I thought I had forgotten this place. The realization that I never really did causes a small ache in my chest. For a moment, I allow myself to mourn the life Jackson and I could have had. The love I thought we had when I used to dream of living here with him, of watching my children grow up in the house I loved.
How foolish I was! I think, snapping out of the thoughts. How idiotic to have thought that there would be any happy ever after for Jackson Lockewood and pathetic orphan who depended on his family for a home.
I don’t want to go back into the living room, so I descend the steps from the terrace into the garden and follow the stone path past the meticulously maintained patterns of flowers and shrubs. I keep to the lit up path, walking aimlessly for a while, knowing but not wanting to acknowledge where ultimately, my legs are leading me.
I round the corner of the house, and there it is, just the way I remember, the lily pond, now covered with the wide green leaves, and the gazebo in the distance, small, quiet, and lit only by the lights around the house. I pause, unsure whether to proceed, whether I dare disturb and revisit the memories that were made inside that small place.
My legs carry me forward, and I walk up the stone steps into the small space. It looks exactly the same, empty except for the seats along the walls, and clean, except for a few stray leaves that must have been blown in by the wind.
I almost turn back. What did I hope to achieve by coming here? Already my head is being assaulted by the memories I’ve followed here, memories like a ‘voiceless ghost,’ leading me up cliffs, and down, till I’m lonely and lost.
Chuckling ruefully at the sad poetry that’s snuck into my head, I make my way to one of the seats and settle into it. Over the dwarf wall, I can see the pond, and I watch the wide, dark leaves float over the surface, and here and there, the pink bursts of color where a lily is blooming.
I sit there lost in my thoughts for a while, until the sound of footsteps breaks me out of my reverie. I look up to see Jackson walking towards me with that firm, long, stride. He’s wearing a dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and black trousers that accentuate his long legs and lean figure. His hair is slightly disheveled, just enough to make him look even sexier than he usually does. The moonlight and the lights from the house cast shadows across his features that move as he walks, emphasizing the angles of his face and giving him a hard and implacable expression.
I don’t want to admire him, so I look away, back to the flowers on the pond. Why is he here?
He stops at the entrance and leans on the frame, watching me silently for what seems like an eternity. Still I refuse to look at him. If he followed me here, then he must have a reason, something to say perhaps. Well, I’m not going to be the one to draw it out of him.
“I see what you’re doing,” He says softly, so soft that I almost don’t hear the words. “You are leading me on; to the spots we knew when we haunted here together.” He pauses, and smiles, obviously pleased with himself for remembering the line from one of my favorite poems, the same one coincidentally, that I had been thinking of a moment ago. Is he really a demon then, one who can read my mind?
“Well,” He continues when I don’t reply, “How does it feel to revisit olden haunts at last?”
I shrug, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging that any memories of importance reside here for me. “How did your dinner go?” I ask conversationally.
He replies with a small dismissive movement of his shoulders. “There was food, and there was Lindsay. It seems her parents suddenly had to visit a friend in town.”
“How convenient.” The words escape me before I can put on my verbal filter.
He chuckles. “You’re very imaginative.” He says, looking slightly amused. “In your head, does she get her parents out of the way so she can me serve dinner on her naked body?”
The image, coupled with what I imagine his response would have been, fills me with a sudden, unreasonable surge of jealousy.
“Neither you nor Lindsay feature very much in my head.” I retort sharply.
“Hmmm,” The small sound manages to convey both disbelief and dismissal. “You must be very forgiving,” he says, “if you’ve managed to forget that she convinced her brother to assault you.” He’s watching me as he speaks. “I was not so forgiving when I found out. Carter’s beautiful face will always be ruined by a broken nose, and Lindsay,” he grins almost malevolently, "I doubt she’ll be inviting me over again anytime soon.”
I swallow, disbelief making me confused. “How long have you known?” I ask.
“The day after you ran away.” He folds his arms over his chest, but his eyes remain on my face. “Constance was worried that you'd left because she hadn’t given you a chance to
defend yourself. She told me everything.”
“Then why…” I stop myself before I can complete the sentence, ashamed of what I’d been about to say. Why did you let me think you hated me all this time for something you know I never did? Why did you never come to find me? Why did you let me suffer all these years when you knew the truth?
But I don’t ask, because the answer is obvious. He hadn’t cared enough. My departure had probably been his way out from a relationship he knew was going nowhere.
“Why what?” he’s looking at me as if he knows what I’m thinking.
I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say. “She did us both a favor, didn’t she? If not for her we’d have spent a lot more time on a relationship that ultimately meant nothing.”
I can’t read the expression on his face as he pushes off the frame and moves towards me, coming to sit facing me. To anyone looking at us from outside, we would seem like lovers having a private conversation in a romantic setting, but it couldn’t be farther from the truth.
“I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear that,” he says, "although maybe she shouldn’t have bothered. If it meant so little then it probably would have fizzled out very quickly on its own.”
“Yes,” I agree softly, knowing that I’m lying to him, and to myself. Seven years, and still, nothing has fizzled out for me. I'm still as affected by his presence as I ever was. His eyes are intense as they study my face, and I suspect that I’ve not fooled him with my lie. I find myself wishing he hadn’t come to sit so close to me. I can feel the heat from his body, and the faint scent of his aftershave teasing my nostrils. And his eyes, they’re like a spell, holding me captive, so I can’t look away from the challenge and the invitation I see in them.
I want to hold his gaze, and return the challenge in his eyes with indifference in my own, but my heart is pounding, and my hands are suddenly trembling, even my mind is betraying me, supplying me with images from my memories. Images of those eyes filled with desire for me, memories of those lips on my skin, my neck, my lips…