As he approached the yard, I stepped toward the fence. He smiled when he saw me and slowed his pace. His chest heaved, and I found myself staring at it. From a distance it had been beautiful, but standing near enough to see droplets of sweat trickling down? Stunning didn’t even come close to describing him. He wasn’t what I would consider classically handsome. His nose seemed a little small on his face, and his deep-set brown eyes, the same shade as creamed coffee, were spaced just a little far apart. But taken as a whole, he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
“Good morning,” he called as he stopped, still jogging in place.
“Hi,” I replied, my voice breaking. “Hi,” I said again, a little stronger this time.
“Nice to finally meet you.” He held out his hand. “Charlie Carver.”
I stared at his hand for a moment before hesitantly reaching for it. His grip was warm and moist. He blushed, drew his hand back, and apologized for his damp grip, wiping his hand on his shorts.
We stood in awkward silence for another moment or two, Charlie glancing around the yard.
“You’ve got a really nice place here,” he said, his tone cheerful and bright. His feet stopped moving, and only the rise of his chest and the sheen of his skin told me that he’d been running just a few minutes before.
I found myself mesmerized by him. He reminded me of a stream of sunlight, coming into the window and falling into my chair, where it warmed me all afternoon.
“So…,” he said, “do you have a name, or am I supposed to guess it? Because I have to warn you, I’m not really good at things like that.”
His question jolted me out of my reverie and made me remember I was supposed to be uncomfortable in his presence. But I wasn’t. I mean, I could feel the twinges of nerves, and part of me still wanted to rush back into the house, but more of me actually felt okay with him.
“Oh, s-s-sorry,” I stammered. “Matt. Matt Bowers.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Matt Bowers.” He waved his hand, gesturing toward the property I worked hard to maintain. “You’ve got a great place here,” he repeated.
I could feel heat rising in my face at his compliment.
Then he aimed a lopsided smile at me, and everything froze. I found myself transported to another time, a different facial expression, and hearing once more the words that had been seared into my mind:You knew why we were coming out here. I couldn’t draw a breath, and Charlie’s expression morphed into a sneer. His beautiful face twisted into an ugly mask. I could see his mouth move but had no idea why. It didn’t matter, though.
I turned and ran for the house, slammed the door behind me, and bolted it. I hurried to the bathroom, where I dropped to my knees, ignoring the pain that jolted through my body, and stuck my head in the toilet bowl, expelling my breakfast.
The pounding at the door, and the voice calling my name, only served to heighten my anxiety. When the door jiggled, I screamed, and Charlie’s voice rose to a panicked level. He banged harder, but that door had been built to last. He wouldn’t get in that way.
My heart hammered, my lungs pleaded for air, and my body shook with remembered fear. I tried for short, slow breaths but found myself unable to calm my shattered nerves. My vision of this place as a safe haven, a place to heal, to find myself again, was gone in an instant. Once more, my fault. I’d let my guard down for a moment, the possibility of being what my mother and brother wanted—of beingnormal—seeming tantalizingly within reach. Then reality showed me the truth. That would never happen, and even trying wasted whatever energy had been expended on it.
It was actually a blessing when I passed out.
