Chapter Four
He could tell he had a pounding headache before he even opened his eyes. After the shock of seeing her, he hadn't felt drunk, but that apparently wasn't enough to save him from a hangover. Besides the headache, though, something about the room felt off. He could sense it even with his eyes closed.
Slowly, blinking heavily, he made an effort to raise his lids. Kate was sitting on the foot of the bed, watching him curiously, her legs crossed under her Indian-style. "Morning," she said.
He let his head fall back onto the pillow and closed his eyes again. "What the hell do you want?" he muttered.
"Don't act like it's the crack of dawn," she said wryly. "It's 11:30."
"To me, that is the crack of dawn, sweet cheeks. Now whyn't you come back in a few hours and we'll have ourselves a nice little chat." He rolled over, facing away from her.
Undaunted, she came around to the other side of the bed and sat down on the edge. "You don't have any food."
"I've got food," he said angrily.
"No, what you've got is half a case of beer, some bean dip, and a box of Frosted Flakes that expired in 2001. You also don't have any laundry detergent, toothpaste, or deodorant. And..." She grimaced comically and said with reluctance, "You just ran out of toilet paper."
"Jesus Christ," he groaned, pulling the pillow over his head.
Standing up, she yanked it off.
He glared up at her. "What do you want me to do about it?"
"You're gonna have to go to the store," she said, as if it was obvious. "I made a list," she went on coaxingly.
He sat up, still pissed. "You made a list?" His head started to pound harder. Pressing his fingers to his temples, he closed his eyes again. "Unbelievable."
She looked vaguely amused. "I'll add aspirin to it." She headed to the door, then turned back towards him. "You're not gonna go back to sleep, are you?"
Trying to give her a look filled with as much scorn as he could, he watched her leave the room and head back downstairs.
Swinging his legs out of bed, he stumbled angrily towards the bathroom. There was no use in trying to rest now. Damn her. He was in no mood to play house. He slammed the bathroom door hard, and then regretted it when his headache kicked up a notch.
He showered and took his time getting down to the kitchen. Let her wait. He wasn't going to rearrange his entire life just because she'd chosen his house as her hiding place. Maybe she could wrap Jack around her little finger and have him ready at her beck and call, but not him, by God. If she couldn't deal with that, then she could just be on her way.
When he entered the kitchen, she was standing at the window over the sink, looking down at the mountainous valley that spread out towards the east. She turned in his direction. "I'll have to rig up some heavier curtains for this window. Just in case."
Ignoring her, he opened the refrigerator. She was right; there was nothing in it but beer. Grabbing a can, he slammed the door and popped the tab.
"What are you doing?" she said, looking at him like he was crazy.
"Beer's good for a hangover," he said, taking a sip and trying not to cringe at how terrible it tasted.
"Yeah? So's coffee," she said, lifting up the pot. "I found some way back in the cabinet. It's the last of it," she added.
"Don't feel like coffee." He took another excruciating sip of the beer.
Paying no attention to him at all, she filled a coffee mug and held it towards him.
He considered. It sounded a hell of a lot better than anything else right now, but he really didn't want to give her the satisfaction. Raising her eyebrows and watching him patiently, she continued to hold the mug. Sighing in annoyance, he dropped the beer can heavily into the sink and yanked a chair out from the table, sitting down.
She sat the cup in front of him wordlessly, then pulled out a chair across from him. They sat in silence for a minute. He sipped the coffee, hoping she wouldn't notice how good it tasted to him.
His headache was finally starting to subside a bit, but he was still annoyed. "Let's get one thing straight," he finally said, looking at her. "I wake up on my own in the mornin'. I don't need no human alarm clock draggin' me out of bed and tellin' me what time it is. Got that?"
"You did wake up on your own," she pointed out. "I was just sitting there."
That was true. Could she possibly be more irritating?
Seeming to realize what a bad mood he was in, and perhaps feeling a little guilty, she sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I'd go to the store myself if I could, trust me. But right now...My face is on the news every 20 seconds. This is such a small town, and people know that you live here...they might make the connection. It's just too risky."
"I know that," he muttered.
"Here's the list." She slid a sheet of paper over to him. It was unbelievably long. He squinted, trying to make out the words.
"You need your glasses?"
He shot her a withering look, and she ducked her head, trying not to laugh.
Running his eyes over the list, he saw that most of the things were fairly ordinary. A typical shopping list. "What's this?" he asked, pointing at a word he couldn't quite make out.
"Artichoke," she said, as if was self-explanatory.
"What the hell you want artichoke for?"
"To cook with." He continued to stare at her. "It'll be good, trust me."
He looked back at the list. After a few seconds, he glanced back up at her again, in shock. "Tampons?"
She shrugged, amused. "Well?"
He shook his head contemptuously. This was like a nightmare.
"I think you can handle it," she said dryly.
"Exactly how long were you plannin' to stay here? If you don't mind my askin'," he said.
She waited a few seconds before answering, seeming a little sad. "I'll be out of your way as soon as I possibly can. I promise."
Oddly enough, the answer didn't really satisfy him. He drained the last of the coffee and scooted his chair back. Without saying anything to her, he headed towards the back screen door that led out of the kitchen. He paused on the porch in thought, then went back in.
"C'mere," he called to her.
She got up from the table and stood in the doorway of the pantry, looking at him questioningly.
"Want to show you somethin.' " He kneeled down onto the floor. Lifting up a reed mat, he unhooked a tiny latch and pulled up a section of the wooden planking until it rested at an angle on its hinges. He looked up at her as she peered into the hole, curiously.
"It's a root cellar," he explained. "When the mat's pulled over it, it's hard to tell it's there - opening stays almost completely hidden." He gave her a meaningful look. "Just in case anybody comes snoopin' around, like that bastard from down the road."
She nodded seriously. "Okay."
He closed the cellar door and re-covered it with the mat. She followed him as he headed towards the back door again. He stopped and looked at her, seeming a little worried. "Lock the door as soon as I'm gone. And make sure you keep all the drapes closed. You should also..."
"Sawyer." She stopped him, quietly. "I know how to do this."
"Yeah," he said, still looking worried. Opening the door, he glanced at her one more time. "Be back as soon as I can. Don't invite all your friends over."
She smiled slightly, then closed and locked the door as he headed out to the car.
When he finally pulled back into the driveway, it was late afternoon and the shadows were beginning to lengthen. After leaving the house at noon, he'd realized that he didn't have nearly enough cash on him, so he'd had to stop by the bank. Apparently, after the plane crash, his account had been liquidated, and it had taken him over an hour to prove to the morons that he wasn't dead.
Upon finally arriving at the grocery store, he couldn't find half of the things on her stupid list. Getting angry at the fact that he was even being made to consult a list, he dropped it on the floor and decided to just wing it. He realized his mistake when he couldn't think of anything to buy, so he'd been forced to go back and look for the paper. He cursed Oceanic Airlines, the goddamn island, Kate, the bank tellers, the grocery store manager, and for good measure, Jack. By the time he reached his house, he was ready to drop from sheer exhaustion.
Parking near the kitchen door, he grabbed as many bags as he could carry and headed inside. He would make her unload the stuff herself, but it probably wasn't safe for her to come outside while it was still light. He set the sacks down on the counter and looked around. At least she could put the stuff away - that wasn't too much to ask.
"Kate?" No answer. The house was as silent as a morgue. "Hey, Kate! Got your stuff, here!"
Glancing toward the table, he noticed a sheet of paper with her writing on it. It was a note. Unexpectedly, he felt a slight twinge in the pit of his stomach. So she must have changed her mind, after all. Maybe after what he'd said this morning, she'd decided to take her chances on the road.
It was probably better that way, anyway, he told himself. She'd cause him nothing but trouble if she stayed here. Still, he felt ridiculously disappointed. He moved slowly toward the note, not really wanting to read it.
As he got nearer, he noticed that there were only four words written:
"I'm in the attic."
And then a ridiculous smiley face that didn't seem to suit her at all.
He gave a short snort of laughter, relieved. Leaving the rest of the bags to wait in the car, he headed upstairs. To tell the truth, he'd forgotten he even had an attic. He knew where the stairs were, of course, but he didn't think he'd been up there since he was a kid. Even his parents had never gone up there much.
On the second floor, he found the door that led to the attic and slowly ascended the ancient wooden steps. When he reached the top, he stopped in wonder.
She was facing away from him, looking through a trunk over near the window that let in a shaft of pale sunlight. What stopped him in his tracks was the fact that he almost didn't recognize her - she seemed to be a ghost. Because, going against all the precepts of what he thought he knew about her, she was standing there wearing...a dress. And not just any dress; but an honest-to-God, 1940s, Big Band era cotton dress. It was short-sleeved and printed with flowers - the kind that clings to the waist and shoulders but then flares out below the hips. She looked like a war bride about to send her hubby off to the Navy.
"Well well well, ain't this a surprise," he drawled.
Startled, she spun around and put her hand to her heart. "Damn it, Sawyer, you scared me to death!"
He came up the last few stairs and looked at her. "What the hell' you doin' up here?"
"I was looking for some clothes. If you didn't notice, I didn't exactly bring any luggage with me. I got kind of sick of wearing the bathrobe."
"And that's what you decided on?" he asked ironically, looking at the dress.
She glanced down at it. "Everything up here is sixty years old. It's all I could find."
"That's 'cause this is my grandparents stuff," he replied, looking around in curiosity. "Forgot it was even up here."
"I'm surprised," she said. "You've probably got a fortune here, you know. Antiques are big business."
He looked back at her sharply. "Yeah, well, don't get any ideas. This stuff belongs to me."
She narrowed her eyes at him with scorn and moved toward the stairs.
He followed her down. "You gonna keep that thing on?"
She twirled around, making the skirt flare out. "I don't know. I kinda like it."
So did he. That was what worried him.
"You smell like mothballs," he said sarcastically.
She rolled her eyes. "I'll wash my clothes from yesterday. Did you get the detergent?"
"It was on the list, wasn't it?"
Smiling at him slightly, she prepared to descend to the first floor. "I'll make some dinner."
He watched her go, trying to remember if any woman had ever cooked dinner for him before. He was almost positive the answer was no. This was all wrong. She shouldn't be here. She needed to get out of here before...Before what, he wondered? Before he didn't want her to go? Wasn't it already too late for that? Weary, confused, and pissed at himself without knowing why, he went down to unload the rest of the groceries.
