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And when I open the door and see who it is, the image of her hits me like a hammer to the solar plexus, cutting off my breath.
Big blue eyes, glossy dark hair pulled back, the delicate arch of her neck over her light coat and her elegant legs over prim black pumps…
Fucking déjà vu.
“Good morning,” she says, giving me a faint, hesitant smile.
I told her to come over, didn’t I? The memory surfaces slowly in my sluggish brain. In my defense, I did try my damnedest to sleep last night, but it didn’t work out, and the pills make me feel as if I dug out graves all night instead of resting.
Maybe I had been digging graves in my dreams, come to think of it. The image flashes in front of my eyes, superimposed over the girl’s slight form.
Not the girl.
Octavia.
Belatedly I realize I’ve been standing there and staring at her—or into the void—for quite some time, and that she’s shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, probably wondering if I’m not all right in the head.
She has a right to wonder.
I step aside and gesture for her to come inside, then rake my hand through my overlong hair and close the door behind us.
It’s dim inside the living room, the shutters still closed. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember if I ever opened them since we arrived here. The kids mostly play upstairs, or at the neighbor’s house. I only sit here during my sleepless nights, with the TV on and my mind blank.
Or worse, with my mind wrapped around the same old memories, stuck in the past, unable to let go.
She’s looking around, and I do the same, seeing for the first time the line of whiskey bottles beside the sofa, the dirty glasses and dishes on the low table, the thick layer of dust over every surface.
I frown.
She doesn’t seem fazed, though—and I don’t even know why I should care how she feels about the state of the house. She shrugs off her coat, and she’s dressed in a deep blue dress like a sixties pin-up, the bust molding over her tits, cinching tight at her small waist.
My mouth goes dry.
My mind twists, caught between past and present.
Unware of the havoc she wreaks with my body and thoughts, she shoves the TV control and an empty bag of chips to the side and sits down on the armchair, legs pressed together, small pale hands resting on her thighs, her purse placed neatly beside her.
I’m seeing everything. Every detail of her, even in the dimness, from that wide gaze to the curve of her tits, the contained nervousness of her pose and the determination in her expression.
She’s watching me. Not speaking, not asking me anything. Not saying anything about herself. What did she say the first time I opened my door to find her standing there, days ago?
“I love kids. I’m good with them.”
She also said she raised her brother and sister.
Would you look at this? My memory is full of holes the size of the fucking state, but I remember her words.
Just like I remember everything I’ve been trying so hard to forget.
“Want some coffee?” I ask because it’s the first thing that pops into my mind, and I’m relieved when she nods.
I escape into the kitchen and start a fresh pot. I’ll need it, too, if I’m to function today.
“I love this kitchen,” her voice behind me makes me jump.
Closing my eyes briefly, taking a calming breath, I turn around and try to see what she’s seeing.
A large window framing the tree in the back garden. An ash tree? I barely noticed it before. But I do notice her when she runs her hand over the dusty counter and unlatches the window, opening it and leaning out, golden sunlight catching red threads in her dark hair and making her face glow.
