Her hands reach around behind me and pull me forward, deeper into her mouth, but still there’s nothing there, not really. And besides growing brighter still, the room is getting warmer. A light sheen of perspiration has broken out across Jamie’s golden shoulders and brow.
I finally realize where the light is coming from. Fire. The entire perimeter of the room is in flames at floor level. The flames are licking upwards, consuming the walls as hungrily as Jamie is consuming me.
Something…something is tugging at my brain, but I can’t grab hold of it. All I know is that it’s somewhere else, somewhere other than in this fire-blasted room.
I put my hands on Jamie’s thin shoulders and shove her away from me. She disengages without protest, tumbling backward onto the floorboards. She looks up at me with empty, hollow eyes.
“You don’t have to go,” she says, and her voice has the monotone of someone talking in their sleep. “You can stay this time; it’ll be all right.” She begins to advance on me on her hands and knees, her long red hair swinging before her. “You don’t know what you want, but I do.”
I back out of the room and into the hallway. The flames are here, too, crawling up from the baseboards like glowing tongues.
Up the hallway now, to the kitchen. White is there, at the counter, chopping and slicing at the cutting board even as the room is going up in flames around her. She isn’t wearing her chef’s jacket—and why would she? It went up with the rest of the kitchen, didn’t it? Her olive-colored T-shirt is damp with sweat as she works, oblivious to what’s going on around her.
Barely missing a beat, she bends from the waist, uses the point of her knife to hook her burning chef’s jacket off the ground, and holds it up at arm’s length like a torch. Flaming bits of fabric fall away like tiny meteors. I can hear them sizzling.
“I’m sorry,” she says, flipping the blazing garment into the sink, where, improbably, a huge ball of flames then erupts.
“No!” I shout, starting forward. To do what, I don’t know. The entire room is in flames, burning completely out of control. Rather than joining in with the blaze, White’s T-shirt appears to be melting into great, gaping holes. One freckled shoulder comes into view as she turns back to the cutting board and her knife begins to move again.
“No,” I say again. “I don’t want your—”
“Sorry,” I croak, half-sitting up in bed. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. Everything in the room is unfamiliar.
It’s the panoramic view coming in through the windows that grounds me, brings me back to reality. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass panels are the lights of the city, my city, which is just as much my home as the one that burned earlier. I know every building that’s worth knowing, know what’s going on under the lights that still illuminate every floor. That kind of knowing is one of the ways I stay ahead.
If this were a movie, there would be a lingering smell of smoke in the air. As it is, though, the only thing I can smell is the fresh linen I got tangled in while I dreamt the night away.
Some dream, I think. And some night. Pretty poor night, all over the place.
I take up my phone and check the time. I’ve been asleep for only a few hours.
I groan. Too late to go back to sleep and too early to get up. Sleep is like a bad taste in my mouth, so I opt for getting up. I can’t believe I let myself get roped into golfing with Jeff later today.
Standing by the window, I look out over the city. Somewhere out there, White is sleeping the sleep of the content.
Why is she still in my thoughts when I know full well that to have her there will only stir up my anger and resentment? If I never see her again, as the saying goes, it will be too soon.
But I have seen enough to know that life is more than capable of throwing you curve balls. There’s still every chance that I’ll indeed cross paths with her again. If that happens, what will I do?
The thought follows me back to bed, where, for the next couple of hours, I fail to sleep.
Chapter 5 - Steph
“What’s with you?” Tira asks quizzically. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“More like someone who wishes I was a ghost,” I say, my eyes riveted on Stone as he continues to thread his way towards our table. I wonder if I’m smiling. He, notably, is not.
“Hey,” says Jeff when Stone finally reaches us. “Trent, this is Stephanie White. She’s a chef over at—”
“We’ve met,” Stone says…well, stonily. “Ms. White,” he says to me, nodding once slightly.
“Mr. Stone,” I reply, just barely catching the apology rising in my throat before it can escape my lips.
Jeff looks from his friend to me and back again. He is expecting further exchange based on our mutual acquaintance. He’s going to be waiting for a long time. Stone says nothing.
“Well, sit down,” Jeff laughs. Stone looks at him as though he had suggested a trip fly-fishing for lobsters, then takes the other of the two chairs Jeff had lugged over from a neighboring table.
“Trent tells me,” Jeff says, “that he had a real adventure yesterday. As a chef, you’ll probably be interested in this. His kitchen—”
“I know,” I say, twisting my hands miserably in my lap.
“You—” Jeff starts, then glances at Stone. “How—” he tries, then his eyes widen. “Oh, no, you can’t mean…I mean, what are the chances that—”
What are the chances? In my experience, Jeff old boy, the
