Mom and Dad moved away a few years ago, selling our house in town and taking their chances on the East Coast. When they did, I bought this cottage—no more than an abandoned shithole—and turned it into my own sanctuary.
“Fine. I still don’t go into town much, but I’m sure it’s the same.”
I slide on a pair of basketball shorts and run a hand through my hair. Presentable enough—considering I won’t be going anywhere. Again.
“You need to get out there. I know your…conditionmakes it hard to socialize, but you need to interact with others. I don’t want my son turning into a serial killer.”
“Mom,” I groan, making my way into the kitchen to cook breakfast. “I’m not a serial killer. And I have Marissa. I’m fine.”
My mother once again scoffs.“Marissa isn’t even in North Dakota; she doesn’t count. And you may not be a serial killer yet, but secluding yourself like this will eventually lead to—”
There is a sharp knock at the front door. Three in quick succession, and then silence. I am now familiar with that knock; this is the third time I’ve heard it.
“What was that?” Mom asks, having heard the loud banging through the receiver.
“Someone’s at the door. Let me call you back,” I tell her.
“Who? A friend? A girlfriend? Oh, Row, are you—”
Another knock begins to sound throughout the house as I make my way to the front door, so I cut my mother off before she holds me hostage any longer.
“Mom, I love you. Call you later.” Then I hang up the phone. I slip it into my pocket before I unlock the deadbolt and open the large oak door.
Benjamin, torn so sweetly from my dream, is replaced in reality by Elijah—standing there in the morning light, as infuriatingly alive as he had been in my fantasies.
He stands before me in black jeans and a blush-pink button-up, his blond hair messy where it falls over his forehead and around his head in that same resemblance to a halo I saw the first time we met and every time I close my eyes.
Little curls spread vicariously throughout as if his genetics just couldn’t decide which way they wanted to lean.
That is the only thing that separates him from the version of himself that lives in my head. His hair is a bit curly in real life.
Those hazel eyes find mine, and just like both times before, I want to cry. I so desperately wish to understand why these emotions heighten and rise to the surface, only to course through me at the sight of him. How they can conflict and yet synchronize so seamlessly.
And then there is that nagging feeling—that longing that burns in the pit of my stomach and revolves around the thought of him.
“Good morning, Rowan,” Elijah greets, and it takes me far too long to notice the coffee he has extended to me. How am I meant to see it when he’s smiling like that? As if he’s taken the entire sun from the sky and swallowed it, only allowing its rays to warm the earth when he deems a smile necessary?
“Oh, no thanks,” I decline, staring at the cup. Not only do I not fully understand nor trust his existence in front of me, but accepting anything from him implies a level of familiarity I am not agreeing to—no matter how hard he pushes.
“No worries,” he says, brushing the rejection off as if he expected it and the coffee was just a formality. As he grins, two little dimples cave into his cheeks, and I find I have a great desire to lean in and shove my thumbs into them as I do so frequently in my mind.
I don’t, of course. I’m not crazy.
“Can I help you?”
Elijah nods. “Do you have time for an interview today?”
“No,” I answer, quick and to the point. He is fucking relentless. I’d admire it if it wasn’t interrupting my breakfast—
Oh shit. Wait a second.
I look down at my left hand, finding that yes, I am still holding the spatula I was utilizing before he knocked. But even worse than that is that in the heat of the moment—and trying to get my mother off the phone—I seemingly forgot to put clothes on.
As the fall breeze filters in from the outside, I can feel my nipples puckering now that I’ve become aware of theirvulnerability. Elijah, it seems, notices this too; his eyes zero in on my chest briefly. He swallows thickly, returning his gaze to mine.
“Ah, okay,” he starts, voice unsteady. I can see the flush working its way over his face and into his hairline. “I’ll come back tomorrow, then.”
For some reason, I want to hear more of his voice. I want to see more of this flustered, unsure expression. I crave the feeling of this desperation and familiarity I have washing over me.
