“Ms. Reins.”
The anger in his voice actually made her blush with embarrassment.
“Adele,” she corrected him in a soft voice.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded again.
He was somewhat looming over her, his arms folded across his broad chest. He had a baseball cap pulled low over his brow, covering his face in shadows. She wished she could see his eyes.
“I had to talk to you,” she answered honestly.
“You followed me up here!?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Someone told you where I was.”
“... no, not exactly.”
He threw his hands up in the air.
“Ms. Reins, you've already pretty much gotten me fired with some stupid lie, and now you're stalking me? Are you trying to get one, or both of us, arrested?” he asked. She shook her head.
“No, and I know what I did was wrong, I already spoke with everyone at the hospital. You won't get fired, I promise. I explained my mistake, I was just ... confused. Disoriented,” she said.
He stared at her for a moment longer, and she knew he didn't believe her. Of course he didn't. Jones could always see right through her, no matter what kind of reality they were in, it seemed. He glared for a second longer, then knelt down to look under his truck.
“Fuck, the radiator is busted,” he hissed.
“Oh, no, is that bad?” she asked, wringing her hands. He let out a dry laugh and climbed back to his feet.
“Uh, yeah. It's bad.
An idea flashed through her brain. The radiator was broken, which meant he wouldn't be able to drive his truck home. Wouldn't be able to drive anywhere. She glanced back at her little sedan.
“I have a car,” she said. “I can take you home.”
“Ms. Reins, I think that would be a bad idea of epic proportions,” he chuckled. “You need to stay away from me, okay? I'll just ... I'll figure something out.”
No, no, no! Jones was standing in front of her, yet he was getting further and further away. She couldn't allow it. This wasn't a chance run in – she'd known where to find him, because she knew him. Or at least some version of him. And she owed it to that version, and herself, to try and make things work with this version of him.
“Look, I know what I did was wrong. I wasn't thinking. You're right, I was confused – I am confused, still. Maybe coming up here was a bad idea, but I had to talk to you, because I think you're the only person who can help me,” she spoke softly. He frowned at her words and refused to make eye contact.
“I think the hospital's legal department would say that's a very bad idea.”
“But that won't stop you,” she countered. “Because that's what you do – you help people. You have to, it's your job. And I need your help, Jones.”
It could all go very wrong. She knew it sounded like she was telling him what to do, but really, she was just telling the truth. Jones would always help someone in need. He had to because it was in his nature. In his DNA. The foundation of his being. And if this Johannes Lund really was her Jones, then he would understand what she was trying to say.
He stayed silent for so long, she started to get nervous. Her chin wobbled as she held back tears. If he said no, if he sent her away, what choice would she have but to go? She didn't think she'd handle it very well, and wondered if one of her brothers would drive all the way up here to get her.
But then Jones pulled off his ball cap and raked his fingers through his hair, and suddenly she was sinking into that emerald gaze once again.
“Alright,” he sighed. “You can give me a ride home – that's it, and that's all the time you get. Say what you have to say, and then go back to wherever you came from, alright?”
She almost did a fist pump, but then stopped herself.
“Alright,” she agreed, having complete faith that she could talk her way into his cabin, and then talk herself into anything else. “Whatever you say. Thank you, Jones.”
“And another thing,” he added, holding up his hand. “You have to answer a question for me.”
“Anything. Whatever you want, ask away. What?”
“Where did you learn that name?”
AFTER HE'D CALLED FOR a tow truck and had gotten whatever he'd needed from the store, she let him take the wheel of her car. While he drove them to his place, Adele sat hunched over in the passenger seat, chewing on her thumbnail while she felt like her soul was dying. He wouldn't look at her. He wouldn't speak to her. She could feel the awkward rolling off him in waves.
“I am sorry,” she repeated her apology for the millionth time.
“So you said.”
“I wasn't trying to get you in trouble.”
“I understand.”
God, she hated his voice. It wasn't the voice she knew – this one was cold and clinical. Professional. No hint of a smile or a laugh in it. She'd kill for one of his cryptic sentences right about now. Anything would be better than his feigned indifference.
“They told me you spent a lot of time with me,” she ventured, and he finally cut his gaze to her.
“Yes, but I was never inappropriate,” he assured her.
“Of course! I know that, I really do,” she held up her hands. “It's just ... I don't know how to explain it. I feel ... I feel like I know you.”
Talk about the understatement of the century.
“Understandable.”
She ground her teeth together. Maybe if she hit him over the head hard enough, he'd go into a coma, and then she could just meet him there.
Stop it. You're just making things worse. You know this man, so figure out a way to reach him.
“So ... you spend a lot of time up here?” she asked, sounding lame even to herself.
“Yes. My father used to bring me here,” he replied.
“That must've been nice. What did you two do?”
“He taught me how to fish. I wasn't very good at it,” he chuckled, finally relaxing a bit. “But it was nice, you know, just spending time together in our place.”
Adele sat up straight. Yes, yes she did know. She knew all about their place.
That's it.
She started rummaging around inside her purse, but when she didn't find anything useful, she yanked open the glove box and rifled through its contents.
“Everything okay?” Jones asked, his nurse voice in full effect.
“Peachy,” she grumbled, then gave a small cheer when she found an old pen. She shut the glove box, then turned to lean into the backseat.
She'd packed a small overnight bag, and from it she withdrew her sketch book. She was a graphic designer by trade, she'd been drawing her whole life. She hadn't done it in a while, though. They'd replaced her at her work about two months into her coma, and even though they'd offered her a new job, she'd turned them down. The settlement from the semi truck driver was more than enough to take care of her for a while. She didn't need to draw for a living anymore.
But still – when she'd been hurrying out of the apartment that morning, she'd grabbed her sketchbook on a whim.
Everything unfolds as it should.
“What's that?” Jones asked, trying to glance at the paper she was furiously scribbling across. She turned in her seat, pressing her back against the passenger door so he couldn't see what she was working on.
“I don't know how to explain things to you,” she talked in a rush, her pen flying across the paper. “I know I sound crazy, believe me, I know. But I can prove that I know you.”
“Ms. Reins,” he sighed.
“Adele,” she cut him off. He glanced at her again, his mouth set into a hard line.
“Adele,” he capitulated. “I know you may feel that way – victims of trauma often feel somewhat obligated towards the people who took care of them, but that doesn't mean-”
“I don't feel 'obligated',” she snapped, turning the sketchbook sideways, trying to get the lines right. She was working from memory, and she only had the one. She hoped she remembered everything correctly.
“I think after we get to the cabin, you should take a nap. I can call one of your brothers and we can arrange for them to come up here. Or I can get you a motel room,” he offered.
Adele decided to ignore him completely. She focused on her work, pausing occasionally to close her eyes and concentrate on the image in her mind's eye. Then she would go back to furiously sketching, willing her pen to beat the car to their destination.
And just as they pulled onto a long, shady gravel drive, she won.
“I've never really met you,” she said, tearing out the sheet of paper and folding it in half. “I've never met your father. I've never been here – I'd never even heard of this lake until yesterday.”
“I know,” Jones said. She took a deep breath and handed the folded piece of paper to him.
“But I know this place,” she breathed, and at the same time, he pulled the car into a large open area and parked.
In her memories, there wasn't the lake across the road, just barely visible through the dense trees. There wasn't the mailbox, either, but it looked fairly new – she doubted it had been here the last time Jones had visited. There also wasn't a single poppy to be found, not to mention no large cliff nearby.
And yet still, the cabin from her dreams. The place where they'd made their promises to find each other again, where they'd said their last goodbyes.
She was sitting in front of it.
“What is this?” Jones asked, clutching the paper in one hand while opening his door with the other.
“I can't believe this,” Adele ignored him and stumbled through her own open door. She clung to it as she stood up, her jaw dropping as she took in the cabin in front of them.
“It's nothing fancy, I know, not like the other houses around here. But it feels like a second home, I should really come more often and ...”