"Hand me that wrench, would you?" Paul asked, his voice a gentle rumble that pulled me back to the present.

I blinked away the remnants of a flashback, the forest road, and the fear fading away as I focused on the task again.

"Sure." I said, clearing my throat. A shiver ran down my spine. I was beginning to question my own memory, my sanity. What if I hadn't hit a deer? What if it had been... "Damn it!" I muttered under my breath, scraping my knuckles against the sharp edge of the car's frame.

Paul took the wrench and examined my hand. "You're bleeding. Are you okay?"

"It's a scratch." And it was, but the truth was, today, flashbacks had been as often as reruns on the television. One moment I'd be going about my day, then next, I was back in the dark, seeing the flash of eyes followed by an impact and the sickening crunch of metal against... something.

"Look, Dana," Paul said, holding my gaze with a seriousness that demanded my attention. "Are you sure you are okay?"

His words struck a chord, tapping into the loneliness I'd been trying so hard to ignore since my arrival. For a moment, I considered confiding in him, telling him about the flashbacks, the gnawing uncertainty over what I'd hit, and the loneliness that enveloped Lucille's place. But how could I burden him with my problems when we'd met days before? How could I expect him to understand what I was going through when I couldn't even make sense of it myself?

"Thanks, Paul." I offered a weak smile. "I just need to focus. I'll see if Jenny needs a hand instead."

"Alright," he agreed. "But don't push yourself too hard, okay?"

I nodded and strolled back into the small office, where a stack of invoices cluttered Jenny's side of the desk. She appeared to ignore them with no intention of doing anything with them. It had taken less than an hour yesterday to become accustomed to our joint work ethic, which held an uneven balance of power in her direction. But I didn't mind. Work, like study, kept my mind occupied and provided a respite from real-world problems. During long summer nights, with the window cranked open, I listened to the crickets and katydids outside our apartment while throwing myself into my student art blog. It beat sitting idle waiting on Antoine's nightly message.

For the next few hours of the day, I sifted through, stamping any that were now overdue for payment. Looking out of the window, I lost myself to the warm glare reflected by the sun on the glass on my face—that was all it took for it to find me again. I flinched, bracing for imaginary impact; my heart beating harder in my chest.

"You okay, Dana," Paul said from across the room. He wiped oily hands on a used rag, a sympathetic smile tugging on his lips.

These flashbacks must be written all over my face. Embarrassed, I gave him a quick nod before redirecting my gaze back at a set of purple slips with checking account information on them. I counted twenty. All showed different customer names. Rather than an invoice to pay, these showed payments made out instead.

"Jenny, who is Dr. P Ravindran?" The name was on faint gray lettering, most likely a carbon-embossed copy of the original. "

"Dude's dead," she said, flicking over a page in the novel she was reading. "Swipe left if I were you."

"When?" I pressed. "I'm not on Tinder."

She shrugged and continued, but the last payment to the Doctor was only last month. I gathered the purple slips and stashed them in my bottom drawer to query Luke. I had retrieved them at the back of the filing room, nowhere near the purple crate. Debt was as familiar to me as zits before my period. Unaccounted expenditures would see Luke and Paul fall into the same hole I had.

At midday, I walked into town with an address on letter headed paper: Arthur Jenkins—Probate and Family Law Practice. When I found the office between a florist and a bakery, the secretary was busy tapping on a keyboard. I cleared my throat. The vase on the table held flowers that were long dead. The metal window blinds on a pull string had several years' worth of dirt accumulated on them.

She took off her reading glasses that were on a chain around her neck. Her pink two-piece suit and short, dark gray waves with flecks of white reminded me of Jackie Onassis but decades older.

"I have a meeting with Mr. Jenkins. My name is Dana Delane."

Her eyes were unapologetic as they roamed down my ratty white t-shirt and jeans. I was sure I brought the smell of motor oil with me and resisted the urge to sniff to confirm it.

"Take a seat, Miss. Delane," she said with a note of disdain. "Arthur is on a telephone call in his office and will be with you shortly."

Certificates of achievement dotted the sage-painted walls. The stacked pile of National Geographic magazines on the central coffee table looked older than my years. After five minutes, my eyes bounced to the clock and then to the secretary, who was already staring at me. A door behind her opened, and a frail, balding man in a full suit greeted me with a much warmer smile than his secretary had.

"Please accept my sincerest apologies for keeping you waiting. Come this way." He held the door back as I stood and proceeded into the room. He maneuvered around a mahogany desk and sat down, gesturing for me to do the same.

"Miss. Delane, in your grandmother's last will and testament, she wished to give you her house. I take it you received the keys I sent?"

I nodded. "Great. I need to sell."

Arthur raised a single brow. "Oh. So be it. Before I can transfer the deeds to enable a sale, her entire estate needs to go through probate. We assess assets and possessions and clear debts before acting on her last wishes."

"You said in your letter that probate takes one month?"

He frowned. "Around that for probate to clear, but for a sale after, around three months, to be safe. Do you have questions?"

My jaw dropped. Three months? I shook my head, trying to find words to convey how much I cherished having kneecaps. "The letter that accompanied the keys said I was to sign paperwork that would take one month. What paperwork takes three? You don't understand; I need to sell now. How can we speed this up?"

His eyes grew sympathetic. "Probate is a process. Lucille instructed that you receive the keys before the transfer of the deeds. The letter you received is correct. You must sign legal documents that take around a month to process. I apologize; I thought you knew that selling would take more time. First, there is listing the property with a realtor; the market is slow in Benton. Few families are moving in. People stick to their roots here; they don't downsize or size up a house on a whim. You need to prepare yourself that it might take time."

Antoine would never give me the entire summer without consequence. During our last interaction, I'd promised my return in weeks, not seasons. My stomach knotted, twisting the longer I pondered the future.

"What can I sell instead?" I blurted out. Beads of sweat broke on my temple. I stood and swayed, gripping the back of the chair until my balance returned. I wanted to vomit.

Arthur scanned line-by-line over the paperwork in front of him. "The items within the property have all been itemized and valued already..."

"Apart from a couple of stray boxes, it's already gone to Goodwill!" I turned toward the door and paused with my hand on the doorknob. A darker thought crossed my mind. Perhaps, in those last remaining boxes were some family heirloom, something of value to pawn... My eyes squeezed shut—it felt like grave robbing.

Lucille, my paternal grandmother, had been a living person. Struck by this notion, I hadn't considered the most significant factor—where was Lucille now? I couldn't have been more than five years old when I left town with my parents. Did we have a family plot, a special tree, or anything?

"Where is she buried?" I cast a glance back over my shoulder. If this woman would solve my financial problems, I owed it to her to pay my last respects.

He flicked the contents of his file and drew a blank. Again, he shrugged, the lines on his face deepening. "I'm sorry, it doesn't say. Cremation is a possibility. I don't have that information here. All communication with the executor of her will, a Mr. D Benton, has been via telephone. I'm afraid there is a number, but that's confidential. I will be in touch via my secretary, Mindy. She will keep you up to date on progress. Papers will need signing and witnessing."

There wasn't much else I could do. Dejected, I strolled back to the shop and stopped mid-step as a crow landed. I stuck my tongue out at it and shooed it away—dirty sky rats. If they did know my business, this one seemed to mock me for it—the damn bird didn't even flinch.

Back at the car shop, Jenny approached me with a sympathetic smile. Her fire-engine red nails tapping against her clipboard. "You look like you could use a drink."

"More like five," I muttered, running my fingers through my dark corkscrew curls.

"Tell you what," she offered. "I know a great little bar. It'll help take your mind off things."

"Really?" I asked, hoping that this small break would allow me to forget my troubles for at least a few hours.

Jenny grinned. "Come on, let's go have some fun. I'll have you safe at home pining for whatever city you're from in no time."

My curiosity piqued. I said yes for her, not for me, and because I would become isolated when I stepped back into Lucille's. After committing to a month that now stretched to three, I would need something to take my mind off the inevitable conversation with Antoine that was to come. She didn't even give me time to change when the clock hit four. Three blocks from the shop, a bar sat concealed within an alleyway. A dumpster sat next to the door, scattered with trash. Weeds sprung up through gaps in the pavement.

The moment Jenny pushed open the creaky door of the bar, a pungent mix of stale beer and cigarette smoke cemented itself to my clothes. We stepped inside, and my eyes widened, attempting to absorb the last of the daylight before the door closed behind us.

The dim lighting amplified the neon bar signs dotted around the room. They cast a muted red ambiance to spark and dance around the room's four corners. The bar was off to the right; it was wall-to-wall with people, with a barren dance floor at the back. A jukebox played against the laughter and sound of a hundred different conversations. A lopsided pool table occupied a corner, and a few regulars hunched over their drinks.

When Jenny said bar, this wasn't what I had in mind. Ninety percent of the world's elderly were here—biding their time in God's waiting room.

"Here we are," Jenny announced. "Best place to forget your troubles."

"Right," I said, fully committing, trying to muster up enthusiasm as we squeezed into a booth near the back. It wasn't my scene, but I was desperate for the distraction.

We settled into seats. The male bartender flashed a flirtatious smile as Jenny ordered drinks. After our third and general chat about work, Jenny succumbed to her idea of dumping the car, sharing a taxi home, and going on a bender. Whatever bankroll she had afforded her the luxury of drinks and the prospect of a ride.

But some things you need more than they need you. Tonight was one of them. The aching loneliness was crushing at best and bleak at worst. I wouldn't survive for three months if I didn't maintain human contact. And if I left, the rolling debt that factored into every waking moment's decisions would always be there.

The saving grace was that it occurred to me at that moment that I was saving money on gas I'd banked for the wreck-of-a-car I couldn't drive. I'd give myself the night off from the financial burdens that consumed me. I'd live a little in the infectious worry-free light that haloed Jenny's every waking decision. If I hit the spirits, I'd avoid the overpriced fruity drinks, and then I'd only need a few.

For the next hour, that's what we did. When the fourth set of drinks arrived, I sensed the weight of eyes on me. I continued to sip on my rum and coke, the ice clinking against the glass as I watched Jenny chat with the bartender. I scanned faces on the opposite side of the bar until I saw Paul. He smiled a sexy smile. The spark it resonated didn't feel on purpose, I assumed that's just how he did it, however his gaze lingered long enough that I felt the heat in my cheeks rise to the surface. 

I dragged my eyes away, reprimanding myself that I couldn't look straight back up otherwise he would know in a second that I was crushing; my stomach mid-somersault, I wondered how long it had been since I last got properly laid.

I looked back up to see his expression had shifted, his eyes now on the verge of curiosity, as he dragged his teeth over his bottom lip. I decided right then the answer to my last question: way too long. My fingers tightened around the glass, cold condensation dripping onto my lap.

Next to him was no one I knew. But that's when I clocked the person beside him. Paul clasped a hand on the shoulder of the giant next to him. Then the stranger looked at me, really looked at me. Deep-set eyes locked onto mine, and in that instant, my pulse raced, my breath hitched, and everything else in the bar seemed to disappear.

My drink forced its way back up my throat in one spluttery cough.

It's him. The man I hit.

A searing jolt of recognition slammed into me, and in a split second, I was back on that fog-drenched road, the screech of tires and my own panicked screams reverberating in my ears. I remembered the flash of headlights illuminating an unterrified face before impact. The same deep-set eyes that haunted me every time I closed my own. The eyes that were looking straight back at me right now.

His loathsome stare bore into mine. Strands of dark, grease-slicked hair reached down the man's shoulders.

"It was a deer," Paul had said.

It couldn't have been.

When the stranger stood, he did so in calculated steps, in some degree of pain caused by simple movements. His left arm was in a navy-blue sling with a substantial gash above his eye.

I am responsible. Then I left the scene of an accident...

Paul was insistent I'd hit an animal. He knew because his eyes hardened, his smiles long gone.

Salt water flooded my mouth. I'm going to throw up.

"What the—?" the stranger began, but I didn't hear the rest. My heart hammered against my ribs as if trying to escape my chest, and bile rose in my throat. The room spun around me, the walls closing in.

I scrambled out of the booth, knocking over my drink in the process. The glass shattered, ice scattering across the floor in prickling shards, but I barely registered it. All I could think about was getting away from those eyes, from the truth they held.

"Dana?" Paul called after me, his voice laced with confusion. But I couldn't stay, not with that man standing there.

Paul moved around the bar, headed straight for me. I stumbled toward the exit, ignoring the curious stares of the other patrons as I flung the door open, bolting out into the night. The cold night air hit me like a splash of ice water.

The doorway to the bar slammed behind me. My chest heaved, taking in ragged breaths. I recognized his eyes. There hadn't been an ounce of surprise in his eyes when I'd hit. Why would they have lied about such a thing?

The door to the bar swung open, rattling the door frame. Paul called my name from behind. His work boots pounding the pavement until he caught up. He reached for me but I took two steps back.

"How?" I said, my tone uncertain as my thoughts galloped a mile a minute. "How do I hit a man, and nobody seems to care?

"Listen—" he started but I cut him off.

"Trauma clouds the memory. Memories distort. Sometimes our minds lie, or at least twist the truth. A defense mechanism. Right, Paul? Tell me that's what's happening. Tell me I didn't hit that man, please."

My legs swayed, the last drink before I'd left, making its presence known. I searched his eyes for the confirmation I so desperately needed in this moment.

Paul sighed. "Jenny, introduce your brother."

Oh shit. The unsteady clap of her heels told me our excesses had put us in the same boat. She nodded once at Paul. "His name is Carlyle," Jenny replied, "But fuck can you run, Dana."

A hushed silence descended before Carlyle opened the bar exit. He strolled to her side, all the while maintaining eye contact with me.

"What happened to you?" I asked Carlyle, the only other person who would know my truth.

The man checked his watch and then rolled his eyes. "Do we have to do this now? I've got a drink sat at the bar." The malice in his voice was hard to ignore. Paul and Carlyle traded glances and within them, a nonverbal exchange seemed to take place that I wasn't privy to. Everyone now stared at me.

"Not you," Carlyle finally said.

Paul turned to me. "Do you want me to take you home, Dana."

I nodded. I still needed help formulating a series of events that satisfied us both. But Carlyle was mad as hell at me or inconvenienced by having to leave the bar for a stranger. I forced out a deep breath, relaxed my shoulders, and reigned in all feelings back to where they felt less exposed. I was an expert at this.

For most of my life, the emotions others saw in my face were only the chosen ones I allowed them to see—my art was an expression of everything else I couldn't share out loud. Alcohol had a tendency to bring that particular dam down crashing. I was right. This was a me thing.

I slid into the passenger seat of Paul's truck, my hands trembling as I clutched my purse. The leather felt slick beneath my fingers, and I tried to steady my breathing. Paul slipped into the driver's side. He glanced at me, concern etched on his face, before starting the engine.

The ride home was awkward. I refused to look at Paul, but the rolling view out the window was turning my stomach. When we pulled up, he didn't turn his engine off. Silence passed between us, and I had no clue how to rectify the mess I had made. Once I settled in Benton, things would become easier. They had to.

"I haven't been sleeping lately," I confessed. "I see Carlyle's eyes every time I close my mine."

"You've been having flashbacks?" he asked, fidgeting against the headrest to look over at me.

I nodded, my fingers curling around the edge of my seat as I stared out the window. The night was dark and heavy, the moon hidden behind a small veil of clouds. I shivered.

"Trauma makes us see patterns where there aren't any connections. There is no connection here, right?" I asked.

"Here," he said his voice soft but firm, holding his phone out. "Input your number and take mine too. It looks like, above anything, you could use a friend. If you can't sleep, call me. If you feel scared, call me. If you feel your mind is running away from you, pick up your phone and dial my number, or Jenny's. Call someone. Don't go through this alone."

His words wrapped around me like a warm embrace, soothing the jagged edges of my doubt. In that moment, I made a choice. I'd accept the help he was offering; after all, Paul had done nothing but look out for me since the day I arrived in town. With Carolyn half a world away, Paul was right. I needed a friend as much as I needed to leave town. When he pulled up to Lucille's house, he let the engine run.

"Think you'll be okay tonight?" he asked.

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep again," I admitted with honesty.

The car engine shut off, and he swiveled in his seat to face me. "Invite me in then."

I frowned. "Are you a vampire?"

A smile began to form on his lips and he turned fast to avoid me catching it. "No, Dana."

"Ahwoooo?" Oh, holy hell, I shouldn't have had that last drink...

He recomposed his face, but his eyes refused to still be nothing but amused. "Someone needs to take an urgent hiatus from Wattpad. If it would make you feel better to have someone with you until you fall asleep, I've got nothing but time and honest intentions."

Paul had the ability to stop my thoughts from spiralling, and that tonight, would give me a much needed break. I wasn't immensely thrilled by the idea of having a my boss sleepover. Mentally weighing my options, I wanted to be alone in this house even less.

"Okay." I nodded. "Until I fall asleep."

Paul followed a step behind me. My fingers fumbled with the light switch in the dark as I pushed open the door. As the light flooded the open space, Paul took in the kitchen to his right, the bathroom to his left and the open-plan bedroom, couch , briefly flitting over to a stack of cardboard boxes destined for Goodwill. He moved to the balcony and the view of the breaking waves outside. He let out a long whistle.

Lost to the ocean it took him a minute longer to turn around. "I respect the truth of why you feel you don't belong here, but know it's not the only truth in the room. Lucille cared about you from what I hear."

Exhausted and too plagued by my own thoughts to engage further, I smiled, appreciative that I wasn't alone again in Lucille's house. I handed Paul a spare sheet and he proceeded to make a makeshift bed on the couch. In no way did it look comfortable but he wouldn't be using it for long.

"You sure you'll be okay there?" I asked.

"Never better," he replied. "Get a good nights sleep. Once your off, I'll let myself out."

I waited until he settled into the couch before flicking off the light. "Do you regret ever bumping into me?" I called out in the dark.

"If I was to have regrets in life, I wouldn't know where to start, but you wouldn't be one of them. Get some sleep."

We fell into a comfortable silence. I peeked at him every now and again until my eyelids grew heavy and I couldn't stave off the sudden drop of my head as my eyes threatened to close with it. 

Two hours later, I woke restless. It was still dark. My mind began conjuring scenarios to fit the sinking feeling that resonated in my gut. I looked over to find Paul still spawled on the couch with wild bedroom hair, breathing steadily.

He'd fallen asleep himself. The light from the fullest moon I'd ever seen nestled over the ocean forming an iridescent stream on top of the water that traveled all the way through the window bathing Paul—Definitely not a werewolf.

I couldn't stop staring.

My eyes unapologetically roamed over his body. His build was a well-played balance of slender and muscular. My mother would have said that boys like him were either a blessing or a lesson, and with my mind set on leaving town, I pushed the thought aside in finding out which one he was.

Unable to settle, I crept out of bed and over to the pile of Lucille's boxes, curious about Paul's earlier comments about what Lucille's truth was. Fresh tape sealed the contents from view. I took my house key, piercing the lid down the seam.

A waft of perfume hit me—lilac and lavender. Sixteen years with most memories forgotten, and that smell was able to open doors long forgotten in my head. Tears pooled at the corners of my eyes as I recalled the soft hands that accompanied the scent of spring flowers as they styled my hair.

As a child, I shooed the crows on the deck that gathered. They'd pecked on the boards, becoming impatient.

"You shouldn't feed the crows, gamma," I'd said, waggling a pointed finger. "Daddy says we don't encourage them to come back."

She'd barked a hearty laugh that echoed in my small bones.

"There's worse things in the forest, baby. Now, be still. I'm almost done," she'd answered, tugging me back with a handful of my hair while she braided.

There was nothing in either box worth any cash, just embroidered shawls and spare blankets. My temple began to pound as I stood in her house with her belongings in my hands. I knew then, I would always be alone, like Lucille, because I didn't fit anywhere else. At least I had an answer to that question now.

Paul's voice was faint when he called my name, but it was enough to pull be back to the present. When I didn't answer, his fingers threaded through mine, as if they had always done that, gently tugging me back to my bed. After that, I slept better than I had before Lucille, before even Antoine. It was at that point I knew without a doubt, that boy might just be a blessing.