Page 29 of Not a Friend (Crescent Light #1)

Now

Foggy memories, clear images. Sometimes it’s hazy, but I remember the good parts.

T he sensation of spinning out of control and falling from a great height forced me awake. I jolted upright in the bed, heart racing, hands outstretched in front of me, thoughts swimming as the dream slowly faded from my mind. I blinked my vision clear as I gulped air and assessed my surroundings.

Kieran splayed in the bed next to me. He breathed those deep, heavy breaths that only came from a night of overdrinking—the ones where your body wills you not to be violently ill with each inhalation.

I watched his bare chest rise and fall and shook my head against the annoyance of his overindulgent night.

How he blew off most of my friends. The rude comments he made about Nate.

I tried falling back to sleep, but it was no use. Whatever nightmare I’d been having woke me up so violently that I was wide awake and fresh as a spring chicken. If that spring chicken looked like it had a fitful night’s sleep full of anxiety-driven nightmares .

The sky was a deep shade of indigo on the other side of the French doors, the first kiss of sunlight still hidden below the horizon. Kieran let out a choked snore. With a huff, I gave up hope of more rest, grabbed my phone from the nightstand, and rose.

Almost immediately, the tightening in my chest returned, a niggling sort of irritation that started at my diaphragm and crawled up my throat. I slipped my arms into a fluffy white resort robe as my bare feet made contact with the cold wood of the balcony and hugged my arms tight against my middle.

Breathe in. Hold for four. Breathe out. Hold for four.

Unsettled. The nagging, uncomfortable, ambiguous feeling that tethered my mind to my gut and made me want to both crawl out of my skin and stand perfectly still at the same time.

Unsettled was the only way to describe it, like someone reached into the bottom of a sand-filled fish tank and dug up all the sediment.

I closed my eyes and leaned against the balcony railing, attempting to ground myself before the feeling got out of hand and led to an inevitable anxiety attack.

In, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Only one thing would help. I needed to peel back the mental layers and pinpoint what was triggering this.

There were probably a few culprits, but this felt above and beyond my usual level of anxiety.

Until I named whatever was big enough to wake me in my sleep, I would keep spinning out.

First, however, I needed to bring myself down to earth and calm my mind.

I focused on feeling the cool wood beneath my feet, smelling the damp air, hearing the breeze through the leaves of surrounding trees.

It helped little by little. After a few more minutes, the water in the fish tank of my mind was still muddy, but it wasn’t swirling and threatening to overflow anymore.

Through the mental haze, the name of the feeling revealed itself: guilt.

I didn’t like how I’d handled the night before.

As frustrated as I was at the situation this weekend had turned out to be—as frustrated as Nate could make me—I wasn’t proud of how I snapped at him.

Nate liked to pretend he was aloof, untouchable even, but I knew on some level that it had to be uncomfortable for him, too.

And when he came after me to check that I was alright, I thanked him by stomping my foot like a teenager and chewing his head off.

Then there was the matter of how Kieran acted last night.

I didn’t like the tense awkwardness of having him insist I hang out with my friends while simultaneously acting like he didn’t want to be there.

I had no idea if anyone else picked up the subtleties of his unhappiness, but I saw it in each irritated twitch of his legs as he sat waiting for the game to be over.

He didn’t even attempt to make conversation with my friends, save for the occasional backhanded comment.

Though I would never say it aloud, I wondered if his awkward behavior was insecurity he wasn’t used to experiencing that he was covering up with alpha male bravado.

Maybe that was why his sarcastic questions when we returned to the suite got under my skin so much.

We were in private, and still, he was making offhanded comments about Nate to make himself feel—what? Superior? More manly?

Two days. Two days and we can go home.

I curled up on the balcony’s patio furniture and allowed myself a few minutes for a mundane, mind-numbing task.

Checking emails was strictly forbidden when on PTO, according to Wren, my coworker and closest friend in Boston.

I agreed to a certain extent, but personally preferred to keep an eye on my inbox to make sure it wasn’t piling to dangerous levels while I was out.

Checking it from time to time was better than returning to a heaping pile of burning shit after a vacation.

Thankfully, nothing demanded my immediate attention, so I closed my email and opened the unread texts from the night before.

Wren

So …

Wren

Any news on the hot famous ex?

I rolled my eyes, regretting the day I told her about him, and sent a response.

Me

Not my ex.

Me

But yes he’s here.

Me

Unfortunately.

There was no way she was awake yet, even with the time difference between California and Massachusetts, but she would appreciate a dangled carrot of gossip when she woke.

I yawned into my robe.

Caffeine. I need caffeine .

According to the resort website, the coffee shop attached to the main building would open in twenty minutes.

Perfect.

I dressed quietly, careful not to wake Kieran—though a marching band could’ve stomped through the suite, and he probably wouldn’t have stirred—and opted to walk down to the main building instead of calling for a golf cart.

The thick knit sweater and leggings I’d pulled on were perfect against the cool autumn breeze as I walked the winding path to the main building.

Crisp, early morning air filled my lungs and cleared my senses, releasing tension slowly from my shoulders.

Early morning over the vineyard was breathtaking.

Hazy fog hung low, covering everything in a layer of dew.

Combined with the purplish light of dawn, the whole spectacle seemed straight out of a fantasy novel.

By the time I had a hot tea in hand from the cafe, the sun had broken the horizon, casting everything in lovely, warm pink and orange light.

The grounds were mostly empty, save for a handful of early risers milling about.

An elderly couple not far from me walked hand in hand on the brick pathway toward a narrow dirt path.

The path was lined with loose gravel and led directly between rows of freshly harvested grapevines.

I blew on my tea and savored the fragrant steam that warmed my nose as I watched them.

The couple barely spoke, only lifting their pointed hands in occasional observation as if they didn’t need words.

The simple joy of the other’s company was more than enough.

Peaceful, solitary, and alone—but together.

Compelled to follow, I fell into step a ways behind them.

The dirt and gravel path spread like veins through the whole vineyard, traveling up one row before splitting to bisect the field between rows and rows of grapes and olive trees and feeding into other paths .

I walked through the vines, careful to give the elderly couple space until we were deep enough that I could veer in a different direction.

I wandered up one row for a while, aimless and unhurried and free to let my thoughts clear, before a natural break in the field had me cutting right and following the path in that direction.

The rising sun sent the morning fog aloft in a thick, haunting mist, obstructing my vision in pockets the sun had yet to kiss.

Humidity clung to my skin, my hair, but I welcomed its touch.

It was as if the earth itself was encouraging me to stay grounded, covering me in its mark.

At the next turn, a darkened silhouette up ahead caught my eye. Not the elderly couple; there was only one person in the distance. Another lone patron on an early morning walk.

The figure was too far away to tell if we were both moving in the same direction or moving toward each other, but I continued anyway, keeping my eyes trained on the uneven gravel.

Another glance up a minute later confirmed that the other person—a man, by the look of it—and I were walking in the same direction.

His back was to me, but he was going at a much slower pace.

I’d already closed the distance between us by half.

I thought to peel off into another direction, but no other routes would open until we reached the end of this section of the vineyard.

Eventually, the narrow path would force me to pass him.

A bit closer now and with the fog nearly gone, I could make out his gait.

He walked in a leisurely, almost uneven pattern, like he was distracted by something in his hands.

It was as if he was trying to move his arms and upper body as little as possible while still walking.

I squinted from a distance, slowing my movements.

A second later, he halted altogether and turned to face the vines next to him, revealing what he was so distracted by.

A small leather notebook and a pen.