Now: Ana

The rusty taste of blood reminds me that this is real—that I’m not dreaming.

At least, not this time.

Covertly, I pull the injured lip into my mouth, sucking away the evidence of my self-inflicted injury.

Not that it was on purpose—entirely. How else is a person supposed to wake themselves up from a nightmare?

I feel a shadow pass over me, then another, and another.

I slit my eyes open, peering into the dimness that has blossomed these last few…hours?

I check the digital clock on the truck’s display.

5:43.

I don’t even remember falling asleep.

Our car passes under another tree, and I shiver, a rippling awareness passing over me. But unlike the shadow, this feeling remains; a feeling of knowing, of being here before. In another life, in my past life. Because in this life, in the one I am living now I am no one, I am nothing.

I know nothing, I have nothing.

At least, not yet.

A squeeze at my shoulder has me jumping in my seat. Harry snaps his hand back, recoiling from me like I’m some reptile, some cold-blooded creature to be feared. I smile apologetically, curling myself into what I hope is a normal and relaxed-looking seated position.

Harry returns my smile as he places his hand back on the wheel.

“Sorry,” he speaks as he returns his full attention to the road. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just saw you were awake and wanted to let you know we’re almost there.” His words are rushed, exhilarated as he continues. “I have a surprise; you’re never going to guess where we are…”

I clench my teeth in what I believe looks like an excited grin.

Because I already know where we are.

The trees were a dead giveaway. Nowhere else do madrones grow so large. Their massive branches twisting to create webs so thick you never know where one tree ends and another begins; their rusty bark so dense with retained water, a hard push with your thumb is all it takes to send a rivulet of red, ruddy liquid trickling down the innocent tree’s limbs and trunk. A tree that bruises so easily could only grow here.

But even if I hadn’t seen the trees, the scent here is undeniable, impossible to replicate anywhere else: the madrones, cedar, juniper—all mixed with a heavy dose of the peonies.

The seeds were once contained to farms several miles west of here, once upon a time several decades ago, but fast winds and fertile soil spread them everywhere—and wild peonies are now more common here than dandelions.

And it’s the end of May, almost June, meaning the flowers’ thin stems are already heavy with fat, bulbous blossoms, perfuming the air with a sticky sweetness famous for evoking sentiments of luxury, lightness.

I inhale deeply through my nose, filling myself with the scent.

How many summers have I spent on the banks of this lake, soaking in the golden sunshine, the fragrantly fuchsia air, and the crystal-clear waters?

I don’t need to guess. I know exactly how many.

Fifteen. Fifteen summers. Since I was a baby, in fact.

A September baby, I was almost born here.

But again, lake houses were part of another life—or a lifetime ago.

This scent was once a siren song—announcing the beginning of summer and all the fresh hopes that come with brilliant, sweat-sparkling days and heavy, velvet nights.

Of course, Harry knows all this.

My heart skips.

So why is he taking us here, now?

His voice, like an anchor, drops into my mind, my thoughts dashing and darting away like so many frightened fish.

“I know we’ve got our flight in the morning, but I thought instead of some random motel, we should stay the night somewhere special—somewhere that means something.”

He turns to me, and his smile is clear, bright—excited. His deep blue eyes hold mine for only an instant before returning to the road.

Harry is a very careful driver. Careful in most everything.

His fingers drum the steering wheel once before he veers the car to the left, stopping at the top of a driveway. He gestures out the front window and I smile wide, my teeth clacking together—a sound I must only hear inside my own head because Harry is undisturbed.

“See what I mean?” He smiles. “What could be better than starting this new chapter by staying our last night here?”

I don’t need to look at the house. There isn’t a chance in hell I wouldn’t know where we are—but of course I look anyway.

The cabin, no, I can see now that cabins aren’t what these are. These are mansions; three and four-storied palaces fully outfitted with everything from custom bars to indoor pools, all referred to as “cabins” to placate these upper-class one-percenters, to make them feel like they are really and truly “roughing it.” There are less than three dozen of these homes on this private, pristine lake—the shoreline hacked into pieces that have been carved and cut away, claimed, divided, and clearly identified by tall, wrought iron fences with pointed tips to deter unwanted visitors.

Points like spears, or knives.

The house that sits directly before us isn’t a stranger to me, either; its front windows loom high and heavy, dark wood bordering dark glass. The sharp angle of the roof, the point that it reaches at the top, is crowned with a weathervane—gold and silver arrows supporting some animal I cannot make out in the dim light.

A bird, or something like it. I cannot remember, I realize with a sting.

The driveway on which we sit curves down, then forces the driver to make a decision; left, or right. Neither option’s outcomes are immediately obvious.

This part I do remember.

Left takes you around the house, to the garage hidden in the hillside underneath. Right takes you further onto the property, to the somewhat-obscured parking area and boat launch.

Harry’s voice interrupts my memories.

“What do you think?”

I don’t know what to say. So, I say nothing. I’ve learned to be good at that.

I turn my head and smile at Harry, who takes my hand in his—his strong fingers interlacing my own—before lifting my hand to his lips and kissing each of my frail knuckles. “I knew you’d love it; our new chapter starts right here, right now.”

I feel heat in my face and am shocked I can still blush.

Maybe it’s because of his words, or maybe it’s because I am embarrassed at the bruises he kisses—apparently without noticing.

Or perhaps it’s because I feel terrible.

Just terrible.

Because obviously poor Harry doesn’t see the mistake he has made.