Chapter 4: Waking from the Dream
The cold was what woke me.
It seeped into my bones, a deep, clammy chill that had nothing to do with the weather. My eyes flew open to the familiar, low ceiling of the bathroom. The water in the claw-foot tub was tepid, lapping softly against my skin. Late afternoon sun, weak and golden, slanted through the small round window, painting a distorted oval on the opposite wall.
I was alone.
A shudder wracked me, violent and whole-body. I sat up, water sluicing off my shoulders. The room spun for a second. My heart was a frantic bird trapped behind my ribs.
Dream. The word was a fragile lifeline. It was a dream.
But my body told a different story. A profound, aching tenderness throbbed between my legs. The memory of fullness was so specific, so physical, it stole my breath. I looked down at myself, pale and half-submerged. My skin seemed too sensitive, as if it had been scrubbed raw. There were no marks. No bruises. No brand.
Slowly, trembling, I raised a hand from the water. My fingers, pruned and pale, drifted down over my stomach. They hesitated at the thatch of blonde curls, darker now when wet. I touched myself.
A sharp, electric jolt shot through me. I was swollen. Exquisitely sensitive. And when I traced a little lower, I found a slick, undeniable wetness that had nothing to do with the bathwater.
A low moan escaped my lips, part confusion, part shame, part something else I refused to name.
It felt real. The pressure of his knee, the bite of his teeth on my neck, the shocking, filling stretch of him… my inner muscles clenched around nothing, a phantom echo. A wave of heat, fierce and unwanted, washed over the chill.
I scrambled out of the tub, water cascading onto the worn wooden floor. I grabbed the towel I’d hung on the hook, clutching it to my chest like a shield. My legs were unsteady. I felt the ghost of his hands on my hips, guiding me, holding me down.
The living room. I had to see.
I padded, dripping, into the other room. The fire was dead, just a heap of grey ash in the hearth. The sofa…
I stared at it. The plaid blanket was neatly folded over one arm, just as I’d left it that morning. The cushions bore no imprint. I walked over, running my hand over the fabric. It was cool, slightly rough under my fingertips. I leaned closer, inhaling. Nothing but the smell of old wool and woodsmoke.
No scent of him. No trace.
But on the bookshelf, my notebook lay exactly where I’d left it before my bath. Closed. I picked it up. It felt ordinary. I opened it to a random page—my looping script describing the mist on the creek at dawn. No savage, explicit passage about church walls. I flipped through, my heart hammering. Nothing. Just my familiar, timid prose.
Had I imagined it all? The locked door? The reading? The… everything?
A knot of confused emotion tightened in my throat. Relief, so profound it made me dizzy, warred with a startling, gut-deep disappointment. The disappointment felt like a betrayal of myself.
“Get a grip, Lily,” I whispered to the empty cottage. My voice sounded small and lost.
I needed to move. To do something normal. I dressed mechanically in soft leggings and an oversized sweater, the fabric soothing on my hypersensitive skin. I made tea, the ritual of boiling water, steeping the leaves, focusing on the mundane details. The hot mug burned my palms, a good, clean pain.
I sat at the small kitchen table, staring out at the gathering dusk. The encounter on the path was real. The polaroid was real. He had been here, in this cottage. He had seen my notebook. The rest… my mind must have constructed it, a fever-dream spun from embarrassment, fear, and that strange, unwelcome attraction.
A sharp rap at the front door made me jump, sloshing tea onto the table.
My breath hitched. Finn.
But it wasn’t his confident, looming shadow through the frosted glass. It was smaller, rounder. I opened the door to find Mrs. Gable from two cottages down, holding a ceramic dish covered with a cloth.
“Thought you could use a proper welcome, dear,” she said, her eyes crinkling. “A bit of my rabbit stew. Fortifying for the autumn chill.”
“Oh, that’s… that’s so kind,” I stammered, stepping back to let her in. The normality of it was jarring.
She bustled in, placing the dish on the kitchen counter. Her sharp eyes took in the cottage, the single mug, my damp hair. “Settling in alright? It’s quiet out here. Gets into your bones if you’re not used to it.”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I was parroting phrases, my mind still half in that other, fabricated world.
“Seen anyone about?” she asked, a little too casually. “Besides old Tom at the shop?”
The image of Finn, leaning against the gatepost, flashed behind my eyes. “I met someone. Finn? Finn O’Malley.”
Mrs. Gable’s mouth pursed. It was a small, telling movement. “Finnigan. Yes. Helpful lad, when he chooses to be.” She smoothed her apron. “His family’s been here forever. His uncle runs the Hare and Hound. Finn does… odd jobs.”
There was a universe of meaning in her pause. Odd jobs.
“He seemed… friendly,” I ventured, feeling like a spy in my own life.
“Friendly is one word for it.” She fixed me with a look that was both kind and severe. “He’s a wild one, that boy. Charms the birds from the trees, they say. But birds have a way of getting caught, don’t they? You mind yourself, Lily. A young girl alone. He’s not for the likes of you.”
The likes of you. The sweet, clumsy girl from out of town. The innocent.
If only she knew. If only the dream in my head had been just a dream.
“I’ll be careful,” I said, the words tasting like ash.
She left with more admonitions about locking my doors, which I solemnly promised to do. The stew smelled rich and gamey, but my stomach turned at the thought of food.
I locked the door after her. The click was too loud. I turned and leaned against it, sliding down to sit on the floor, the chill of the wood seeping through my leggings.
He’s not for the likes of you.
But what was I like? I wasn’t who I was yesterday. The girl who’d blushed on the path was gone. Someone else had woken up in that bath, someone whose body remembered sensations that never happened, whose skin still hummed with the memory of a violation I’d both feared and craved.
I needed proof. Of something. Of anything.
I got up and went to the small writing desk. I pulled open the drawer where I’d tucked the polaroid he’d given me. It wasn’t there. A cold spike of panic. Had I imagined that, too? I rifled through papers, my hands growing clumsy.
Then I saw it, peeking out from under a sheaf of blank paper. I must have moved it. I pulled it out.
There I was, captured in stark, chemical white and shadow. My eyes were wide, my lips parted in surprise. The sunlight haloed my messy hair. It was me, but a version of me I’d never seen—caught, exposed, beautiful in a raw, stolen way.
I turned it over. The writing was there, the black marker bold and undeniable.
Truth or Honesty? - F
It was real. He was real. The line between what happened and what my mind had woven was blurring, dissolving.
A different memory surfaced, sharp and clear: his voice, gritty and low, saying “Learn to make it better. I’ll be back.”
A promise. Or a threat.
The ache between my legs intensified, a dull, sweet throb. I looked from the polaroid in my hand to the dead fireplace, to the innocent sofa. The disappointment I’d felt earlier crystallized into something harder, sharper.
I didn’t want it to be a dream.
The realization was a quiet avalanche inside me. The shame burned, but beneath it was a darker, more thrilling current. He had seen something in me, something even I hadn’t known was there. He had named it, provoked it, and then… my imagination had finished his work for him.
But he was coming back.
I stood up, the polaroid clenched in my hand. I walked to the kitchen and looked at the pathetic little tin of pre-ground coffee. Terrible. I opened the bin and tipped it in. The grounds made a soft, final sound as they hit the bottom.
Tomorrow, I would go to the village. I would find the proper shop, buy fresh beans, a grinder. I would learn.
The key was still in the inside lock. I turned it, the bolt sliding home with a solid, metallic thud. But for the first time, locking the door didn’t feel like keeping something out. It felt like waiting.