Keith’s surprise quickly morphs to something bordering on skepticism. With his long sleeves rolled up, his dark blond hair tousled, and his dark eyes gleaming over at least one day’s worth of beard growth, he sizes me up from head to toe. “Miss Thorne.” He gestures to the other side of the booth. “It would be an honor.”
“Why so formal?” I ask as I step up and sit.
He eyes my glass. “How many of those have you had?”
“Not enough to make life go away.”
“Is that your goal?”
I feel the warm prickle of tears behind my eyes. “It’s been a shitty few days.”
Keith lifts his beer mug which, based on the lack offrost, he’s been nursing for a while. “Here’s to shitty days in Blue Gil.”
My cheeks rise as our glasses clink. “Have you found them?”
“Shitty days?” he asks. “Plenty.”
“No, the truths we came to find. The ones that required our presence to discover.”
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Sunshine assaults my eyes, my temples throb, and my mouth feels as though it’s filled with cotton. I roll on the bed, burying my face in the pillow, wondering why I hadn’t closed the blinds before falling asleep last night. The sheets where I roll are cool upon my exposed skin.
The memories of the night before return in snippets, splices of movie film discarded on the director’s floor. Typically, those are the scenes that are no longer wanted, and in my whisky-soaked recollections, I too wish they could be discarded.
The question remains, who were my witnesses? Who saw me in a state I can’t quite recall?
I remember both Theo and then Keith.
Quickly, I sit up, throw back the blankets, and inspect myself. I’m wearing the same shirt from yesterday, as well as my bra and underwear. After a quick visual search of the room, I see my blue jeans, socks, and boots neatly piled upon a chair beside the dresser. I’m not a slob, but Iam also not someone who folds dirty clothes. I didn’t place my things there, and I’m almost certain I didn’t put myself to bed.
I remember...
Falling back against the pillow, I try to connect the pieces of a puzzle. The border is there—the edge of each vision—yet the middle is missing, resulting in gaping black holes where once time stood.
With slow, determined steps to not upset the delicate balance of my headache and twisting stomach, I make my way out of the bedroom, pulling the door open. I peer out into the living room. The couch is empty, and with another peek, I find, so is the spare bedroom. One last glance in the room I recently left confirms that I was also in there alone.
In the bathroom, I take care of business and then splash cool water on my face before bending down to slurp water directly from the faucet. I rinse, spit, and rinse again. Eventually, the dryness subsides and rinsing becomes drinking—copious amounts of water.
My body is a desert in need of a torrential rain.
Inspecting my face and neck, my fingertips brush a reddened area. The skin is slightly tender below my touch. Perhaps it’s hives and I’m developing an allergy to Blue Gil. Or the more likely possibility is that my flesh is tender from the abrasion of facial hair.
Squinting my eyes, I think back to Theo. Despite his attempt to break free from his father’s status, he comes across as relatively clean-cut. He has a few tattoos peeking from below his sleeves, but as I recall, his face was cleanly shaven.
And then there is Keith.
I have recollections of a car—no, his truck—parked behind the cottages.
My eyes close, but the images refuse to go away.
The awkwardness of the bucket seats.
A gearshift.
Surrounded by darkness as the windows fogged.
