Watch Over You (6 page)

Trying to cast thoughts of the photograph from her mind, she got dressed, put her hair up and added a little make-up. The bathroom was free when she emerged from her room. She quickly washed up and then went downstairs feeling a little better and somewhat refreshed.

She hadn’t expected to see Devan in the kitchen. Had she really been that lost in her thoughts that she didn’t hear him? He was standing by the stove with a pan and a box of eggs beside him. The sight made her heart skip a beat. She stopped and stared at him, fighting the urge to clamp a hand over her mouth. The last time a man had been in her kitchen cooking, it had been Eric.

“Good morning,” he said when he noticed her standing there. The smile on his face wavered when she didn’t reply immediately but just continued to stare. He paused, midway to cracking an egg. “I hope this is okay,”
he suddenly murmured uneasily. “I thought I’d make you breakfast.”

“No, it’s fine,” she reassured him quickly. And it was…but then it wasn’t…and then…oh hell, she didn’t know what she thought about it really. “It’s fine,” she repeated steadily.

“Are you sure? I can stop.” He picked the eggs up and stepped towards the refrigerator.

“No. It’s okay. I just didn’t expect you to be cooking.”

“Didn’t think I was the type?”

She frowned.

“I used to love to cook,” he said.

“Eric used to cook. He loved it,” she said before she could stop herself. “He’d make such a mess in the kitchen, though. Sometimes I’d come in and there’d be so many pots I swear he’d used them all. He used to…” She caught herself then as Devan smiled back at her. She
felt her own smile for the first time in a long while. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Please carry on. I’ll make us coffee,”

As she pulled the cafetiere from the cabinet, she kept stealing glances at Devan. She couldn’t help it. Something inside tugged at her that made her feel like she couldn’t look at him enough. He was dressed in Eric’s clothes that she had given him the night before. His hair was clean and floppy but not long. He was smiling to himself. It was comforting inside. She wondered what it was that he was thinking.

She tried her damn hardest not to watch him, though, but her eyes had a mind of their own, and as soon as she forgot not to look, she’d look. He cracked eggs into a jug, added milk, butter and pepper and whisked them up. He moved around the kitchen, opening drawers, getting out plates and utensils with such familiarity as if he belonged there.

He poured the egg mixture into the hot pan and then quickly threw a glance her way. When he caught her eye, she didn’t know who turned away faster. Just that one look, though, was enough to make her stomach jump in excitement and her heart beat faster; things she hadn’t experienced since Eric had died. There was a distinct and profound connection between them and when their eyes met, it was just him and her in a bubble. The whole world could end and she wouldn’t care. This state of mind was unfathomable to Tara, yet she couldn’t deny it. She watched the muscles in his arms as he moved. She watched his hands - they were long and slender. She had such an urge inside to just step over to him and touch him. Her skin craved it - craved him.

She plunged the coffee a little too hard and caused it to spill up and out over her hand. “God damn it,” she cried.

Devan cursed and quickly moved the pan before grabbing her hand and pulling her to the sink. He pushed her hand under cold water. “You okay?”

She winced as the water splashed down on her scalded skin. “I’m okay.”

“You know, I was always told that putting your hand under cold water after a burn makes it worse. You should put it over warmth and break the pain barrier.”

“You tell me that after putting my hand under cold water?”

He shrugged. “I figured if I tried to jam your hand over the heat, you might think I was insane.”

He was probably right. She tried to blow a strand of hair from her face. Devan noticed and reached up, pushing the stray strand behind her ear. She felt his fingertips brush the side of her neck as his hand moved down to rest on her shoulder.  It was shaking.

“I got your bandage wet,” she said, looking at his other hand to see if that was shaking too.”

He snatched it away as if just remembering it and stumbled back from her. “It’s okay,” he mumbled. He turned his back on her, dried his hands on a towel and went back to cooking. She didn’t know what she had said wrong. Confused and hurt by his sudden rejection, she hesitantly returned to making their coffee.

Chapter Seven

Tara observed Devan with curiosity as he served breakfast. His hands were shaking, and she wondered what it was that had him so nervous. She thought to ask him if he was okay, but she cast that idea aside. Perhaps he feared she would ask him to leave soon? Or worse, perhaps he wanted to leave soon and didn’t know how to say it. She wasn’t ready for him to leave just yet. There were so many questions she wanted to ask him. Not just about the shaking of his hands, but everything - especially Eric. She wanted to ask him about that the most. How did he know him? How had they met? Had they known each other long? She thought to just come out and tell Devan she was Eric’s widow, but how would that look? She supposed there was a chance he’d bolt out the door wondering what the hell.

She wanted to ask him about his hand and what had happened to it. Was it a fight? Had someone hurt him or was it an accident? She tried to discern how damaged it might be under the bandage. She waited to see if he would wince when he lifted the pan, but he didn’t seem to. Aside from the shaking, there didn’t appear to be anything else bothering him. Each time he caught her looking, he tried to hide his hand, avoiding any eye contact. She wanted him to look at her, though. She wanted to see his eyes. Dark lashes framed a magnificent shade of blue, so beautiful it took your breath away. But there was a profound sadness swirling in their depths - sadness along with something else that seemed to reach her soul. There was safety. Tara found herself captivated every time he set his gaze on her.

They used the table in the kitchen; it barely seated two people. She tended to use it more than the main one in the dining room. The main one was for a woman who hadn’t killed her husband. For a woman who had children. It was for a woman who had a family. She didn’t fit into any of those categories, and it was all her fault. She didn’t eat so much
anyway. Mostly she lived on cereal or toast or sandwiches. She saw little point in cooking just for herself, and often she wasn’t hungry so it didn’t matter.

Devan served himself a smaller portion; it was fit more for a child than a fully grown man. “You’re not hungry?” Tara asked.

“Not really. I feel a little off today.” He picked up his fork and pushed his food around his plate, showing little enthusiasm to actually eat it.

Tara lifted his mug and he nodded. She filled it with coffee and he accepted with a thank you. He drank it without adding milk or sugar. Tara watched wide-eyed as he gulped it down without even waiting for it to cool a little.

“You don’t feel well? You’re sick today?”

“No, just…off. It’s okay.” He rested his fork against his plate and leaned back. He wasn’t going to eat more. Not that he had eaten anything – two
forkfuls at most. At least he had drunk his coffee. “You enjoy your breakfast.”

“I feel so terrible to sit here and stuff my face if you’re not eating.” She felt more than terrible really. Especially with Devan. He wasn’t just someone who didn’t want food because they had had enough. He was someone who lived on the streets and most of the time had no idea where his next meal was coming from.

“I can get something later. Don’t worry.”

Sitting with Devan, eating scrambled eggs on toast and sharing a pot of coffee, reminded her of better mornings, when everything in her world was right. They reminded her of Eric – everything reminded her of Eric. “This is good,” she said, pulling her mind away from places she knew it shouldn’t venture to and just trying to enjoy the taste of home-cooked food for a change.

“So is the coffee.” He smiled but shifted uneasily in his seat. “I think I should be going soon,” he said, sounding more nervous than sincere. “You have been very kind to me. Are my clothes ready?”

She had washed them before bed and then bundled them into the tumble dryer. They should have been thrown away really. They were of little use to him; so ripped and worn there was no way they offered any warmth, much less utility. “You can keep the clothes you’re wearing if you like,” she said, indicating to Eric’s clothes.

He glanced down as if he had forgotten what he was wearing. Smoothing the top down with his hands, he lifted his eyes to hers again. “Are you sure?”

The idea of taking the clothes back, washing them, folding them and putting them away, seemed pointless, as well as heartless. What was the point in holding onto these things now? “No one else is going to use them.” Eric never would again. She winced inside at her own thoughts, but it was the truth. Eric worked with these people; people like
Devan. He would want his things to go to someone who needed them rather than rot away in a closet for countless years.

The truth was, though, that she didn’t want Devan to go. It was absurd. She didn’t even know him. All she knew were the gaps she had mostly filled in about him with her own contrivances. She hadn’t had a chance to ask him about Eric - that was the main reason she had been trying to see him at Taylor’s. She wanted to know about the part of Eric’s life she hadn’t really been a part of. There was something more than that, though. If Devan left, then she would go back to her same pointless life. The same one as before, where time simply went by. Old days went, new days came, the clock just ticked over, but there wasn’t any sense in it. She had no purpose. With Devan around, even when she was sitting in the coffee shop hoping to catch him, it made her feel something. Maybe it was a glimmer of hope or the spark of life inside her, but whatever it was, she didn’t want to let it go. “Do you really have
to?” she asked him fearing the answer. “You’re more than welcome to stay here another night or for as long as you need.”

He fidgeted in his seat. “I’ve imposed on you enough already.”

“It’s not imposing if I am offering. You need somewhere to stay and, as you can see, I have plenty of room.”

He reached for the coffee to pour himself another. He didn’t fill his mug, though. He left enough coffee for Tara to get herself a second drink. “It isn’t as simple as that.”

“Why?” She didn’t like how whiney and needy her voice sounded as she asked him. It was pathetic. She was pathetic - but she couldn’t let him go. “Is it your sister? The one you’re looking for?”

He shook his head.

“Your friend?”

“I just have to go.” His face grew pale and his hands started shaking again - or maybe they hadn’t stopped. .

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No. I…” Right then, he retched. Clamping his hand over his mouth, he raced into the kitchen and threw up in the sink. His body rejected every last drop of coffee and the two bits of food he had eaten. He retched until there was nothing but dry heaves. When he was done, he rinsed it down the plughole.

Tara was standing behind him, not knowing whether she should rub his back or just stand out of the way. She decided on the latter and sought to help by handing him the kitchen towel to wipe his mouth. He took the towel and patted his face dry after he had rinsed his face with handfuls of water.

“You okay?” she asked.

He leant against the kitchen counter, but he swayed as if he was going to miss it. Tara dashed forward to catch him, steadying him with her hand on his arm. She couldn’t tell if it was sweat or water on his face. “I’ll be alright in a second,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, but Tara didn’t believe him.

“There’s no need for you to go out there like this. You need to rest.”

“I can't do this.” He slid down the cabinet until he was sitting on the floor and brought his hands up to his face. Was he crying? Tara knelt down with him, concerned. “I have to get out of here. I can’t…” He bent forward, his hands sliding into his hair. He clutched fistfuls of it, his frustration evident.

“What can’t you do? I don’t understand. Is it something I can help with?”

He half laughed, half let out an exasperated sigh. “I have so much to do and no time. What if I fail?”

“What do you mean?” He was sweating. Beads of it ran from his hairline and down his forehead. Reaching out her hand, she placed it against his forehead. His skin was hot and clammy, hotter than she had ever felt before. “Jesus, you have a fever.” She was just about to stand up and wet the kitchen towel to cool him down when she noticed his hand; the one with the bandage on it. Blood had soaked through it. She didn’t ask this time, though. Instead, she just grabbed his hand to inspect it.

“No, Tara,” he protested, and tried to pull his hand away. But he was weak, and Tara had no problem keeping his hand in her lap. She unfastened the knot and unravelled the bandage from his hand. She couldn’t contain her gasp as she forced his fingers back and revealed his palm. There was a bird. It was blue and brown with shades of orange. She had never seen anything so beautiful and intricate before. She found the source of the bleeding, but it was either impossible or a very strange coincidence. The bird bled from its heart. It was the tiniest hole, not one that should produce that much blood. It trickled out and down his hand.