Chapter Three
After closing all the drapes in the house to ensure that nobody could see in, he sat in the living room, staring into space, feeling like this was all some kind of alcohol-induced hallucination. If it wasn't for the sound of the water running in the shower upstairs, he would have been convinced that it was. The only problem with that theory was that he didn't feel drunk at all anymore - on the contrary, he felt more sober than he'd ever been in his life.
But damn it, things like this just didn't happen in the real world. The woman you'd been thinking about for days didn't just all of a sudden climb through a window in the middle of the night demanding a shower. Then again, he told himself, most people didn't crash land on a deserted island and live there for over a month, either. His life was turning out somehow...different.
With the fog clearing from his brain for practically the first time in three days, he made an effort to avoid thinking about all the things he didn't want to think about. He suddenly wished he had a cigarette, and it dawned on him with a certain irony that he'd forgotten to start smoking again when he'd come back. It was somewhat of a relief when he heard her come down the narrow wooden staircase and enter the room.
He looked up. It was the first time he'd ever seen her in anything but her "island clothes." She was wearing a thin, faded plaid bathrobe that he hadn't even known he possessed. Leave it to women to find things in your house you didn't know were there.
She sat down on the couch opposite him, drying her hair with a towel.
"So..." she began, almost awkwardly.
"So..." he repeated in a mocking tone.
"What have you been up to?" There was a slight gleam in her eyes that let him know the question was more of a joke than anything else.
"We just saw each other five days ago, Freckles."
"I know. Feels like longer though, doesn't it?" She seemed a little wistful.
"Yeah," he said quietly. It felt like years ago. In some ways, it felt like it had never happened at all.
Looking around the room curiously, she tucked her feet up under her and leaned over onto the armrest. He watched her, oddly fascinated. He couldn't figure out why she looked so strange, but it finally occurred to him that maybe it was because he'd never seen her sitting on actual furniture before. He'd never seen her in lamplight. Hell, he'd never seen her indoors. In his mental cosmos, she was inextricably linked with the island. She belonged there as surely as the palm trees and the waterfall. Seeing her here was like seeing the Eiffel Tower in the middle of Nebraska. It just didn't fit.
Noticing that he was watching her, she looked back at him. "This house is really old, isn't it?"
"Built in 1918." He wasn't in the mood to go into details about the grittier aspects of its history. Not now.
She nodded. "That cabin about half a mile down the road - is that your closest neighbor?"
"Too close for my taste. I hate that son-of-a-bitch."
She smiled slightly. Same old Sawyer. "I'm glad. Less people to snoop around."
"You positive nobody's on your trail? You're probably the most wanted fugitive in the country right now, considerin' how many times you've slipped through their fingers. You're makin' em' look bad, kiddo."
"No. Nobody followed me, I'm positive. But it doesn't mean they'll stop looking." She glanced toward the heavily draped window a little nervously.
"How can you be sure? Maybe they're just givin' you a wide rein before they close in."
"Trust me. I know when I'm being followed. It's happened enough," she said, a little sadly.
He was satisfied. She must be relatively good at this, if she'd been getting away with it for so long. He could probably trust her instincts as well as he could trust his own.
He looked at her more closely. "That cut...that happen in the accident?"
She touched her temple quizzically, as if she'd forgotten the wound was there. "I guess so."
"Looks infected."
"It's fine," she said shortly.
"I think I got some peroxide," he said, standing up.
In the bathroom, he went through the medicine cabinet. She followed him, leaning against the door frame. Handing her the brown bottle, he said, "Better do it yourself. I'm no doctor."
The words were loaded, but she tried to ignore them. Uncapping the bottle, she used a washcloth to dab some onto the cut. As she'd expected, he didn't drop the subject.
"Speakin' of doctors." He looked at her pointedly.
Sighing, she closed her eyes for a second and turned to look at him. "What?"
"You found my address easy enough. Don't tell me you couldn't-'a found his just as easy if you'd tried."
"I didn't try." Pushing past him, she went back towards the living room. "Did you grow up in this house?
Ignoring her, he waited. For some reason, he couldn't let this go. He needed to know where things stood, and even though he suspected the truth, he wanted to hear her say it. He needed to hear her say it.
Finally, realizing he wasn't going to answer, she turned back to him. Crossing her arms in front of her stomach protectively, she looked down.
He watched her. "You said you didn't have anywhere else to go. That ain't really true now, is it?"
"I don't want to get Jack involved in this."
"Oh, but it's just fine and dandy to get me involved, though...is that it? Yeah, I see how it is...Wouldn't want Saint Jack to get his precious little hands dirty, but Sawyer...well, now, his life's so fucked up already that a couple years in the state pen won't make a hell of a lot of difference to him, anyway!" He said all this bitterly, but in a way the lines felt rehearsed. He'd known exactly what she was going to say.
"That's not what I meant! And.. it isn't just that." She looked away, then spoke quietly. "Jack's a good person. The world, for him...it's black and white. Maybe that's a good thing, and maybe it's not...but it's the way he sees things. He doesn't see the gray. And you and me? We're the gray." She seemed to be trying to hold back tears. He was a little sorry he'd been so persistent.
She went on. "If I went to Jack...If I asked for his help...He would want to do the right thing. He always does the right thing. Except in this case...I don't know what he would consider the right thing to be."
Sawyer was slightly surprised. "Are you sayin' you don't think you could trust him?"
The words seemed to hurt her somehow, but she took a deep breath and looked straight into his eyes. "I don't know."
They were both quiet for a minute. He wondered vaguely if that meant she thought she could trust him? Even after what he'd done last week - exposing her as the criminal in front of everybody? He knew he hadn't done anything to earn that much trust. But if she didn't have it, why would she be here?
Looking somehow defeated, she continued. "I don't know if it's really possible for Jack to understand people like me. People like us." She shot him that direct, forceful look that was also strangely vulnerable. He had the most bizarre, unaccountable desire to go to her, but he restrained himself. He had no idea how she would react to that. Most likely with another elbow in the face.
Finally breaking their interlocked gaze, she sagged, looking worn out. "Anyway." She looked around dully. "I'm exhausted." Glancing at the couch, she asked hesitantly, "Should I just...crash here?"
Forcing himself to stop thinking about the implications of what she'd just said about Jack, he tried to pay attention. "The bedroom upstairs, on the left. It's a spare." He paused. "Sheets are in the closet." He'd be damned if he was going to make up a bed for her.
"Okay."
At the bottom of the staircase, she stopped and turned to face him.
"Sawyer."
"Yeah?" Now it was his turn to look exhausted.
"Thank you," she said softly, meeting his eyes again. Without waiting for any kind of response, she continued up the stairs. A few seconds later, he heard the bedroom door shut.
Sinking back down into the chair he'd been in earlier, he wished, once again, that he hadn't quit smoking.
