October comes, and unhurried weeks pass, filled with more adventures together, seasonal coffee creamer, homemade dinners, and even another trip to the garage to fix a headlight that went out. I called my parents this past Thursday evening and told them how well I was doing on my own. I think they were proud. My mom has even stopped making jokes about me coming home. I feel like I’ve got my shit together. Finally.
Now, it’s Saturday morning, and I’m downstairs on the couch, sipping the coffee I successfully brewed for us, while Dylan sleeps in. There was another bad storm last night—a nor’easter, I was told—and the bulb went out in the lighthouse, so he was up throughout the night, monitoring everything.
He tried to get up with me this morning after we found each other under the sheets, making me cry out his name as I came on his eager tongue again. But I only kissed him on the cheek and told him to stay put. The rain was still battering down against the windows, and the sound was so peaceful, lulling him back to sleep.
I grabbedThe Giverfrom his nightstand and made my way downstairs. Now, I’m on the couch, the fire in front of me roaring and toasty, and the fleece blanket that’s always placed on the back of the couch is wrapped around my legs. I want him rested when we talk because we’re only a couple of weeks from the fateful storm.
The twenty-third lands on a Thursday, so I’ve gone and booked that day and the Friday off. However this goes, I knew I was going to need an extra-long weekend. I told Priya that I was going away with my mystery man, and she was so excited for me. I wished so badly I could tell her the truth, but I can’t bring myself to talk about it with anyone else. I know how it sounds.
At around 10:30 a.m., I hear footsteps thumping down the stairs, and I look up, my eyes falling on Dylan. His long, brown hair hangs loose in messy waves, and he’s got a hoodie on with some grey sweatpants. He looks like a dream I’ve conjured up. Not real. I pop up, my feet carrying me into the kitchen to pour some coffee into his favourite chipped mug.
As he takes the hot drink from my hand, I tilt my head slightly. “I need to ask,” I start as he takes a sip, this time with the new maple pecan creamer I made for him this morning. “Why do you love this mug so much?” I run my finger along the now dulled chip, my curiosity finally too much for me.
“It was Raven’s,” he replies simply as we walk over to the couch together. “These red mugs were always here, and whenever we would come visit my dad, he’d make us hot cocoa in them. One Christmas, he had to go help out a cousin who lived in Ontario, and while he was there, he visited a tree farm that had just opened. He managed tosweet-talk his way into a pretty tasty recipe that he’d make for us. Raven loved it.
“Anyway, one afternoon, she was trying to wash her cup and slipped on her stool, slamming it into the sink. It chipped at the rim a bit, and she was so upset. She had been really into fairies at the time, so I told her that it was the fairies’ way of saying she was special. They only marked up the cups of the most rewarding kids, and her frown turned into the biggest smile I had seen. She was adamant about still using the mug, even though Dad had said he could get her a new one. When I moved here three years ago, I saw they were still in the cupboard, and using it makes me feel closer to her. Like she’s with me in a way.”
He runs his thumb along the chip, and I lean into him, bringing my lips to his. “She sounds like the most special girl,” I say as I rest my head on his shoulder. “She would be so proud of who you are, Dyl.”
He kisses the top of my head, a slight glisten in his eye. “I hope so.”
After we refill our drinks, I get Dylan to grab a notebook and sit on the floor with me in front of the coffee table.
“Okay,” I say as I crack my knuckles and place a sharpened pencil in his open hand. “We have to come up with our plan now. For the storm. And what we’re going to do to stop these kids.”
He lets out a sigh and pulls the notebook closer, flipping it open to a blank page. “Okay, what do we know about that day?”
I think back to my hours of research on that afternoon, ready to give a full and complete history. “We know that two brothers—twelve and four—who are visiting from away end up at the lighthouse as a big storm rolls in.”
“What kind of storm?” Dylan asks, pensive.
“Umm, I don’t know?” I respond. “One with rain and wind,” I chuckle.
He playfully rolls his eyes at me and jots downbig stormat the top of the page. “Pretty broad, Luce.”
“I know, I’m sorry. It’s a bad storm, that’s all I remember registering when I read it. Where was I? Okay, the article said the boys’ parents were staying in town and arrived on the twenty-third, in the early afternoon. They were unpacking and asked the older brother to watch the younger one while they got the house they were renting set up.”
“Okay.”
“Apparently, the rocks were slippery from the waves and the rain that started, and they ended up near the cliff and either slipped or got blown over by the wind.” I play with the strings on the hoodie I stole from Dylan as I recount the story. “They end up in the water, and you go in after them. They said you got them out, and once they got back up to shore, you told them to go home. The younger brother turned and told police he saw you slip and fall back over. They went home, told their parents, and by the time anyone showed up, you were… gone.” I swallow.
“Okay.” He nods along and purses his lips, lost in thought for a moment. “So, essentially, I end up in the ocean twice. Once from going in after the two kids, and the second, maybe I slip as well? Maybe I hit my head, and that’s why I didn’t make it back up?”
I wince at the thought, but he makes a point. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Is there any way to notify the owner of the house they rent? Let them know something ahead of time?”
I shake my head. “The owners don’t live here; they purchased the place from another province to use as a vacation rental. No one in town met them, and they never madethemselves known for the article.” I rub my chin, trying to figure out what our best options are. “Wait. What if we block the cliffside? The entire area around the lighthouse. We could add barricades, and that way, when the kids come, they can’t get anywhere near the edge. That might be enough to stop them. Then you and I are safe to travel through the red door, into my time.” I pause. “If you still want to, of course.”
In a flash, Dylan drops the pencil and places a hand in mine. “Of course I do. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. As long as those boys are safe, I want to come with you.”
A ghost of a smile cracks on my face. “I want that too. We just have to make sure they can’t get anywhere near the cliff.”
We decide to go with my idea. “There’s a hardware store in town. We can see if they have anything we can use as a barricade. Something that we don’t need to stake into the ground, since it’s all rock.”
“Want to go today?” I place my empty cup on the table and slide it away from me. “It would make me feel better if we got this stuff now so we’re not scrambling at the last minute.”
“Sure,” he says as he brushes his thumb over my knuckles and takes the last sip of his coffee. “I have to say, Luce, this creamer might be better than the pumpkin one.”
