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I’m on the fucking beach!
I have no recollection of leaving my bed, much less the house.
The hill from Idylewylde Hall to the beach is steep and craggy, populated by sharp rocks and a slick path made of sand that feels precarious even with the rotting wooden railing that accompanies it. I would have remembered the trek to the beach. It’s not a casual jaunt.
I get up on my elbows and look around, noting the voluminous moon in the sky. The moonlight illuminates my frozen hands. I pull my feet back as I realize that the waves are lapping the soles of my feet.
I’m barefoot. I’m wearing my pajamas, now soaked and heavy with wet sand. I reach up and pull a clump of seaweed out of my hair. All the while, my thoughts form a refrain: How did I get here?
My legs feel stiff when I finally rise. I test my weight, shifting from one foot to the other to try and dissolve the pins and needles sensation creeping up my legs.
I shiver and try my best to retrace my steps. I fell asleep without dreaming for the first time in months, but then I ended up here; that must mean I sleepwalked. Dread solidifies in my stomach.
I haven’t sleepwalked since high school, but even back then, it was more of a funny story. I’d wake up and find that I’d moved from my bedroom to the living room couch, or I’d wake up staring at the freezer with a spoon in hand, ready to finish a pint of ice cream. I never left my house.
I thought I was alone on the beach. It must be close to 3 A.M., but up ahead along the shore, I see the narrow silhouette of a woman. She’s wearing a white linen dress; it’s soaking. It clings to her curves, not that she has any. I can see the outline of her spine and hip bones through her dress. The wind whips her long, dark hair back. The skirt of her dress drags along the sand. There’s a piece of seaweed on the back of her elbow.
“Excuse me! Ms.?” I call. I need to talk to someone. I need someone to tell me what’s real, to ground me in any sort of reality.
The more I yell, the farther away she walks. I jog to catch up with her. The blood floods my legs as I run.
“Ms.! Ms.! Help me!” I yell as Idylewylde disappears behind me in the distance. Going further down shore probably isn’t the best idea, but I suddenly feel like I must talk to her.
She smells like rotting fish and seaweed. I almost gag as I watch her lurch forward. Her feet hit the sand with heavy thuds. I reach out to touch her shoulder and beg her to tell me anything.
When my hand reaches the clotted flesh of her shoulder,
She disappears.
Chapter 8
Joseph
I’minanothermeetingwhen my co-worker asks the question I’ve dreaded.
“So, when will you be back in New York?”
I pause and sip my coffee.
“Hopefully, within the next month or so. We’re finally starting to repair the floor in the attic. It wouldn’t be kind of me to leave when there was still a hole in the ceiling.”
“True, but that’s what you said last month.”
“Well, last month, we didn’t have any contractors.”
“But your mother can manage one team, right? It’s not like she’ll be climbing up there herself.”
They’re all making valid points; now that this team of contractors has stuck around for over a month, I’m needed less and less. Yet, for the first time in my adult life, when I picture the future, I no longer picture a penthouse apartment in Manhattan.
Instead, I picture Idylewylde Hall, restored to its former glory, in no small part thanks to Eleanor. I picture us hosting dinner parties and galas, fundraising for the theater, and getting our names on a plaque at the conservatory. I’ve never pictured a woman by my side when I pictured my future, either.
The guys must see my hesitation through the glitching laptop screen.
“Oh, cut the shit, Joseph. There’s a girl, isn’t there?” Seth teases. While I would hardly consider him my best friend, he is the only colleague with whom I would entertain the idea of hitting up a bar after work. We’ve spent more than enough nights buying cosmos for the flocks of women across the bar.
“Seth, there’s like six hundred people on this fucking island, and five hundred have known me since I was born. It’s not exactly the place I would try to pick up women. Besides, this conversation is entirely unprofessional. Let’s refocus our attention on Johnathan, who has the upcoming projections for the winter quarter. Johnathan, you have the floor,” I snap authoritatively.
Johnathan clears his throat. “For quarter four, we are projected to make—" The sound of a knock cuts him off.
