Page 20 of Forget Me Not
He reached his arm out, handing her a cigarette that lookedhand-rolled, but she simply stared, mute. Eyes wide as if he were holding a gun.
“I don’t smoke,” she said at last.
“That’s too bad.”
He went back to it, those thick lips sucking it down. He had a mop of brown hair that was abnormally long; scruff on his cheeks like those pictures of hippies she used to see on the news. She knew bad things happened out there, out in other parts of the country; her parents didn’t let her watch TV, of course, but she caught glimpses sometimes when she hid on the stairs. Besides, they told her all about the horrors of the world, the litany of things that could go wrong. They made sure she knew about violent men and the chaos they craved: a killer in California who left ciphers for the press, a guy in Chicago with bodies in his crawlspace. There was even a man named Ted who drove across the country, targeting young girls just like her. Still, all that seemed so far removed. Draper felt immune, bubble-wrapped, but the mere presence of this person before her felt like a sharp needle poke, the sphere of safety suddenly popping. The wide-open world bleeding its way in. And it should have scared her, she supposed, based on the way her father talked, but instead, she felt a little shiver of excitement trail its way up her spine.
A subtle curiosity, like finding a foreign coin in a handful of change.
“You shouldn’t be out here this late by yourself,” the man said, regarding her more carefully now. She listened to the crackle of his cigarette, the gentle exhale as he blew the smoke out. It smelled different, rancid, like the tobacco inside had started to decay. “It’s not safe.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, her heartbeat picking up as his big brown eyes took her in. It felt like he was sizing her up, making some kind of calculation in his mind. A predator suddenly locked in on its prey.
“What’s your name?”
She hesitated, arms stuck by her sides as she let him judge her the way men judged livestock at the county fair, lips licking as they assessed their worth. Why couldn’t she walk away? She should be getting home. She needed to get back to her room, get tucked into bed, but for some reason, her shoes stayed planted on the ground beneath her like the soles themselves had fused into the concrete.
“Marcia,” she said at last.
“Marcia,” he repeated. “You’re very pretty, Marcia. Especially those eyes.”
She felt her cheeks flush hot and she crossed her arms, suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands.
“I get the feeling you don’t hear that enough.”
She tilted her head. He was older than her, certainly. Maybe late twenties, early thirties at the latest, and she realized, distantly, that this might be dangerous, the two of them alone in a cold, dark corner. But it was more of a suggestion than anything, one she quickly flicked away. Instead, she felt the static of excitement growing slowly, a crackling in her skin like someone, somewhere, had flipped a switch and her body had been awakened from some long-dormant slumber. Bundles of cells buzzing back to life.
“I’m Mitchell,” he said, not waiting for her to ask.
“Mitchell,” she repeated. “You’re not from around here, are you, Mitchell?”
She didn’t know why she said it, but there was something about him that was so different, so strange. Dirty jeans and a rumpled cream Henley, the open buttons at the top revealing a tuft of curly brown hair. His voice was gentle but rough, elusive but friendly, and she had the sudden urge to rip off her mask and let this stranger see her fully. Nobody had ever seen her fully before. She, herself, had never seen herself fully. And how could she? Her life, up until that point, had been one never-ending series of sameness. Thesame thing, day after day, like a movie with no plot. A book with the same words repeated across each page. And it was suffocating, really, the idea of this beingit.The whole point of it all.
“I’m not from around anywhere,” he said at last.
“How is that possible?”
He just shrugged, took another drag. But when he went to toss the roach onto the ground, stub the remainder of it out with his foot, she found herself stepping forward, her hand reaching out to touch his arm. Grabbing his wrist, taking it from him.
Letting the smoke fill her up as he watched in the dark.
CHAPTER 13
I jump at the sudden sound of knocking: a person outside, their fist hard on the door.
I had settled back into bed earlier, subconsciously moving from my spot on the floor as if my feet had developed a mind of their own. My eyes felt glued to the page before me; to Marcia’s quaint cursive, her bleeding blue pen. Gentle loops and fluid strokes as my back sank deeper into the pillows, cracked-open spine perched against my propped-up knees.
I hear the knock again, more urgent this time, and it’s as if the noise has jolted me from some sort of trance. I leap from the bed, shoving the diary beneath the sheets. I don’t know why I hid it—it was a simple reflex, not even a conscious thought—but I do know that I’ve read enough of it by now for my interest to be piqued.
I don’t want to give it up. I want to keep going.
I smooth down my shirt, run my hands through my hair, and open the door to find Mitchell standing on the other side.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he says, his eyes darting to thedigital clock in the kitchen. Somehow, it’s just past ten, and I’m suddenly self-conscious about him thinking me too languid, this woman he hired to keep his home running seemingly sleeping until its late morning.
“No,” I say quickly, trying to orient myself. Feeling like I was just startled awake from some vast, vivid dream. I had been so consumed in Marcia’s story, this illicit glimpse I had been given into these two people with whom I’m now sharing a home, I hadn’t even noticed the hours tick by, though I can tell that the cottage feels cooler. The marsh is higher. “Not at all. I was just getting settled.”
“I figured I’d show you the property,” he says. “Go over your duties before it gets too hot.”
