Page 32 of Waiting For Ever
My heart trips on the word date. I swallow and clear my throat. “I do.”
On the deck, kicked back on two chaise lounges, our coffees resting on the short table between us, he starts telling me how he remodeled the place. On and off throughout the story, he would pause and get afaraway look on his face. When he did, I wouldn’t ask, but I wanted to. He caught himself quickly each time and continued. Turns out Julian is quite the handyman. He worked some construction during summer breaks throughout high school and has a passion for carpentry. He also has a stylistic eye for detail. His tastes run to classic and clean with a hint of rustic. Kinda like him.
That faraway look is back.
“What’s going on in there, Julie?” I don’t want to ask because I can tell he doesn’t want to explain, or he would’ve. I can’t help myself though. I want to know this man and what makes him disappear like that. And where he goes when he does.
Chapter 27
Julian
Three-ish Years Ago
The dangling raw hamburger that used to be my forearm is making me kinda nauseous. Maybe it’s the head gash causing the nausea. I don’t know how bad it is, just that I have blood trailing into my eye. I try to sit up, but the wave of dizziness has me sliding back onto the gravel. It’s so dark outside I can barely see my hand in front of my face, so I can’t tell what shape my bike is in. If my body is any indication, the bike is toast.
I hear the rustling footsteps before I see the bobbing orb of the flashlight coming at me. I struggle again into a semi-sitting position. Taking a breath is like inhaling broken glass. I clutch my chest with the effort.
“Are you okay? Should I call 911?” Her voice is soft, sweet, like a melody.
I can’t see her in the pitch black, but I can tell her hair is light colored, illuminated by the flashlight.
“I heard the crash from my house. It’s just up this embankment.” The crunching footsteps get closer. “Lucky you. I’m the only house for miles.” Her voice is next to me. “How bad are you hurt? Do you know what happened?” She’s kneeling beside me in the dirt and gravel and reaches out to touch my face.
I jerk back, causing her to do the same.
“I’m not going to . . . I just want to . . . Let me help you. You’re hurt.”
“No shit. And I don’t want any help. No one can help me.”
“Honey, let me just get you inside. Wait here. I’m going to get my car. You’re not gonna make it up my driveway and I can’t carry you.”
She doesn’t wait for my response. She hasn’t asked me a question anyway. Her crunching footsteps fade as she leaves, presumably to get her car and give me a ride to her . . . driveway?
Maybe I’ll die before she gets back. Then all the pain will stop. The nightmare will be over. No such luck. I hear the motor of a vehicle just before the headlights spotlight me, blinding me until I put my hand up to shield my face.
She leaves them trained on me as she parks halfway in the ditch and gets out. “Oh my God, you’re pretty torn up. I think I should take you to a hospital.”
“No. I’m fine.” I try to stand up, but my body won’t cooperate. I turn sideways and get on all fours, wait for the wave of dizziness and nausea to pass and try again.
She’s instantly beside me, helping me stand.
My vision starts closing in on me. I know I’m going down if I don’t let her help me. She walks me to the passenger side of her car, a Toyota 4Runner, and eases me into the seat. My body slumps against the door as she closes it. My head feels sticky. I know I’m leaving blood on her window. I’m trashing her nice car with blood, dirt and gravel.Her choice to put me in it, I think, like an asshole. Before I can straighten myself in the seat or pass out, the door is opening again, and she’s walking me up a front path onto a lighted porch and through her front door.
I have no reference of time, but it feels like I sit at her kitchen table for hours while she meticulously pulls gravel out of my arms, head, face and torso.
“I’m Allie.” She looks older than me but not by much. She has a pretty face that matches her calm voice. She looks physically fit but petite. And obviously strong enough to half carry me to her car.
I’m not exactly a small person. Maybe a little thinner than I usually am, but not small by any means. She doesn’t ask me any questions. I know she can smell the alcohol on me. I can smell it. I guess life has other plans for me than my death wish. I didn’t exactly try to kill myself driving my motorcycle intoxicated. Not consciously anyway. Although death would be preferable to this searing pain in my chest.
Remembering why I was drunk and riding too fast in the first place causes a fresh wave of nausea. I can’t swallow the urge this time. I stand and fight the dizziness and bolt for the kitchen sink and throw up everything in my stomach—which is alcohol and bile. I can’t remember the last time I ate. With my hands gripping the edge of the counter, my head dangling over the copper farmhouse sink, I try to apologize for fucking up her pretty sink. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”Another wave of dizziness cuts me off. I dry heave into the sink. There’s nothing left to throw up.
“Let’s just sit you back down. How about the couch? I’ll bring you some water.” She helps me walk into the open floor living room and over to an L-shaped, linen-colored couch.
I protest sitting on it and sink to the floor in front of it. I already fucked up her car and her sink. “Pretty sure blood won’t come out of this white sofa.”
That got a smirk and a nod from her. “Well, when you’re steady enough, we’ll get you in the shower.”
“Why are you being so nice to me? What if I’m a serial killer?”
