Wrung Out
Brandon
I step out of the Audi, surveying the row of pastel-coloured cottages. Roses stretch between my place and the pink house next door, freshly watered if the droplets are anything to go by. I allowed Barbara and Rupert to plant some in my front garden too, on the strict condition that none were red. No sign of the said neighbours, thankfully—though I’m sure they’ve spotted me.
I forbade them from visiting on Lily-Anne’s first day, asking that they give her time to settle in. I know they’re counting the seconds.
I glance up at my blue cottage as I shut the car door, its white trim bright in the afternoon sun. It feels different today, knowing there’s a woman inside.
The thought lingers as I pull off my wellies and leave them in the boot, not wanting to drag half the estuary with me. The socks beneath them are still damp from the tide, so I tug on the sandals I keep for such occasions and head up the path. I’m still wearing my yellow waterproof overalls over my clothes. It’s a ridiculous colour to anyone who’s never worked the docks, but I’ve never minded. The lads all fought over the grey and camo ones when the order came in, but I took these. It’s all the same to me.
I half expect to find Lily-Anne at the dining table, the way I saw her last night when I bid her goodnight, but there’s no sign of her.
Probably for the best. I’m not sure I’d want her to see me like this, socks squelching and bright yellow oilskins streaked with mud. Still, a flicker of disappointment sneaks in before I can stop it. Foolish.
As I pass the stairs, a sound stops me—the faint, unmistakable resonance of a guitar being strummed. Just once, drifting from upstairs. I hold my breath, waiting for more, but all is silent, heavier than before. She stopped.
I head through to my en suite and strip down for a shower, the sting of hot water biting pleasantly at my chilled skin.
All I can think about is that single fragile chord echoing down the stairwell, disturbing the cottage’s silence.
I’d like to hear her play more.
What would it sound like to have her music bloom in the empty space? It’s something I didn’t realise I was waiting for.
I shouldn’t be thinking of her at all.I shut off the water in irritation and rake a hand through my hair, shaking the droplets from my face. It’s going to take some getting used to, having her here.
I towel off. By the time I’m freshly shaved before the fogged mirror, I feel almost human again. I pull on a pair of dark jeans and a pale blue button-up in soft cotton, which I tuck loosely and roll the sleeves to the elbow. Comfortable. Unpretentious.
Still making an effort, though God knows why.
That’s when I hear it—a rhythmic beeping from down the hall.
Frowning, I follow the sound to the washing machine and crouch down. The cycle light blinks accusingly. I tug open the door, and a rush of steam and damp air escapes, carrying the scent of fabric softener and something distinctly hers. Her sodden green cardigan slumps against the drum in a puddle.
“Of course you would embarrass me in front of our guest,” I mutter to the machine.
It’s never handled light loads well, nor heavy ones. Or regular ones, for that matter. A temperamental old beast, like most things were when I bought this house.
There are no traces of soap, at least. As usual, it’s just the spin cycle that’s failed. I consider resetting it, but with a load this small, it’s easy enough to wring out and hang on the clothesline.
Or so I intend to do as I pull the cardigan free, until a slash of red fabric catches my eye.
I freeze.
Lace, snagged on a button. Bright, even in the dim light of the hall. I reach for it carefully, but the material catches on my fingertips, soft and intricate.
Disoriented, I stare at it a moment too long. Lingerie.
It’s unexpected and private, and my body reacts before my thoughts cancatch up. Something flares, deep and low—heat I shouldn’t feel, but do.
Then the lace slips free, the rest of the garment unfurling between my hands. Not lingerie at all. A scarlet dress.
I hold it out in front of me, as though it poses some sort of threat.
“Oh my,” says a familiar voice. Nova’s perched on the edge of the washing machine, slender legs crossed, voice dripping with amusement and sarcasm.“A dress. How risqué.”She cackles.
I stare at the red fabric pooling from my hands like liquid.
