“I thought you were here for my cooking,” I grin.
“Or your rugged good looks and lively conversation.”
“I am pretty good looking,” I grin. “But I haven’t really been much of a lively conversationalist with you.”
“You didn’t trust me,” she says. “I get that.”
“To be honest, Esmé, I still don’t trust you.”
Bowing her head, she walks away from me. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I have a habit of saying shitty things to women. It isn’t so much that I’m a jerk. It’s just that I’m stupid. It’s different when I’m hanging with Sam. If I say something stupid to her, she smacks me on the head and we move on. Of course, she says stupid shit all of the time too, so maybe it’s easier for her to be forgiving. The thing is, I don’t trust Esmé yet. I like her, and my body is definitely telling me that she’s an attractive woman, but my body can’t always be trusted to do what’s best for me. She’s out on the deck now, petting Frank and I know that I’ve hurt her feelings.
“Look,” I say, walking out to the deck and sitting beside her. “It isn’t that I don’t like you. I do. I think you’re very sweet and charming. It’s just that I don’t really know what your motivations are and it makes me feel a little uncomfortable.”
“My motivation is that I want to know what happened to Fran. I want to know why she died. I came here with the intention of hating you. Do you know that?”
“I can understand it. I hated myself for a long time.”
“Sounds like you kind of still do.”
Turning away, I reach across her to pet Frank. He responds by chirping his little meow and rubbing his head against my hand. For a big man, he has such a tiny little sound. Leaning against Esmé feels so nice. It’s a hot night and our skin feels warm where we’re touching. Part of me thinks that if I tried to kiss her right now, she would respond. Maybe we’d go to bed together and we could forget about having this conversation. Moving my mouth close to her ear, I hesitate for a few beats. Her body is responding to my breath on her ear and she leans a little closer. Pulling back a bit, I rest my forehead against the side of her face.
“Okay, so what do you want to do?”
She’s dead silent for a few seconds and it occurs to me that she’s having the same struggle I am. Finally, she shifts. “Let me walk you into a meditation. We can go into your mind and go to the night that Fran died.”
“Look, Esmé. I don’t need to delve into my subconscious to tell you what happened to Fran.”
“I want to know it from Fran’s side.”
“You can’t. You can only know what I saw and I can tell you that without any help.”
“Just humor me,” she says. “I know you have these visions. I know you’ve seen things that others can’t see. I know you predicted Fran’s death.”
“Esmé, Annabelle Lies was a work of fiction. It drew from my real life, but it isn’t a diary. You can’t believe everything you read.”
“If it wasn’t for that book, I wouldn’t be here on this island. All I knew of you is that you were the woman Fran was dating when she killed herself.”
“That’s still true. I could have saved her.”
“Let’s just try, Dana. That’s all I’m asking. I just want to try.”
She guides me to the outdoor love seat and puts a pillow under my head. Closing my eyes, I rest my head against the pillow. It feels as if my whole body is sinking into the love seat. It’s too short for me, so I drape my legs over the wicker arms. Why am I so tired all of a sudden?
Esmé’s voice is soft and sweet and for another moment, I think that I can end this by pulling her down here with me. The next thing I know, I’m drifting. I can feel her hands on my head, and I’m aware that it feels good, but before I can say anything about it, I’m in the other world.
I’m in Fran’s apartment. Looking around, I see the thrift store furniture and the mattress on the floor. This place is depressing. I asked Fran to move in with me several times, but she said it wasn’t time. I know she was right, but I hated that she lived here. The only homey touches in the places are Fran’s little pieces of art. Wire sculptures, ceramics, small paintings, framed photos cover every surface in the place. She never stuck to one medium and she never mastered any of them. She was just so full of creative energy that she couldn’t contain it. Picking up one of the little sculptures, I turn it in my hand. There’s dust on it. I blow at the dust and it flies up into the air, making me sneeze. “Bless you,” Esmé says. I turn to face her, somehow not surprised to see her. She leans forward and kisses me lightly on the lips. When she takes my hand, I look down at our entwined fingers and I realize that I’m not myself. I’m Fran. I’d recognize those long, slim fingers and those freckled hands anywhere. “You’re not really here,” I whisper to Esmé.