There was no security system, but I needed to enter it and walk through the rooms and halls alone. I needed my first experience of William’s home to be alone so I could give my emotions free rein to do what they needed so I could put on a mask of composure for Paul.
My hand shook as I turned the lock over and the rest of my body was shaking by the time I stepped foot inside. Nothing but the sound of the coo-coo clock down the hall was present. His scent, faint as it was from however long his absence had been, still permeated the air. I closed my eyes and took in a breath, wondering if I could spend the rest of my life doing this, knowing I’d be content if I could be with him no other way than this.
Reminding myself that Paul was waiting, I opened my eyes and glided down the hall, gazing at the pictures that were decorating the walls as the family’s house in Pacific City had been. His face—somber in some, smiling in most—filled me with happiness, although I’d not expected this emotion. I’d prepared myself for anguish, gut-wrenching pain at the very least, traversing through his home, but neither were present, giving me my first break I’d had of them in weeks.
The hall opened into a great room, a wall of windows showcasing the snow-dusted alps as the sun fell into them, painting the sky every shade of pink ranging from magenta to petal. I noticed the landscape for all of a second before my eyes were drawn to a mountain of newspapers sitting in the center of the room, one spread open where an article had been torn from it.
I came closer, my stomach twisting when I saw the name of the paper in the corner: The Santa Cruz Sentinel. The date was a couple years back and the missing article was the one featuring my state conference win in tennis. This is where William had found me—on his living room floor in the German Alps. Shakespeare would have been hard-pressed to create a more romantic notion.
A coffee cup, the liquid evaporated, but the dark rings telling that the liquid had been left in it, and a sesame bagel—no doubt buttered at one time, as was his favorite breakfast—were spread out over the carpet.
I let my imagination carry me back to the day he’d been here last, seeing him roaming from the kitchen to the living room, wearing his scrub bottoms and nothing on top, propping an elbow underneath him on the floor, taking a bite of his breakfast as he thumbed through the first paper on the stack. The image of him was so real I felt my hand reaching out, wanting to touch him, to feel his heart when he saw my picture staring back at him—waiting for him to come and save me from my life.
Only to have me tear his apart.
There was a tap on the door. “Everything alright in there, Bryn?”
The image of William spread on the floor before me hazed away. “Give me another sec,” I called out, rushing to the petrified picnic on the carpet. I grabbed up the dishes, along with the copy of the Sentinel, before racing into the kitchen and tucking them into the first cabinet I opened. Could I have tossed the months old bagel in the garbage? Yeah. Should I have? Absolutely. But there was some crazy part of me that couldn’t throw another piece of him away.
I peeked out the window above the sink to make sure Paul was staying put on the porch before dodging through the rest of the house, pulling down and collecting any of the framed photos that showed William. I wanted to stop and stare at each one, for at least an hour or two, but I could do that later. I left the rest of the photos out; Paul wouldn’t recognize any of the other Haywards.
I entered the first bedroom down the hall and slid the pictures underneath the bed, where Paul wouldn’t find them since I was claiming this as my room and, despite what Paul might hope or imagine happening, there was no way he’d be allowed in my room under any condition.
“Alright,” I yelled, closing the bedroom door behind me. “Come on in.”
“Ready or not, here I come,” Paul said, stepping through the entry. “Wow, this is some place.”
“Yeah, it will work, right?” I crossed my arms and leaned up against the wall.
“It will work?” he repeated, looking at me if I’d lost my mind. “Do you know how much you’d have to pay to stay in a place like this in such a primo location?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“Well I do and let’s just say it would deplete my rainy day fund in about three and a half hours.”
“Must be some fund,” I teased, remembering the money from my second and last night at the Rue St. Jersey. At least we’d have a meager buffer before I had to go out and figure out how to scrounge up some more.
“Well, baling hay for a couple months in the summer doesn’t exactly pay five bills a shift.” He looked at me with mock accusation. “Although since it didn’t require any leather-pant-wearing-coy-smiling-batting-my-lashes skill sets, I suppose that explains why.”
“I forgot how obnoxious you could be.” I smiled, casually browsing the pictures on the walls, ensuring there were none left with William in them. I don’t know what Paul would have done if he found out the place was William’s—although I expected a reaction stronger than displeasure and slighter than outrage—but I didn’t want the added stress of worrying about it. There was enough that needed explaining already.
“So why don’t you go take that hot shower,” Paul instructed, as if reading my mind. “I’ll make you a cup of coffee and then I’ll join you.”
“I also forgot how delusional you could be,” I hollered over my shoulder as I turned to walk down the hall.
“And I forgot how much of a tease you could be.”
“I take my coffee dark and strong.”
Paul laughed. “The opposite of how you prefer your men.”
“Ha, ha,” I said, slamming the bathroom door, hoping the water and steam could wash away so much more than sediment.
The reminders of William were everywhere; I don’t know why I thought by tearing down the pictures I’d be able to hide him away under a bed. From the way my damp hair smelled of his herbal-earthy scented shampoo to the blue scrub pajamas and white undershirt I had borrowed for pajamas, his presence clung to me at every turn—as if these inanimate objects would not allow me to forget him. “As ordered, Madame.” Paul swept out of the kitchen, a mug in his hand, wearing a familiar set of pajamas. “Hey, nice outfit,” he said. “It seems the doctor look is all the rage for this season.” He wore the precise outfit I was, although they fit him better than they did me. “I hope your friend doesn’t have some sort of communicable skin disease because I pulled these out of the laundry basket.” He handed me the mug. “Gross, I know, but slightly less gross than continuing to sport the clothes I’d been wearing two days straight.”
I took a sip of the coffee, trying not to think about Paul wearing the last thing William had when he was here. “So I suppose you’re ready for some answers?” I asked, knowing he wouldn’t let me stall for much longer.
“I thought you’d never ask.” He crossed the living room and whished a slider door open. “Grab a blanket and bring your coffee. It’s cold out here, but the air is so pure it’s doing a power-washing on my lungs from the damage that dive you worked at inflicted on them.”
“Great idea.” I grabbed the fleece blanket folded over the wooden rocking chair I somehow knew had been made by William—something in the details and the way it made my heart ache—and headed towards the door.
“I almost forgot,” Paul smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead before marching towards the kitchen. “I have stuff set aside for s’mores.”
“S’mores?”
“I’ve got a fire crackling out there for you,” he called from the kitchen before coming back into view with a plate loaded with stacks of graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate. “A little moooo-d lighting never hurt any man’s chances.”
I rolled my eyes and followed him out onto the balcony where a couple of lounge chairs were circling a fire-pit. “You’re going to ruin your dinner.”
“I have dessert before dinner and then I have dessert again after dinner,” he said, sounding proud of himself.
I plopped down onto the chair, wrapping the blanket around me. “With that kind of a diet, it makes it hard to get your protein in. Is that why you’ve lost so much weight?” I asked, trying to take a light-hearted approach to find out what was going on with Paul.
His face went flat and his voice was guarded when he answered, “Yeah, well . . . I heard that creatine made men lactate, so I just said no to muscle enhancers and milk production.”
He hadn’t fallen into my trap—I guess I’d have to be more direct.
He stabbed a marshmallow with a roasting stick and handed it to me. “No more about me. I want to hear about you and just what the heck happened back in Paris.”
I sighed, resting the marshmallow in the center of the flames instead of letting it brown gradually beside the embers. “Long version or short version?”
“Honest version.”
That was going to be difficult, considering I couldn’t tell the truth without mentioning things like Immortals, supernatural strength, and Alliances set on terrorizing one another.
“Starting with,”—Paul placed his marshmallow beside the embers—“why were you in Paris?”
I shrugged, sliding the charred mallow from the stick and throwing it over the balcony rail. “Change of scenery. Romantic notions. Impulsive. Take your pick,” I said, sounding blasé. “I didn’t really care where I went just as long as I ended up somewhere else . . . far away.”
“Did this need to get away have anything to do with him?”
I nodded, my throat too tight to respond.
“What happened—if you don’t mind me asking?” He handed me another marshmallow, but I shook my head. Judging from the line of questioning so far, I wasn’t going to be able to stomach food until the grand inquisition was complete.
“I do mind you asking, actually.” I pulled the blanket around me tighter and stared at the night sky where only a few stars were twinkling—I shivered when I saw William’s and mine flashing at me like a strobe.
“That’s not fair. You said I could ask you any question.”
“That’s right.” I turned my eyes from the sky and looked him hard in the eyes. “I said you could ask any question—not that I was going to answer all of them.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Fine. I don’t really want to hear anything about that schmuck anyways.”
I took a chug of coffee so I wouldn’t fire off what I wanted to say back.
“Who were the suits that seemed dead-set on killing me?” he asked, cracking his neck.
I took another drink of coffee, stalling. “They were from my past, sent to pay me back for something I’d done.”
“What did you do?”
“Something bad.”
“What?” he pressed.
I pressed my lips in a line and shook my head once.
He threw his hands in the air, tossing the roasting stick to the side. The mallow’s center oozed open. “Well, thank you sooooo much for all the enlightening information.” His voice was growing with each word.