Stella’s voice. Annie’s voice. Faraway songs.
Crystal-blue water morphing into the same colored eyes boring into mine.
She continues to shuffle in place. “Well, surprise. I’m real.” It looks like she’s about to do a little twirl to showcase her existence, but she stops herself.
Annie stares at me like I’m an otherworldly being. An alien, or a divine deity, or one of those sickishly pale Victorian-era children that show up in your dreams to warn you about impending doom.
I shake my head, dislodging the haze. “I don’t know how to thank you. For everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“You literally saved my life. And took care of my dog. And…” I glance around the tidy space. “Cleaned my house?”
She rubs her lips together and shrugs. “I did what any decent human being would do.”
“I kidnapped you. Stole your car. Probably gave you lifelong PTSD.” The puzzled frown deepens. “I don’t think most human beings would be so forgiving.”
“I mean, I can’t speak for the majority of the population, but I can speak for myself. I couldn’tnotdo those things. It’s not in my nature to stand by idly and watch someone drown. Self-inflicted or not,” she says softly, glancing away. “So, you’re welcome. Every one of us hits rock bottom at some point, and all we can do is hope someone is there to help pull us out. You just happened to steal the right car.”
Jesus.
I’m starting to question if she’s real again. A metallic buzzing whirrs between my ears, causing my temples to pound.
I don’t respond; I don’t know how to.
As the silence stretches, I watch as she peers over at the wall I’m leaning against, her attention skimming the four guitars propped up against it. Guitars I’ve built. She blinks at them, taking in the hand-carved bodies and colorful lacquers. “Do you play? Or just build them?” she wonders.
I stuff my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. “I play. It’s just a hobby.”
“My brother plays too. He’s good. Really good.” She snags her lip between her teeth, chewing on it. “Tag. I think you met him briefly that night.”
“Yeah.”
The doo-wop guy. Old-school music seeped from the car when he hopped out of the driver’s seat and joined me at the entrance. He looked more like a grungy rocker than someone with a sixties playlist, but I’m not one to judge.
“It’s his dream to start a band one day and tour the world. He does a few solo gigs around town. Breweries, coffee shops. Mostly covers.”
I analyze her, wondering where she’s going with that.
“You should come watch him play sometime.”
“Um…” I send her a quick headshake, the offer seeping in like half-set grout.
She laughs lightly, embarrassed. “Sorry. That was weird.”
“A little. Mostly because I suspect your brother wants me dead.”
“Maybe, but that’s fixable.”
My head tilts to the side as I try to read her pale-sky eyes shimmering with uncertainty. Or maybe it’s certainty. It’s like she truly believes fate intervened that night and we were meant to cross paths. And now she wants to summon me into her social circle. Her life.
“I’m not much of a people person these days,” I admit, lifting from the wall. I half limp over to the couch and collapse with a pained exhale. “And you realize I’m kind of a felon, right?”
Her nose scrunches. “Are you, though? In the eyes of the law? We never reported the car stolen. I convinced my brother to tell the cops I drove you willingly.”
“Still struggling to understand that.”
“You don’t need to understand. It is what it is. You had enough on your plate, death being at the forefront.”
