Page 24 of Bonetide

“A man, not a guy? Is there a difference?”

I chuckle. “If you saw him, you’d say yes. There is a difference.”

A pause. “Oh. I see. You’re calling about a man then…well, fuck, it’s about time, Iris.”

I sigh, running my hand over my face. “No, no. It’s not like that. I don’t really know him. He’s just…”

“A man you’re interested in? A man you’ve already fucked?”

“No!” I exclaim. “I haven’t fucked him.”

“Then you’re just interested in him.”

“Maybe? More like this man is interesting.”

And that’s putting it mildly.

“Hmmm. Well, I guess that’s a start since you rarely find anyone interesting. So, where is this interesting man-not-guy, then?”

“In a castle across the bay, probably,” I reply flippantly, and the second the sentence is out of my mouth, I hear how it sounds.

“…I’m sorry. What? A castle?”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“I’m not sure what it sounds like. What do you mean a castle? Like…he’s a prince? Or a king? Braveheart?”

I let out a slightly hysterical laugh. I have to admit, it feels good, even if I do sound unhinged.

“Sorry,” Maddie says. “My knowledge of Scotland is thanks to Braveheart and Outlander. Tell me more.”

So I tell her about the naked man on the rocks days ago. About drawing the shape of him from memory, and finding I couldn’t remember his face. About the swimmer in the loch on the drive back from the village. The conversation overheard in the pub. About the man on the road in the fog. About the knock at the door that same night, his voice through the door, his refusal to give me a last name. The way he said Goodnight, Iris.

I tell her about the thicket this morning. The bones. The thing that wasn’t a footstep behind me. Running in wellies. The police.

But…I leave out one thing.

I leave out that he came to my back window tonight with wet hair gleaming black and the gold light on his jaw, and that I stood inside with my thumb in my mouth and looked at him as long as I could bear to without looking away. I leave out that I almost said you don’t have to go and how badly I wanted to say it.

“Iris. Holy shit.”

“I know. I know, I’m a hot mess.”

“Iris, when I said living at the cottage could be good for you, I did not mean open the door at night to the local neighborhood nudist who won’t give you a surname and is possibly a murderer.”

“Except that I didn’t open the door,” I point out defensively.

“But you’re going to.”

“I’m not going to.”

I also didn’t mention the letter I found from Effie. Why let her worry about me even more?

“Right.”

“Maddie—”

“You only use this voice when you have decided something already and I know what you’ve decided about the beautiful naked man-not-guy.”