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“Wow, looks great. You can add interior decorator to your résumé.”
A ghost of a smirk plays on his lips. “It would look a lot better if you moved rooms.” I’m prepared for battle, but when he turns around and crosses his arms, I’m suddenly left speechless. The wind gets ripped from my lungs because it’s a vision that triggers…something.
I’m almost certain I’ve been in this room with him. Not once. But many times before. Images flicker faintly, but at the forefront, I see a boy and a girl lying on a single bed, staring up at the ceiling. The little girl’s finger jabs at the air as she traces the star, humming a sweet lullaby as the boy sleeps soundly behind her. I can’t help but notice his mismatched socks are riddled with holes.
Once again, I’m a secret voyeur, looking in at a scenario that feels so familiar that I can almost detail every distinct smell and sound. “Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder…”
“What you are…?” I gasp when the words are spoken in this lifetime and not the one in whatever era I was just lost in. What I do know is that what I just experienced…was a memory, my memory, which took place in this very room.
However, I don’t know whether to be elated or burdened with grief because this memory was charged with sadness. Both children were the other’s savior. Who are they? But more importantly, why do I want to embrace them and tell them it’ll be all right? Tell them that…everything is always better after a thunderstorm.
“Peyton?” Cayden’s voice once again cuts through the disorder, and I’m transported back to the here and now.
This room gives me the strength I need. And I fight the confliction within. “You said you knew wh-who lived here.” He visibly holds his breath. “Who were they?”
Cayden’s demeanor changes, and a wall erects firmly around him. “There isn’t much to say. They were a family with normal family problems.” But I don’t believe him. “This house has been on the market for years. Over time, it may have suffered at the hands of Mother Nature, but the owners clearly haven’t had the heart to sell because if these walls could talk”—he sweeps his hand around the room—“they’d surely have a tale to tell. She may not be all that much to look at it, but the memories are the glue that keeps this house standing. Why do you ask?”
Here goes nothing.
Toying with my bottom lip, I state, “Because I’m pretty certain I’ve…I’ve been here before.” I’m waiting for any small flicker of response from Cayden to corroborate my story, but all I get in return is indifference.
Coolly placing his hands into his pockets, he asks, “So why this room? If you’ve been here before…why is this room so important to you?” I can understand his confusion because this doesn’t make a lick of sense.
Shrugging, I raise my eyes, focusing on the star that triggered a memory I have no recollection of living. “Because when I’m in here, I feel…safe.” I decide to leave out the fact that these fragments of a puzzle involving these nameless kids seem to float in and out of my psyche, sparking a sequence of events that evoke a deep-rooted sadness.
“What can you remember?” he questions. He’s genuinely interested, considering this is the first time I’ve spoken so openly about this with him.
“I can’t remember much of anything, but I do remember the lake. And the oak tree. It’s what drew me here. But I haven’t gathered the courage to go near it yet.” He nods, gesturing for me to continue. “My mom told me it looks familiar because we vacationed here when we were kids.”
He scoffs.
“I doubt you vacationed here. The residents on this side of the lake were people your mother wouldn’t look twice at if she ran them over with her hundred-thousand-dollar car. The poor,” he explains when he reads my utter confusion. “The other side, however, that’s where you’d find your kind.”
“My kind?” I ask, unable to mask my offense. “What’s that supposed to mean?” The mere mention of Stella instantly ruins my mood.
Stepping forward, Cayden roots my feet to the floor with a single look. “The rich. With a lake the only real divider, we kept to our side while the wealthy wouldn’t dare pass the imaginary line and venture into the world of the impoverished.” His bitterness makes clear which side of the lake he dwelled on.
“Lacey said you lived here your whole life.” I watch for any signs that’ll make way to another memory. But Cayden merely nods. “Do you…remember me?” I hold my breath because I know what his answer will be, but I have to ask it nevertheless.
Tilting his head to the side as if weighing what to say, he tongues his upper lip before replying, “No, I don’t remember you. In case you haven’t guessed, I grew up on this side of the lake. I don’t belong in your world. I never have.”
I cluck my tongue stubbornly. “I refuse to believe that I went along with such judgmental behavior. And besides, I’m here now. I don’t remember that other side. I didn’t even know there was ‘another side.’” I air quote my point because it seems beyond ridiculous, but thinking of the way Stella looked down her nose at Cayden, I know that I may be the only one of my kind who thinks this way.
A tangible tension threatens to suffocate me, and I instantly seek out the ribbon in my hair, but there is, of course, not one there. Dropping my hand, I attempt to decode what the hell just happened. Why would I be wearing a ribbon? And why would a mere ribbon be able to soothe the ache in my chest?
I am clearly going mad.
However, when I lock eyes with Cayden, I see it—a flicker of familiarity. I know he said he doesn’t remember me, but I…I don’t believe him. We have crossed paths. I know we have. It may have been for just a second, but I know he’s seen me before. So the question is, why won’t he tell me? What is he hiding?
Thinking back to Ellie’s reaction when she first saw me, I felt like she’d seen me before. And she referred to me as an angel, and I called her the pet name of little mouse with ease. I have pieces of the puzzle, but the problem is, I don’t have the whole picture.
I have snippets of information, and Cayden is hiding behind this bullshit ruse for a reason. There is a possibility that I’m wrong, but my gut is telling me I’m not. I intend to use whatever information I have as ammo and hopefully come out on top. “I saw Ellie’s mom. Your wife?”
Cayden takes a step backward while I wonder if my guerilla tactics will work. “She is not my wife. When?”
“Yesterday. I saw your heated exchange with her. Is it safe to assume you don’t see eye to eye with her?” I measure my words, not wanting to piss Cayden off. I will work any angle with the hope he divulges any small shred of evidence to sanction my suspicions.
“You assume correctly,” he replies, swallowing deeply. “I’ve known Hazel since we were kids. She was always hanging around; the misfit, I guess you could say. But we all were.” I allow him to continue even though the question lingers; who exactly are we? “My father”—he swallows down his disgust—“was never around. So my house was the local hangout, a haven for the outsiders to call home. I never liked Hazel like that…but sometimes, things never turn out how you expect them to.”
