The Uber pulls into a short driveway; a little cottage is nestled at the end, with trees looming over the sides and all around the back.
I thank the driver and watch as her taillights disappear before turning toward Nathaniel’s home. It’s quaint and quiet, with only the sound of owls hooting and insects chirping in the distance.
Dragging my suitcase up the dirt driveway, breathing in the scent of fresh rain and pine needles. I can imagine sitting on the small front porch, watching the deer roam or the sun set. Can you see a sunset here?
The front door is locked as I reach it, and I hope desperately that the back door is open; otherwise, I’ll be forced to check all the windows.
The backyard is large, fading into a tree line in the distance. I can see a stack of logs, as if Nathaniel frequents this space to cut his own firewood or something. Why is that thought so alluring?
Wildflowers grow along the edges of the trees, and I take a moment to admire them before I attempt the back door.
As if luck is on my side today, the handle turns easily, revealing a small room stacked with boots, tools, and a corner with a washing machine and its matching dryer.
I set my carry-on by the loose pairs of boots, making my way into what appears to be a hallway. On my right is an open door, revealing a small bathroom. On my left is what I imagine to be the only bedroom here, but the door is firmly shut.
I walk out of the hallway and into an open front space, the left side carpeted and holding a decent-sized couch, a fireplace, and a TV mounted above it. A small coffee table is sitting in front of the couch, holding a singular candle. Stepping forward, I read the label.
Apples and Cinnamon. How cute.
To the right of the space is a kitchen, the floor checkered in tan-brown and white, with a small stove, a couple of needed appliances, and a table that juts out right next to the front door that’s right in front of me.
The cottage is small, but it’s homey. I can see why Nathaniel picked it—why he likes it.
He does like it, right? A part of me wants to ask, but the other part knows I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t give a single fuckwhatthat psycho likes.
Leaving my things by the back door, I plop down onto Nathaniel’s couch, suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of him. And of course, the smell of him reminds me of thetasteof him, and I’m soon willing myself not to get hard. To remember why I’m here.
I’ve decided—though my lustful brain might be a factor in it—that if it benefits me tonight, I’ll let him touch me.
And fuck, I bet it’ll feelsogood. Not only is he clearly capable with those demanding hands of his, but older men have more experience. They’re more generous with the pleasure they give.
My feet tap against the carpet, the storm raging outside at this point, giving the room plenty of dark shadows to stare into. My eyes trace the walls, and after a moment, I realize there isn’t a singular picture in sight.
Is Nathaniel not close with his family? He’s clearly not married, but he has to havesomeonein his life, right?
The thought makes me kind of sad.
I really don’t understand this man. I want to know why he’s so obsessed with my gift when he clearly doesn’t want it for himself, the way my father once mentioned someone might. The way my uncle warned me, saying that one day, someone might lock me up for good, ready to take advantage of any power I could give them.
But Nathaniel? He seems bothered, appalled even by my coercion.
He’s also the only one whoknowsabout it, outside of my family. Not even Julian or Susie, whom I’ve known forever, know every inch of me. I’ve kept my gift and the sadness inside of me a secret for so long that I wonder how many people on this earth will ever truly understand me.
And suddenly, in the dark shadows of this secluded cottage, I feel lonely. An overwhelming, sick loneliness that makes the darkness inside of me swell up and crest, threatening a whole bunch of terrible ideas and desires.
I want to pinpoint this sorrow that feeds off of every negative experience I have, but I simply can’t. I don’t think I’ll ever achieve it. The urge to cry builds up in my throat, but I shove it down, just as I’ve long become accustomed to doing.
But then a loud, roaring engine disrupts the peace of the cottage, and I can hear Nathaniel’s bike as he closes in.
The darkness retreats, making room for my excitement as the sound of boots against the wet ground makes my heart pound.My palms become sweaty as I sit neatly on the couch with my legs crossed and my arms laid out across the back cushions.
As if nothing was ever wrong.
A key turns the lock of the door, dreary light bleeding in momentarily before he shuts it behind himself.
As if he’s teasing me on purpose, Nathaniel slowly removes his helmet, like he’s just remembered it’s on, dripping wet as he places the protective wear and his backpack onto the counter next to him.
He sighs, resting his palms on the surface as his shoulders sag, his hair dry despite the rain. He looks defeated.
