Page 12 of It’s You

“ I am delighted to tell you that your frontal, temporal, occipital, and parietal lobes, in addition to your cerebellum and cortex, are—and don’t take this the wrong way—unremarkable.” Willow smiled at Darcy from behind the desk in her medical office located on Main Street in Carlisle.

It had taken four days to get the results back, but Darcy had mostly come to the conclusion that Willow wasn’t going to find anything significant on the scan.

She’d gone inside twice more over the last three days, a record in terms of frequency.

Both times she’d been lounging against the body of a black wolf, and both times the episode had ended with the words “I can’t do that. ”

It was as if he was communicating with her, reaching out to her in the only manner at his disposal and forcing her to keep him at the forefront of her mind, as if she could think of anything else but beckoning, beautiful Jack Beauloup.

She didn’t know how he was doing it, but she was getting fed up.

“Hey, you don’t seem pleased.”

Darcy forced a smile.

“No, I am. That’s great, Will. Should have done it years ago.”

“So I’m thinking too much champagne on Saturday, right? Explains the loss of time…even hearing and seeing things. Anyone who’s ever been to a college frat party knows you can black out and lose hours if you over drink.”

I wasn’t drunk. I know that. This has nothing to do with champagne.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Darcy answered.

Willow tilted her head, tenting her hands under her chin. “No, you’re not. I know you, Darcy. You’re still thinking this has something to do with Jack Beauloup?”

“I’ve gone inside three times in four days, Will. Since he arrived in Carlisle.” She swallowed, looking down, wishing she could explain her certainty to Willow. “It has something to do with him. I’m sure of it.”

“Remember the first time you told me about going inside, and we did all that Métis research?”

“Yeah. Over that Christmas break.”

“And you know I dabble.”

Darcy glanced pointedly at the red door in Willow’s office and nodded.

It looked like a coat closet, but Darcy was one of the very few people who knew it led to a small room where Willow dried herbs and practiced non-invasive Métis shaman techniques.

Willow believed strongly that Western medicine wasn’t the only answer to solving medical mysteries, and she often consulted Métis texts and traditions for unusual problems.

“That word you said Jack used. With the bear.”

“Ship away?”

Willow nodded. “ Shipawaytay in Michif means leave.”

“You don’t speak Michif.”

“Right. But I know that word. My Nohkom used to say that when I was underfoot. She’d be trying to bake something in the kitchen, and I’d keep grabbing for the mixing bowl or bothering her for the spoon, and she’d say ‘ Shipawaytay, Nidanis .’ And it meant, ‘Leave it be, grandchild.’ Do you think that’s what Jack was saying?

To the bear? Leave it be? Leave you be?”

“Could be, I guess. You think Jack’s Métis?”

Willow shrugged. “No idea. But his last name is French. The family moved back north to Quebec after the year they spent here, right? I mean, you’ve got to start somewhere.”

Willow stood up and turned to the bookcases behind her desk. She took out a book entitled The Métis People and handed it to Darcy.

Darcy flipped through it before tucking it in her purse and standing up to leave. “Thanks, Will.”

“Hey, with all these distractions, I haven’t asked you lately. How’s the book coming?”

“I’ve barely written a word. I’ll work on it today and tomorrow. Had to cancel one of my classes this week, but they understood. Miss Kendrick emailed me this morning. She’s been babying my samples.”

Darcy spent at least three days a week at Dartmouth, where she was a professor in the natural sciences department and had a standing fellowship as research associate in the Life Sciences Greenhouse.

Because it was a two-hour drive from Carlisle, Darcy generally left for Dartmouth on Monday morning and came back on Wednesday evening.

She spent Thursdays and Fridays finishing her thesis in the small studio over the detached garage at home.

“How anyone can devote a lifetime of study to…”

“Bryology, Will.”

“Bryology,” scoffed Willow. “That’s just a fancy word for the study of moss.”

“And lichen. And liverworts. Why does everyone always forget the liverworts?”

“You’re a lost cause.” She handed Darcy an envelope with her MRI images. “Glad you’re not crazy. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”

Darcy winked at Willow and turned to leave.

“Darce?”

She turned to look back at her friend, who was half turned away from Darcy, looking out the window between the bookcases behind her desk.

“If you’re ready to talk to Jack Beauloup…” She pointed to the window without looking back at Darcy. “I think he’s ready too.”

Darcy walked out of Willow’s office, turning right to walk by Willow’s small, white picket-fenced herb garden, then stopped abruptly. She’d known he was waiting there, but she still wasn’t prepared for the impact of seeing him so close to her.

Jack Beauloup stood at the edge of the garden, one elbow leaning lazily against the corner fencepost. He was impossibly handsome, standing in the mid-morning sun, the light picking up the silver strands in his hair and close-cropped beard.

The scruff made her fingers tingle by her sides as she approached him, longing to reach out and run her fingers over the prickly texture.

He wore a heather-gray long-sleeved Henley shirt pushed up to his elbows that showed off his tan, corded arms and hugged the insane contours of his muscular chest. Her eyes drifted lower, lingering on his waist as her heart thumped like crazy, and finally dropping to muddy hiking boots.

If she could call the Almighty and ask him to deliver the most perfect, delicious, mind-bogglingly beautiful man to the corner of Main and Chilton, even He in all His power couldn’t have improved upon the person who stood waiting for her.

Jack had noticed her frank perusal, and a teasing smile tilted the corners of his mouth up as his eyes sparkled with delight. Shoot. Where were her sunglasses when she needed them, anyway? She took a deep breath, steeling herself for another possible brush with crazy.

“Darcy Turner. Imagine running into you.”

She gave him an exasperated look and started walking again. He fell into step beside her.

“You stalking me, Jack Beauloup?”

“Pretty crappy stalker, if that’s my game. Haven’t seen you since Saturday.”

“Well, Saturday was just about enough for me.”

“So, are you crazy?”

“Not officially.”

“Told you it would be okay.”

She turned to face him, locking her eyes with his.

Please leave me alone?

I can’t.

She started walking again. “What do you mean, you can’t ?”

“I have to talk to you. I came back to Carlisle for?—”

For me? Her head whipped to face him, and she missed an uneven seam in the sidewalk.

She would have fallen if Jack hadn’t snaked his arm lightning quick around her waist, hauling her up against his chest. She heard his breath hitch as she relaxed in his arms. His other arm moved around her waist, pulling her flush against his body as she raised her eyes to his.

Darcy.

Jack.

She saw the familiar expression in his eyes as he stared at her, the pain she used to see on his face when they were teenagers, and she’d discover him watching her from across the library or auditorium.

But it dawned on her, with the experience and wisdom that comes with age and adulthood, that what she had translated as pain when she was young was nuanced with age, and, in fact, it wasn’t pain at all.

It was longing. All these years, she’d thought he’d found something objectionable or unlikeable when he looked at her, but that wasn’t it at all.

It hurt to look at her because he wanted her, and, for whatever reason, he must have believed she was off-limits to him.

She felt her face soften with tenderness as she stared at him, and he closed his eyes, leaning forward to rest his forehead against hers.

She closed her eyes too, but her thoughts kept circling back to one specific place.

She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to feel his lips on hers again after so long.

His breath on her skin was hot and ragged as he pressed his lips on the tissue-thin shades of each eyelid in turn.

She moved her hands up the hard contours of his chest to his neck, her fingers lightly tickling the hairs on the back of his neck as she pulled him?—

“Darcy.” He spoke aloud, his lips a breath away from hers. She could feel the force of his breathing, the hot puffs of exhaled breath on the sensitive skin of her lips. His voice was hoarse and raspy as he cleared his throat, taking a big gulp of air. “Not here. Not on Main Street.”

Her eyes flew open, and her face flushed hot with embarrassment as her neck snapped back to look at him. “You’re shutting this down?”

She dropped her hands from his neck, palms splayed on his chest to push him away.

He tightened his arms around her. “No! No, I’m not shutting anything. I just?—”

“You just don’t want to kiss me.” She looked away from him, trying to back out of his arms. “Let go of me.” He didn’t. “Can you please let go of me, Jack?”

“No,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

She shook her head, looking down.

“I’m not letting you go until you look at me, Darcy.”

She lifted her head up to face him, eyes narrowed, grinding her jaw in frustration. The message in his eyes made her knees weak.

I want you so much. I’m in agony, Darcy.

As if to prove his point, he lowered his hands to her hips and pulled her closer so she could feel the unmistakable evidence of his erection against her belly. Her eyes widened, but remained fixed on his. His voice in her head was ragged and gruff.

But we’re on Main Street in the middle of broad daylight, and once we start, I don’t know if I can stop.