Page 73 of The House Beyond the Dunes

Chapter Nineteen

LANE

Sunday, December 31, 2023

5:00 p.m.

I turn on the shower, and as the steam builds, I lock the bathroom door, double test that it’s secure, and then strip down, leaving my clothes in a heap on the floor. Under the spray, the hot water blasts my skin, beads against my face, and melts the chill in my bones as it eases the stiffness in my hip. My bruises are a brutally dark band running along my left side.

I sit on the bed in the main bedroom and slip off my shoes. Kyle enters the room and smiles, moves to the bed, and cups my face in his hands. He kisses me and nudges me back to the mattress.

I’m a little startled by his boldness. I thought we were going to ease into this weekend.

He kisses the side of my neck. “I’ve wanted this from the moment I first saw you.” Champagne lingers on his lips.

My stomach churns, and I blame it on the champagne. “I thought we were going to take this slow.”

His eyes are guarding his thoughts. There’s something he wants to say but won’t or can’t. “We have been taking it very slowly, Lane.”

He runs his hand up under my sweater, over my belly, and to the crest of my breast. “I know you’re shy, but you’ll be glad.”

His fingers skim down my belly to the waistband of my pants. I’ve fantasized about this moment, but now that it’s racing toward me, I’m scared. Stupid to be frightened, but there it is. I push his hand away, but he traps it in his own and pins it over my head.

There’s an awareness in this moment I can’t explain. I squirm under him, but he locks my legs in place under his body. He’s strong, and I can’t move. An overwhelming sense of helplessness squeezes the air from my lungs. Breathing is now difficult. “Kyle, no. I’m not ready.”

He unsnaps my pants. “There’s a wild woman inside you, I know it, Lane.”

I glance over at the nightstand toward a clock. The red numbers read 12:55 p.m. I extend my arm, stretching my fingers until they graze the clock. I nearly knock the lamp over as I try to get ahold of it. But I do, and without thinking, I strike Kyle on the side of the head.

And then ... nothing.

Where did that memory come from? It can’t be real.

In a blink, the hot water turns cold. How did I drain the hot water tank so quickly? I draw in a hard breath and scramble to shut off the water. My skin chills, and I grab a large white towel and wrap it around my body. Wet hair drips on my shoulders and the floor.

When I look down and see the puddles, I’m transfixed by the way the water reflects the overhead lights. My mind jumps back to a moment when I’m much younger. My skin is icy, and I can hear someone telling me to scrub harder. Freezing water burrows into my bones. My teeth chatter.

Stepping out of the bathroom, I rush to my clothes lying on the bed. My hands tremble as I tug on my thick black sweater, undergarments, and jeans. I wrap the towel around my hair and walk to the large mirror in the bedroom to find a cold, drowned rat–like woman staring back. Nothing special to look at here, and I wonder again why a guy like Kyle showed interest in my plain face and unsexy clothes.

“Because he did, Lane. Stop thinking about what can’t be changed or explained.”

I normally don’t wear makeup, but I decide tonight might be a good time to try. I dig through my suitcase and find the drugstore makeup I packed Thursday evening. I apply foundation, a little powder, brown eye shadow, and mascara. Digging through my bag, I search for lipstick. I remember examining all the shades of peach in the drugstore, but realize now I’ve purchased crimson red. How did I manage such a mistake?

I twist open the lipstick and stare at the very deep red hue. Maybe I’d been overwhelmed by all the makeup choices. Ivory versus light beige. And there’d been dozens of blushes. Cream and powdered. Cinnamon and rose. By the time I’d reached the lipsticks, I’d been impatient, ready to get out of the store. A stupid mistake that’s cost me fifteen bucks.

Whatever, I rub the lipstick over my lips, a bit shocked by the bright color. It’s not me. Doesn’t look like me. But the extra pop of color kind of works.

I glance at the clock, the same clock from my memory. It’s not cracked or bent, and shouldn’t it be if I hit Kyle with it?

The red numbers blink 5:55 p.m. That can’t be right. How could I fall so far behind? I was in the shower for forty-five minutes?

Quickly, I towel dry my hair and apply mascara. Downstairs I slip on my boots, slide on my coat, and grab a bottle of Burgundy from the stocked wine rack and a bottle opener from a drawer. The sun has long since set, shrouding the rows of darkened houses and the street in an inky darkness never seen in Norfolk. No light pollution here.

No one in their right mind would be up here now unless they had a massive deadline and needed extreme quiet, or contractors like Reece with repair work, or women like me working shit out.

The sand squishes under my boots as cold winds gust through my damp hair. I move past a construction dumpster that’s already full of discarded drywall. Under the house, there are several piles of lumberstacked neatly in the center, sawhorses, circular saws, and gray plastic trash cans filled with scrap lumber.

I slowly climb the stairs. On the porch, I don’t see a doorbell, so I knock. Inside the house, footsteps echo before the door opens. Reece has changed into a clean blue T-shirt and combed back his hair. Drywall particles still dust his jeans and boots. I appreciate the effort.

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