Page 39 of Chasing the Flame
I jolt up in bed, clutching my head with both hands, and beg the room to stop spinning. Sadly, it does not.
My head feels like a bag of bricks has been dropped on it, and exhaustion leaks through every pore in my body. I can’t tell where I am. My vision is blurry, and I blink furiously, trying to clear it.
It feels like I’m stuck in quicksand, my mind slow, my body equally sluggish. Flashes of last night run through my head, but the last thing I remember is the text from the unknown number. There’s a lapse in time that shouldn’t be there.
When my vision finally settles, the room comes into focus. It’s simple, but it’s not my own. I must’ve passed out. I scan the room, taking in the dark wood, the rich green hues, and the black tones that cover the vast space.
Black-out curtains cover a gigantic window to my left. To my right are two doors, one of which will lead me either out of the room or to the bathroom. My bladder chooses that exact moment to squeeze tightly, and I leap off the bed and try the door closest to me. Sure enough, a small but equally gorgeous bathroom greets me on the other side.
I waste no time doing my business, and stop to wash my hands and check my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a fucking disaster, and I do my best to tame the wild mess. Mascara streaks down my cheeks in patchy black spots, remnants of a deep sleep. I groan, rubbing underneath my eyes.
It’s not the best job, but it will have to do. I leave the bathroom and try the other door, hoping it will lead me to Jettson.
I’ve got to get home. I need to find Jettson, and I need a fucking shower.
With that thought in mind, I walk down the hall, descend the short stairs, and go to the kitchen. Like the bedroom, the rest of the house is how I’ve always wanted my home to be. There’s barely any color, only muted or dark tones that make my heart happy.
Jettson has modern taste in style, and I love the simplistic but beautiful statement pieces that seem to bring the house to life. My favorite would be the gorgeous abstract metalwork in the foyer. I can’t tell what I’m looking at, but it’s beautiful. I love how the pieces of metal seem to lose themselves in one another. It’s an endless loop, wrapping in and around itself. If I had to guess, it represents infinity.
I linger a bit longer, taking in every detail. Then, as if on cue, smells of bacon and cinnamon saturate the air. Suddenly, I’m ravenous and follow my nose the remainder of the way to the kitchen.
Jettson is buried in cooking, humming a soft tune while he works. I can’t quite catch the melody, but it’s beautiful nonetheless. Remembering how easily he startled last night, I try to make my presence known, shuffling a little louder as I walk toward the counter.
He glances over his shoulder, smiling as he says, “Good morning.”
“Morning,” I mumble.
“How are you feeling?” He asks, returning to the bacon frying in the pan. It smells heavenly, and my mouth waters as I catch a hint of maple sugar.
“I’m fine, but I'm confused about what happened last night. I don’t remember being put to bed,” I say, swallowing hard as I sit at the kitchen table.
“That’s not such an easy explanation.” He avoids eye contact when he says it, shuffling a bit on his feet. It’s like he’s nervous, which makes me anxious. “Averie…what do you know about your heritage?”
The question takes me by surprise, and I’m not entirely sure how to answer. Truthfully, what little I know comes from one of those lineage websites. “Not much, why?”
“We’ll get to that. Let’s start with your maiden name.”
“MacKinnon. My family comes from Scotland, but an ancestor married into the Irish community a hundred years ago. Or so the ancestry tree tells me.” I shrug, wondering where this is going.
“Interesting…”
I frown, not liking his tone. “Why is that interesting? Jettson, what the hell is going on?”
He sighs and empties the pan of bacon onto a waiting plate. I spy another plate already filled with pancakes. My mouth waters again, and my stomach growls in grievance. Jettson chuckles and grabs another empty plate, piling it high with a stack of pancakes, bacon, and an assortment of fruit.
He even grabs a bottle of what looks like all-natural syrup. “Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie,” I grumble, snatching the bottle from his hands and pouring a generous helping on my pancakes. All questions momentarily forgotten.
Jettson laughs, “Gremlin in the morning, noted.”
Incoherent mumbles come from me the moment the first bite hits my lips. It’s divine, practically melting in my mouth. “Mhh,” I groan and grab another mouthful.
Jettson sits across the table, and we eat in comfortable silence. I’m still curious, and burning with a need to know what happened after I passed out. But for now, I let it all go and focus solely on being in the present.
After I finish, I reach for my plate, but before I can take it to the sink, Jettson stops me. His fingertips graze mine, our gazes locking onto one another. I still, my lips parting, but the words won’t leave my mouth.
“I’ve got this. Why don’t you head to the living room? I’ll meet you there,” Jettson says with a cautious smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes.
“Sure,” I mumble. Whatever I’ve done, it must’ve been awful if Jettson feels the need to guard himself around me.
