Page 17 of Forget Me Not
“I grew up nearby,” I say, looking down at the mug in my hands. Steam is pouring from the surface of the liquid and while it still seems too hot to drink, I’m suddenly eager for something to do, to have a reason for my lips to stop moving and toss the conversational ball back in his court. “About forty-five minutes away.”
I lift the mug and take a small sip, wincing when I feel my tongue touch the scalding water.
“And what do you do in New York,” Mitchell asks, “that lets you take the whole month off?”
I look back at him, realizing I’m not sure how to respond to that, either. Just like how talk of my sister invites unwanted questions, pitying looks followed by a long, dead pause, telling people I’m a journalist—especially a journalist on the hunt for a story—can often dredge up opinions I’d rather not know.
“This and that,” I say, internally cringing at the terrible response. “I like to dabble around.”
“Dabble around,” he repeats, smiling.
“Why don’t we let Claire get settled in for the night,” Liam interjects, and I spin around in my chair, registering him leaning against the kitchen counter. Biting softly into a peach. “She has a big day tomorrow. Learning the ropes.”
I turn back toward Mitchell, his inquisitive eyes still trained on me. He stays silent for another few seconds before he nods in resignation, standing up and pulling at a silver ring on his jeans.
“Your key,” he says, detaching one in the middle before thrusting it in my direction. “This will get you into the guesthouse.”
I hold out my hand, the subtle weight of it as he drops it onto my palm, ushering a physical relief into my chest, because this isn’tjusta key, this tangible thing that’s finally mine. Instead, it’s a place to live, it’s five thousand dollars.
It’s a summer away from both the city and home; a chance to reset in a place I once shared with my sister. Maybe even a chance toheal,like Ryan had said.
“Thank you,” I say, looking next at my mug, barely touched. I don’t want to be rude, leaving it behind virtually undrunk, so I down as much as I can, the hot pinch of the liquid like nails on my throat.
I stand up, placing the half-empty cup on the table.
“I appreciate the opportunity, truly. And I’ll stay out of your way, I promise.”
“Oh, please, no,” Mitchell says as he rests his hand on the small of my back, guiding my body onto the porch. “I want you to think of this as your home now, too.”
CHAPTER 11
Sleep consumes me, the warm embrace of it sudden and unexpected after leaving the porch and walking to the guesthouse, the night thick and heavy like velvet plush. Without any streetlights or nearby houses, there had been no ambient light to lead the way. No obtrusive noises like the honking of horns, the backfiring of cars. The music drifting in from some nearby party or the whispers of neighbors, voices muffled and low. Instead, all I could hear was a cloud of cicadas screaming in the trees, the occasional flip of a fin coming from the direction of the water.
An entirely different kind of silence, both foreign and familiar at the exact same time.
It’s morning now, sixA.M., hazy light streaming through two tiny windows and flecks of dust floating aimlessly in the sunbeams. I wake up groggy, unsure of where I am, one of those disheveled arousals that’s immediately disorienting—and then it hits me, like recalling a dream.
I’m in the guesthouse at Galloway Farm, my new home for the next month.
I sit up slow, blinking a few times as I think about how I had pushed the key into the door last night, twisting it slowly before letting myself in. The way my body had beelined straight to the bed, collapsing hard onto sharp metal springs. I hadn’t realized how tired I’d been, how much of a toll the last few days had taken on both my body and mind. I could keep sleeping, Iwantto keep sleeping, but the cabin is growing warm with the mounting sun and I can already feel my skin getting slick with sweat so I climb out of bed and look down at the mattress, the damp outline of my body caked to the sheets.
I glance at my phone on the side table and reach for it quickly, a jerk reaction, until I notice the exclamation point in the upper right corner.
I have no service. Not even a single blinking bar.
I drop my hands; defeated, but not entirely surprised. Google Maps had worked to get me here, but the service was unsteady once I got on the island. This place is small, rustic. Smaller than Claxton, if that’s even possible. I don’t actually recall seeing any phone lines on my way in and I make a mental note to ask Liam about the internet the next time I see him.
Surely they have Wi-Fi. I can get connected with that.
I put my phone back down before walking to the windows and pushing them open, the wind whipping off the water still stifling hot. Then I head into the kitchenette, the distance between everything only a handful of feet. The guesthouse is nice, but old, and undeniably tiny. It’s even smaller than my apartment back in the city but I can’t deny the view is better. I can see the marsh through the windows; bright green reeds and curtains of moss swaying gently in the barely there breeze. A runway of dock, long and lean and stained from the sun.
Then I scan the kitchen, taking in all the things Mitchell left me to use.
There’s a knife block on the counter, a container of utensils right next to the stove. I notice a percolator in the corner and move to fill it up with hot water from the tap; then I locate the coffee in a cabinet and spoon some into the filter, sifting through a few more cupboards while it brews. I eventually find what I’m looking for: a collection of mugs, all ceramic and white, and I grab one at random before walking to the fridge and opening the door. Then I catalogue the contents: a glass jug of milk, a dozen fresh eggs. A loaf of seeded bread and all the typical condiments; a bowl of bright berries that look freshly picked.
It’s all so welcoming, so homey, so harshly at odds with those first few hours at home with my mother, and I can’t help but smile as I imagine Mitchell stocking the place with all the necessities. The mental image so genuine and warm.
I close the fridge, filling my mug and easing my body onto the floor, legs crossed as I start unpacking my bags. I load some clothes into a small dresser before hanging a few shirts in the closet beside it. I put away my toiletries, dropping my toothbrush in the little glass holder; shampoo in the shower, face wash perched on the edge of the sink. I unpack my laptop next, positioning it on the small desk opposite my bed and plugging it into the nearest outlet. Then I fish the picture of Natalie out of my pocket and open the desk drawer, getting ready to drop it in along with my notebook when something inside catches my attention.
