often woke screaming, crying, and shaking, but never Henry. Was it because he didn’t want to be yelled at or punished for one more thing? Or was it because sleep was a refuge? His waking hours were hard enough, and sleep was his only peaceful escape. Whether deliberately or subconsciously, he never let the horrors of the day follow him into his bed. What few dreams he remembered having as a child were of space and nature and books. Loving words, freely given affection.
His first nightmare came the first night he slept at Abby’s house. That nightmare felt like the worst kind of betrayal, his own mind causing such fear. Twisted and wrong. In those sweaty, breathless moments after his first nightmare, Henry had wished for the days of his childhood, something he’d never done before.
The dream was always the same; since that night, it never varied. And the shock of it always equally debilitating.
Leaving the kitchen, Henry crossed to his new bookshelf and sat on the floor. He leaned back into the shelves, feeling the wood press into his back high and low, jabbing into his muscles. He let his legs flop out in front, his arms hang limp. Closing his eyes, Henry breathed in the scent of the pages. One … two … three … four. After twenty-five deep breaths, his heart had finally returned to normal pace.
Silence hovered in his apartment. Light from the moon and streetlights cut through the blinds in jagged lines. The space felt enormous; it felt like a coffin crushed by two tons of earth. The loneliness made him crazy.
Henry pushed up to his feet. His hand was on the doorknob before he stopped himself. I can’t. I can’t. He wanted to go to Matilda. It’d been a week since the night of the storm and he felt every minute of that space. The idea of walking down the sidewalk to her house felt so real in his head he could almost smell the basil in her garden.
He backed away from the door, dragging his hands through his hair.
The green glow of the clock on the oven caught his attention. Only two-twenty. Go back to bed! Henry’s gaze moved over the rumpled bed, the windows, and settled on his typewriter. He walked to it. Proof of his last dalliance with the machine still lay curved back over the platen, relaxed and glowing, like a woman fallen asleep. In the light, the paper was the color of Matilda’s skin, the typewriter her black hair. He blushed at the comparison and shook his head, feeling delirious.
Henry pulled the paper from the machine, turned it upside down on the desk. He moved to turn away, but couldn’t. He sat, put a new sheet of paper in the typewriter. The silence swelled, the machine pulsed with demanding potential. The words, how quickly they came.
If I stand close to you, the air trembles. It begs me to stand closer. My body demands to be closer to yours, to feel your spiraling heat, to taste your caramel skin. To be lost inside you for a million years.
It wouldn’t be enough, those years.
It is impossible not to touch you.
Yet my fingers have known only one ephemeral moment of connection. Is it selfish to think of you next to me, to imagine the sound of your sigh? It’s easy to be selfish alone here in the dead of night. It’s simple to imagine there are no obstacles in our way, that the rising sun will evaporate the complications of the past.
It’s easy to type these words in the privacy of the darkness. Just secret yearnings between me and the keys.
This desire feels like a harbinger.
What news will it bring?
What future does it foretell?
Henry pushed away from the desk with a pitiful groan. Body flushed with heat, desire so carefully kept at bay let loose. His chest hurt. He couldn’t be here another moment; he couldn’t be where he wanted to.
Henry threw on some shoes and a shirt and fled.
Matilda
Matilda looked down at the fourth letter. Her heart was racing, her mind spinning. The air in the living room was warm.
Stop it. Stop doing this.
She felt the sensual words in the space behind her heart; she felt them humming in her hips. She felt her hold on reality slipping away.
Hot anger rushed up her throat and she screamed, shattering the nighttime silence. She roughly threw the paper, which fluttered weakly and unsatisfactorily to the floor. She picked up her copy of A Thousand Sleepless Nights, which she’d left next to the typewriter, and threw it across the room too. It slammed into the front picture window and thudded to the floor.
Matilda closed her eyes, regretting her anger, but not knowing how else to feel. Determined to act, even if futile, she sat on the couch and faced the typewriter. Her hands lifted to the keys.
Who are you?
She typed the words and held her breath. Everything in the room seemed to pause and lean in to watch the keys. Waiting.
A minute ticked by. Another. Five.
Nothing came.
Something in Matilda’s chest deflated. Expecting an answer was pure craziness, but what it meant that there was none was worse. I’m making this up. It’s all in my head.
Matilda lifted her eyes and looked desperately around the room.
What do I do?
She thought of going to Dr. Wells.
She thought of going to Parker and Thea.
What would happen?
Matilda leaned forward, wanting again to cry out in agony. “Jetty,” she whispered.
A sound made her startle and look up. Was that movement in the corner?
Heart now racing uncontrollably, Matilda felt dizzy, scared. I’m hallucinating. She looked frantically around the room, her blood pressure so high she could feel the rush of blood in her wrists and throat.
Stop it. Calm down.
Calm down.
Another movement just out of her line of sight. She choked on a scream.
“Tilly?”
Matilda jumped up and spun around.
Jetty stood in the corner, near the window, hidden in shadow.
Matilda blinked. “Jetty?” she breathed.
Jetty smiled.
Matilda turned and ran.
Henry
Henry walked along the dark streets until the pain in his ankle brought tears to his eyes. He wished he could run, fast, until his lungs burned. Walking was no
t fast enough. Despite the movement, his blood was still saturated with Matilda, the need to go to her as strong as before. He jerked to a stop outside of town, along a lonely road flanked by sapling cornfields. Crickets sang, fireflies glowed.
Hands on knees, dragging air into his lungs, Henry closed his eyes and scolded himself. You’re broken. Stop it. You can’t have her. Why would she want you? You have nothing to offer but problems. Nightmares, panic attacks, and an orphan’s emptiness.
Abby’s words came back to him to argue with his own lecture. Sometimes it takes someone else to heal our pain. Sometimes we can’t do it alone. He had always healed himself, or at least tried. No parents, no siblings, not even a childhood best friend, made him a solitary figure. Before Abby, there’d been no one, at least no one he could remember. But Abby was still a friend, kept at a comfortable distance as friends always are. But a woman, a lover, a partner, a wife—that required an opening of the soul, exposure to the deepest levels. Or at least it should. True love demands it; love that lasts requires it. He wanted to write down the words.
Henry stood up, his chest still heaving hard.
Is that what I want from Matilda? Love?
He shook his head, embarrassed at such a gigantic leap. I don’t know her. Attraction is one thing … love is another. I’m not in love. Stop it.
Legs unsteady, knees nearly giving way, Henry turned and walked slowly back toward home.
Matilda
Matilda stumbled out of the house and jumped onto her bike. She needed to move fast. She needed to not have seen Jetty’s ghost or created letters on a typewriter she didn’t know why she had.
Lost in her bike-daze, Matilda didn’t see the figure walking in her path until it was too late. Two feet, long legs. Instant panic. Startled, she overcorrected, jerking the bike hard to the right. The wheels caught a patch of gravel, spun, and then stuck. She and the bike went down hard.
Matilda heard a male voice swear. She lay tangled in metal, looking up at the stars. Pain at her knee and elbow told her she had some nasty road rash. She thought, I’m not wearing my helmet. And then, I don’t have control of my own mind.
“Are you okay? I’m so—Matilda?”
Matilda lifted her head. “Henry!” She dropped her head back to the road. Her heart suddenly flying, making her scrapes throb all the more. Henry? Really?
He dropped to a knee beside her, lifting the bike off her body. “Are you hurt?” he said quietly, and with such soft tenderness Matilda felt an ache rise in her chest.
“I’m okay. Just some scrapes.” She sat up to inspect her wounds. “What are you doing out here? It’s the middle of the night!”
In the shadowy light, she saw him smile and found herself staring, wishing she could see his freckles better. His hair was wet, spiking out in all directions. He smelled of sweat, metallic and sharp, like a child come in from the playground.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Went for a walk. Guess I got lost in my thoughts. Didn’t see you coming. Sorry about that.” He smiled again and Matilda leaned forward automatically, drawn into him. “What’s your excuse?” he added.
She thought of Jetty’s figure in the corner and looked away from him. “About the same, I guess.” Her eyes dropped to her right knee. A large section was raw and red, already oozing. Bending the knee slightly made her wince.
“That’s pretty nasty.” Henry bent closer to her leg, she stiffened. His eyes moved to her other leg. “Looks like you’ve had worse, though.” He pointed to the jagged line on her left shin. Matilda’s hand instinctively went to cover it. She looked away, unable to call up words to explain the scar.
After a beat of awkwardness, he said, “I’ll help you home.” Henry stood and held out a hand. Like the rest of him, his fingers were long, his palm milky white and deeply lined.
Matilda started to reach up for his hand and then stopped herself. No matter how fate wanted to push them together, she refused to give in. “I got it,” she mumbled as she pushed herself up to her feet. Henry nodded, stepped aside. He lifted the bike, hands on the handlebars, ready to push it. “I can do it,” Matilda started.
“Don’t be stubborn. I’ll walk you home.” He smiled at her like he knew something about her. Like he knew her.
She blinked, unsettled, but chose not to protest again. “Okay,” she said and started to walk. Her knee stung, her elbow throbbed, but she tried not to let the pain show. She felt Henry watching her, but didn’t return his gaze.
“We could leave the bike.”
She looked over. “What?”
His eyes moved to her bleeding knee and limp, worsened by the fresh injuries. “I could carry you instead.”
A flash of heat moved down from her head to the soles of her feet. An image of her cradled in his arms, head leaning against his chest invaded her mind. “I’m fine, thanks,” she said stiffly.
“Okay,” he said easily, looking forward. After a moment of silence, filled only with the click of her bike wheels, he added, “How’s your garden? Did we save it?”
Another flash of heat from head to toe, accompanied by the feeling of his hand on her hair. She looked down at her hands. “Yeah, it’s fine. Thanks.”
He didn’t say anything immediately. She sensed tension in him. Looking up, she saw his jaw working, a flush on his neck. “I’m sorry …” he started.
“It’s fine,” she interrupted. They could not talk about it. Talking about it made it more real between them. Change the subject! “Are you enjoying your job?”
The tension in his face eased. He flicked a look her way and then back to the road. “Yeah, it’s good.”
“I saw your first issue. Really well done.”
“Thanks. It’s not the kind of writing I’m used to, but I’ll get better at it. And it’s a good job. I like working alone.” Henry blinked as if he hadn’t meant to reveal such a personal detail. He cleared his throat. “Abby said you moved away for a long time and just came back. How’s that going?”
Maybe it was the comfort of the dark or the pain clouding her mind, but Matilda said, “It’s been really hard, actually.”
Henry looked over, surprise and understanding in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Matilda looked away from his sympathy. “How’s your foot? Did you break it?”
“No. Bad sprain. It’s driving me crazy.” His hands flexed on the handlebars briefly before he looked up, smiling.
Matilda started to smile back and then stopped. She took a long breath. “Where did you move from?”
“Detroit,” Henry answered quietly. There was a weight to the word, emotions. And something in her gut twisted.
“Do you like it here?”
Henry met her eyes. “I’m not sure yet.”
Matilda nodded at his honesty, looked down the road. “What do you usually write?” Henry looked confused and she added. “You said you don’t normally write for newspapers. What do you write?” Even in the gray darkness she saw the blush flare on his cheeks. A strange energy filled the air.
For a moment, he didn’t speak and his hands flexed and released on the handlebars several times. “I have a PhD in creative writing, so fiction mostly. But nothing important or noteworthy.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “A PhD? And you’re here, doing the newspaper? Why?”
Henry shook his head. “Just needed some peace and quiet.” He swallowed hard and quickly added, “How’s your knee doing?”
Matilda tried to read the expression on his face. “It’s fine,” she mumbled. They walked on in silence for a moment and she realized they were already at her driveway. She studied the shape of the house and wished she didn’t have to go inside. They walked to the garage. Henry put her bike against the wall, wedged in next to the orange Beetle.
“Thanks,” she said, trying not to look directly at him, to ignore the need of her neck to lift up to see his face.
He shut the garage door, brushed off his hands. Matilda stepped onto the grass in the backya
rd and Henry stayed on the driveway, leaving a few feet between them. The space cried out a complaint. She fiddled with her hands, not knowing what to say or do.
Henry folded his arms, eyes toward the garden. “Can I help you with your battle wounds?” He gestured to her knee and took a step closer.
Matilda stepped back. Pain flickered over his face. “No, thank you,” she said softly.
Henry looked past her at the back door. “Matilda, I really do want to apologize for—”
“You don’t have to.”
“But I …”
“I know. Me too. It’s fine.” How many times had she said that word tonight? Fine. Fine. Such a false word.
Henry folded his arms again, frowned. “Okay.”
Awkwardness radiated from them both. Matilda sighed. “Henry,” her voice caught on his name and she hurried on to hide it, “I don’t know why we keep running into each other, but I … I’m not … I can’t …” She pushed her lips together. Shut up. She forced herself to look up at him, to gauge his perception of her. Her breath caught. He looked at her with a tremulous intensity, that same look he’d given her in the kitchen on the night of the storm. She found certainty and doubt in that look, strength and weakness. Mostly she saw hazardous want.
Henry stepped closer, closing the gap between them. He held her eyes for a moment; her skin was on fire. His face flushed red under his freckles, his jaw working, but no words coming out. Finally, he exhaled and said, “I know. I understand. Me too.” He stepped back. Matilda almost reached for him. He cleared his throat. “Did you ever finish The Silence of the Lambs?”
She blinked, the question both surprising and somehow so natural. “Yes. I loved it.”
“Me too.” He looked away and ran a hand back through his messy hair. “Did you hate Hannibal?”
“No. I sort of fell in love with him.”
He smiled. “Yeah, pretty genius of Harris.”
She smiled back. “Amazing.” Matilda stopped herself from going to him, hurt radiating through her chest.
“Good night, Matilda. Sorry again about the bike crash. Maybe we should both sleep at night from now on.” He gave another weak smile.