Page 4 of The House Beyond the Dunes

“It’s going to be a great weekend,” Kyle says. We’ve stopped at the redbrick Currituck Lighthouse Historic Park, and we’re parked next to a row of air tire pumps in the shadow of the lighthouse. He reaches across me, removes an air gauge from the glove box, and kisses me on the lips. “Can’t wait to get you alone. Be right back.”

“What are you doing?”

“Letting air out of the tires. It’s called airing down,” he explains. “You can only drive on the beach with deflated tires. Better traction. Don’t want us getting stuck in the sand.”

“We’re leaving the hard surface road?”

“Only way to get where we’re going.”

My nerves ripple, but I can’t tell if it’s with worry or anticipation. Maybe both. This is going to be our big weekend. “I’ve never driven on sand before.”

“It’s a sight to see.” He gets out of the car, and I follow, mostly because I like being close to him.

“Are we headed to the middle of nowhere?” The wind is brisk, but the sun is warm as I watch him kneel by the front driver’s-side tire. Kyle has a long, lean body earned in a gym and by consuming two protein shakes a day. He’s always careful with his appearance. He’s a far cry from the underpaid social workers I’ve worked with as part of my dissertation. Social workers and grad students favor faded jeans, graphic T-shirts, and hiking boots. Court days mean a wardrobe upgrade to khakis and a slightly rumpled button-down shirt.

“It feels like that sometimes. But the isolation is what I like about it.” He brushes a thick lock of dark-brown hair away from his gray eyes. “Wait until we get to my place. It’ll just be us. Total privacy.” When he smiles, his eyes warm.

“I like it when you look at me like that,” I say.

He rises, stands so close I must crane my neck to meet his gaze. “And how do I look at you?”

“Like I’m the only person in the world.”

He kisses me gently on the lips. “Right now, you are.”

Voices from the hospital hallway reach through the curtain and pull me away from the memory. My eyes flutter open. I roll my head to the left and glance at the digital clock: 9:30 p.m. I sit up, suddenly alert. I’ve fallen asleep for almost two hours. Shit. I must get out of here.

Where are you, Shelly?Without my phone, wallet, pills, or clothes, I’m dead in the water. I can’t Uber my way home without a phone or walk out with a bad hip. And ticking clocks in a hospital mean dollars leaking from my paltry bank account.

There’s a knock on my doorframe. I run a hand over my short hair. “Yes?”

The curtains rustle, and a pale face peeks in the room. It’s my neighbor, Shelly. She’s a midfifties woman who likes her tattoos, bourbon, and her three cats—Wink, Blink, and Nod. We’ve lived in the dilapidated building in the Ghent district for a couple of years. We’re not close, but we did exchange numbers and keys in case one of us gets locked out or disappears. Nice having someone who’ll notice if I vanish.

Shelly’s sweatshirt swallows her thin frame, and faded bell-bottom jeans graze blue flip-flops. My neighbor doesn’t wear socks, or really shoes, no matter how cold it is outside, and most days her bare feet are splashed with the green, yellow, and blue acrylics she uses in her paintings. She’s a starving artist.

“Lane.” Shelly twirls a gray strand between her fingers. She has a cigarette tucked behind her ear.

I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life. Tears pool in my eyes, and it takes effort to keep them from spilling. “Shelly, thanks for coming. I was afraid you wouldn’t get the message.”

Shelly clutches a paper grocery bag. “What happened?”

“Long story. I just want to get out of here.” I realize one of the nurses has removed my IV, so I swing my legs around and ease off the bed. The nerves in my left leg scream only a little. Not perfect. But manageable.Slow and steady.

Shelly approaches, smelling of cigarettes and turpentine. I’ve warned her about the combination, but she tells me not to worry. I have five smoke detectors in my apartment now. “Funny, I never play back messages.”

I smooth my hands over the gown’s thin cotton. “Maybe you felt my desperation.”

“No, I didn’t feel anything. I accidentally hit ‘Play’ instead of ‘Delete.’” Shelly is literal. Sarcasm and expressions of speech go over her head.

Accepting the grocery bag, I peer inside and see my clothes. I did laundry before my big weekend, so at least the garments are clean. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t know what to get, so I grabbed a few tops and a couple of pairs of jeans. There’s just one pair of shoes.”

“It’s perfect.”

“Do you need help getting dressed?” Shelly hovers, but she looks ready to bolt. She’s a recovering addict who has enjoyed moderate success with sobriety. From what she told me last week, she’s been clean an entire month. Baby steps. I’ve worked with enough addicts to know the struggle is intense.

“No, I think I can manage,” I say.

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