I walk around the house, in and out of the bathrooms, the kitchen, the empty TV room, and out onto the terrace overlooking the sea. I gaze in the direction of the house where Storm is, and my chest hurts. What is this strange ache?
It shouldn’t feel like I’m leaving home.
But it does.
***
I should say goodbye.
The thought spins inside my head like a mini cyclone all day, throwing me off balance. I should say goodbye to Storm and apologize for ditching him last night.
Let him know I’m leaving.
I’m dithering, putting off the inevitable. It’s not as if I have to pack or anything. When afternoon comes around, I finish the last of the crackers and another can of party sausages and sit on the steps of the terrace. Chin in my hand, I watch the ocean roll. Waves and dunes and seagulls—but I can’t appreciate the beauty of the place anymore.
My eyes keep searching for a lone runner arriving with the nightfall.
Where is he? Why hasn’t he come?
And why am I suddenly so worried about him? He was fine when I left.
It’s me who isn’t fine. That’s it. I’m going to go find him, bid him farewell, all that melodramatic crap. It’ll take a weight off me, I think. Free me to hit the road once again.
Sandals in one hand, the other shading my eyes from the setting sun, I set out to find him. This time I find the mansion easily. I expect to find him fixing some thing or other in the garden, but the gate is locked, and I can’t see him inside.
“Storm!” I rattle the gate and as an afterthought, search for a doorbell. I find it on the fence at my right and ring it. “Storm?”
Nothing happens.
As if he has to stay in every night, on the off-chance I pass by. He’s probably taken off to town and is at some bar, hitting on chicks and having a drink.
I puff out a breath and lean on the gate. The garden looks so peaceful with its lit pool and the empty chaise lounges. Azaleas grow around a raised round platform where I can imagine a small orchestra playing. Or a couple sitting to eat.
I close my eyes and can’t figure why there’s a sting at the back of my eyes. I’m not going to cry for Storm. I barely know him.
“Goodbye,” I whisper. “And thank you for last night.”
“How about a repeat?” he says from behind me, and I scream, turning and slamming my back into the iron gate. “Ray…”
He’s breathing hard, and his chest gleams with sweat. He was out running, and I somehow missed him coming after me. The light catches on his sharp cheekbones and bright eyes, turning them to gold.
“Hey,” I say, my mouth dry as dust.
“You were saying goodbye.” His brows come together, and he leans against the gate, so close I can feel the warmth from his body. “Why? Are you leaving?”
“That’s when people usually say goodbye.”
“Why are you running, Ray?”
“Goodbye, Storm.”
“Don’t.” He pushes off the gate and takes my face in his hands. “Stay.”
“I can’t.” The stinging in my eyes is back. I should go before I start bawling in front of him.
“Stay tonight.”
“It’s a bad idea.”