If You Stay

  Mila actually smiles.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re not all broken up about it.”

  I shrug. “I’m used to it.”

  Mila studies me quietly.

  “Why are you really here?” she asks. “I didn’t need for you to bring me a sweater. Or six.” She chuckles. “Obviously I’ll be all set in red sweaters for Christmas though. So thank you.”

  She pauses and looks at me and her face is very delicate. I hadn’t noticed before how delicate she is. I can’t imagine her trying to pull me out of a car. I must outweigh her by a hundred pounds.

  “So?” She raises an eyebrow and I realize that I haven’t answered her question. I don’t exactly know what to say, so I decide to simply tell the truth. It’s a novel concept for me.

  “I couldn’t remember if I thanked you for what you did,” I tell her. “And I can’t get you out of my head.”

  Her breath freezes on her lips. I can hear the startled little intake of breath and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. Did the truth scare her? Or has she been thinking about me too?

  I look at her.

  And for a moment, we are suspended in the moment. She drags her bottom lip into her teeth and her green eyes are liquid. She turns her face slightly, the curve of her cheek catching the sunlight from the window.

  We are frozen.

  And then she breaks the spell.

  “You’ve been thinking about me?” she whispers. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “Maybe I feel like I owe you.”

  “You don’t,” she answers quickly, her voice clear and sure. “You don’t owe me anything. I’m glad I was there to help, but it was purely coincidence and anyone would have done the same. ”

  Her hands flutter around her nervously as she shuffles paper on the counter. I shake my head and smile.

  “Not everyone would have done that,” I tell her. “Not at all.”

  She’s hesitant now, probably remembering that night and how I had apparently puked all over her. Finally, she smiles too.

  “Okay, fine. Not everyone would have given you mouth to mouth. Maybe you do owe me. What are you going to do about it?”

  Her sassy words seem to startle her as much as they startle me. She looks surprised as soon as they are out of her mouth. But she’s nowhere near as surprised as I am. Is she flirting? With me?

  My, what big teeth I have.

  I once again feel like the wolf as I smile at her, as I turn on my charm. I have it, I just seldom care enough to use it. I’m baffled as to why I’m using it now. But I am. Because her sassiness was an invitation.

  “Hmm,” I answer, grinning my best flirtatious grin. “What would you like? A pint of blood?”

  She laughs, nervous and musical, before she shakes her head. “No, I gave up drinking blood a long time ago. I developed an allergy.”

  Warmth floods through me before I can stop it. She has a sense of humor. I love that in a woman. I grin back.

  “Okay, noted. No blood for you. Okay, I’ve got it. Clearly, you’re an artist who likes to feature the lake in your work. I happen to have one of the best views in Angel Bay from my beach. It’s private and quiet and no one will bother you. You can use it whenever you’d like. How about that?”

  I don’t know why I just offered that. There is utter silence and I can feel my heart pound as I wait for her to respond. Why do I care what she says? But I wait, holding my breath, until she speaks.

  “That’s quite an offer,” she finally says, her gaze still holding mine. We seem to be doing a lot of staring today. “Do you live alone? I’d hate to disturb anyone.”

  I’m more relieved by her answer than I care to admit. And then I’m amused.

  She’s fishing.

  “You’re very direct,” I answer, my lip twitching again. “Most girls try to be more subtle when they ask if I have a girlfriend. But the answer is no. I’m not married. And I don’t have a girlfriend. You won’t be disturbing anyone.”

  She blushes now, a faint pink that spreads from her cheeks down to her chest. I like it. It’s seems very soft, very feminine. Once again, I fight the urge to reach out and trace the delicate color with my thumb. What the fuck is wrong with me? I jam my hand into my pocket instead.

  “Hmm,” she answers. “It seems a shame to waste a view like that on one person. I bet sunrises are amazing there. Something like that should be shared.”

  I laugh now, loudly. She completely just walked into this and I’m pretty sure she didn’t mean to.

  “You don’t have to beat around the bush about it, Mila. If you want to be there at sunrise, just pack an overnight bag when you come out.”

  No one could miss my suggestive tone.

  And she doesn’t.

  She blushes again, her cheeks bright red.

  “That’s not what I meant,” she mumbles. She’s embarrassed and I like it.

  “No?” I ask, my eyebrow still cocked. “Because I can certainly arrange a sleepover.”

  “I’m sure,” she says wryly. “But no. Thank you for the invite, though.” She’s laughing now, her blush fading. “Truly, thank you for the offer of your beach. I can paint the lake from memory, but it’s always nice to actually be there looking at it. A new view will be great. Artists are visual people.”

  The air seems to whoosh out of me for some reason and I don’t even know why. Perhaps it is the thought of her sleeping over. Or maybe it is the sound of her voice. It seems to have a profound effect on me.

  I step toward her and she looks uncertain, but she doesn’t move away.

  “Men are visual too,” I tell her softly, my eyes frozen on hers. “So I understand. But there is something that bothers me, something that puts me at a disadvantage. And I really don’t like feeling disadvantaged.”

  “What is it?” she asks, her eyes not leaving mine.

  “You’ve seen me at my worst. Maybe you should see me at my best.”

  My words hang between us, heavy and charged, and I don’t know what the fuck I am doing.

  “When are you at your best?” she asks hesitantly. And I can see from the determined look on her face that she is trying hard not to feel intimidated. I’m impressed. She’s like a kitten standing up to a lion.

  “In bed.”

  My answer is simple. And her eyes shoot sparks in response.

  “You’re kind of arrogant, aren’t you?” she demands, her hands on her slender, paint-spattered hips. “A simple Thank you for saving my life would suffice. I don’t need for you to carry me off to your bed to show your gratitude.”

  I pause for a minute before I try to smooth her ruffled feathers.

  “Calm down,” I tell her quietly. “I’m sorry. It’s a habit. I was just joking. Sometimes I have an inappropriate sense of humor. Thank you for the other night. I’m sorry I didn’t say it before.”

  She purses her lips and then sighs.

  “It’s okay,” she answers. “And you did say it in the hospital. You didn’t need to come here and say it again. I have been wondering though…” and her voice trails off.

  It’s her turn to stare at me now and her gaze is contemplative. I stare back unflinching.

  “What?” I prompt. “What have you been wondering?”

  “Why did you do it?” she asks softly. “Why would you do that? It seems like you have a wonderful life.”

  I’m surprised again. This girl is very direct and doesn’t hesitate to say what she’s thinking. And she thinks that I purposely tried to kill myself. What the fuck?

  On the one hand, her direct attitude is refreshing. I have a feeling that she doesn’t play games. But on the other hand, it’s annoying as hell. Because sometimes I like to get lost in games so that I don’t have to provide any real answers.

  But I have a feeling that Mila doesn’t tolerate bullshit.

  “It was an accident,” I shrug. “I was being careless. It won’t happen again.”

  She’s still staring at me an
d I fight the urge to flinch. It’s like she’s looking inside of me, trying to pick me apart and examine me. I don’t like it.

  “Really?” she asks. She sounds doubtful, unsure. “I hope not. If you’re lying, I hope you get help. I might not be there next time to save you.”

  She turns on her heel and heads for the back room. And just like that, Mila the artist with the wholesome smile walks out of my life.

  I’m surprised by how much I don’t like the feeling.

  Chapter Seven

  Mila

  I’m dreaming again.

  As I walk down the aisle of a local church with the morning sun slanting through the windows, I know that I’m dreaming. I know it because I’ve visited this place a thousand times since my parents died.

  The dream is always the same.

  Nothing changes.

  Because of this, I know that I won’t be able to wake up until it is finished.

  I sigh and glance down.

  I’m wearing the same black dress that I wore to their funeral. It is fitted, yet flowing; somber, yet feminine. It is what I wear each time I have this dream, an endless reminder of that horrible day.

  With one black-slippered foot in front of the other, I pad down the aisle. I have no control of my feet. They are moving on their own accord. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. My right foot settles into the carpet, then the left. Then the right.

  Propelling me forward.

  Before I know it, I’m standing in front of two caskets, basking in sunlight, at the front of the church. One is white and lustrous, one is black and gleaming.

  Good and evil.

  When I first began having this dream, I thought this meant that one of my parents had been bad, deep down, and I’d never known about it. I put a lot of stock into dreams. I know that they mean significant things. So this thought, that one of my parents might be a troubled dark soul, weighed heavily upon me for quite a while. But then I realized that I had the meaning wrong.

  Because even though this dream is set on the day of their funeral, my parents aren’t here. They were cremated. They were never in caskets at the front of a church.

  This dream isn’t about them.

  It’s about the doubts that were formed in me the day they died, the doubts about the value of life itself. Life seems pointless if it is all for nothing; if everything ends in a fiery car crash, leaving only sadness behind.

  It is one reason I grew so adamant about being an artist. I wanted to create beauty to cancel out the ugly. Yin and Yang. Dark and light. Good and evil.

  My conscious self doesn’t dwell on this stuff anymore. But my subconscious has issues. And it clearly hasn’t settled them yet, thus the recurrence of this confusing dream. And to be honest, I haven’t completely figured it out yet.

  What I can see so far is that life consists of good and evil, black and white. And everything in between is a struggle for dominating the other. Life is a struggle.

  And I hate that it all ends with nothingness. That one day, you simply aren’t here anymore. No more smiles, no more tears, no more anything.

  Poof.

  Lights out.

  I sigh and run my finger along the black casket. The one housing the evil. It’s beautiful, even as it is bad. But as my arm moves, I catch sight of something different. Something that has never been here before.

  I have a jagged scar on my hand, right where my index finger meets my thumb.

  An X just like Pax’s.

  I startle and stare at it, noting how it is old and thick, just like his. In the sunlight, it seems sinister somehow, although I can’t imagine why. It’s just a scar. A hundred different things could have caused it.

  But why is it on me?

  I turn my hand in the light, rotating it in the sun, illuminating how it is as familiar on me as it is on him, as if I had worn it for years. As though it is comfortable on me, as though it is marking me for something.

  X marks the spot.

  I have no idea what it means. But something in my subconscious wants me to think on it, that much is true. There is something for me to ponder, something for me to solve. But I don’t know what.

  I shake my head and walk to the white casket. What I do know is that I have to finish this out so that I can wake up. So, I carefully open the lid of the good casket, exposing a million glistening sunbeams.

  They shoot from the casket and merge with the light pouring in from the window. The rays are beaming, sparkling, radiant. I stand in them, bathing in the warmth and the goodness, absorbing the light.

  And when I wake up, I know I will feel that energizing radiance for some time to come. It’s my subconscious way of boosting myself up. It’s how I coped with the grief after my parents died.

  It is how I cope with any kind of uncertainty now.

  And judging from the scar on my hand, I’m guessing that it is Pax’s appearance in my life that has given my subconscious pause. He is what has triggered this dream once again.

  While I can’t figure much of this dream out, at least that fact can only mean one thing.

  I’m more interested in Pax than I would like to admit.

  With a sigh, I roll out of bed and pad down the hall in my pajamas. There’s no way I’m going back to sleep now. Annoyed with myself for allowing a strange man inside my head, I bang everything around as I move around the kitchen. It doesn’t help my annoyance, but it does serve to wake me up.

  Thankfully, my day passes quickly. After four cups of strong coffee, I venture into the shop and visit with friendly customers. When business slows down, I work on a new painting…something bright and cheerful. Like always, a good piece of art lifts me out of my funk.

  I am humming as I duck out of the shop to grab a sandwich for lunch. As I pause to lock the door, I notice Pax’s black car parked on the street twenty yards from my shop. My head snaps up and I stare at it, my fingers frozen. He’s not in it. I don’t know if I am relieved or not.

  “Looking for someone?”

  Pax’s voice is right behind me.

  You’ve got to be kidding me. This is too coincidental. I slowly turn to find myself face to face with the very man who has invaded my thoughts. Pax smiles, a slow panty-dropping grin.

  “Are you stalking me again, Miss Hill?” He cocks an eyebrow.

  My heart hammers.

  “What?” I choke out. “This is my shop.”

  Pax shrugs. “And that’s my car. You were staring at it like you were hoping I would get out of it.”

  I’m guilty of that. I can’t say a word in my defense. Instead, I stare at him like an idiot.

  “What are you doing downtown?” I finally manage, changing the subject.

  “I don’t cook,” he explains. “I’m making a food run. The bar down the street makes good burgers.”

  “Oh,” I answer dumbly. “That’s what I’m doing too.”

  He lifts his eyebrow again.

  “Not the bar,” I add quickly. “I’m going to the deli, next door to the bar.”

  Pax smiles again. “All by yourself? Haven’t you heard that there are some bad things going on in Angel Bay? Just a while back, some dumbass overdosed on the beach. Apparently, they’re letting all kinds of assholes in nowadays. It’s probably not safe for you to walk alone.”

  I have to grin now, at his audacity.

  “Oh, really? Wow. That does sound bad. Assholes are just running loose on our streets? I guess I’ll never know now when I’m going to bump into one.”

  “How very true,” he answers softly, his golden eyes frozen on mine. Sweet Jesus. The man has beautiful eyes. So bottomless and warm. Like hot caramel. I gulp.

  “Is this when you take your lunch every day?” he finally asks,