The Chilling Tide by T M Bashford

Author:T M Bashford
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9780648678045
Publisher: TM Bashford
Published: 2020-03-20T04:00:00+00:00

Shae

Drew had run from the breakfast table today, shouting goodbye and squeezing my shoulder on the way out to the office. With the front door slammed behind him, the house takes on the atmosphere of a crypt.

I sit in the dining room alone.

The two clocks tick and tock out of sync.

The waves outside make the rigging jingle.

This weekend had been quiet, but it was filled with the peace I craved. I’d stopped worrying about Drew’s intentions and settled into enjoying his company as he read to me or watched me swim. Now he’s gone, and I feel abandoned.

Last night, I had listened to him strum his guitar while I lay in bed. I’m not sure if he was on his balcony—I have worked out that his room is next to mine—but I’d left the French doors open as usual and it sounded as if he was right there, playing for me, singing for me. I had hugged a pillow in bed, remembering the time he sang to me on the beach in Samoa, wondering if he’d sing the same song again. He hadn’t, but I fell asleep to the sound of his strumming.

The doorbell rings and I’m stunned by my hope that it’s Drew, returning even for a moment to pick up something he left behind.

But it’s Miss Tiger.

I listen to her advancing stride alongside Jamison’s quick steps. “I bumped into Mr. Vega outside,” she states. “I understand you’ve done well with your visualizations and sensory clues.”

“It’s weird how everyone calls him that instead of Drew. He’s only twenty-four.”

“Twenty-five, according to Google. So, today, we’re going to ensure you don’t clean your hands with shampoo or wash your hair with bleach.”

She checked him out on Google, but more importantly, I’ve missed his birthday.

“I’m guessing you smell it first?” I say.

“Okay, smarty pants, let’s put you to the test.”

I can’t tell conditioner and hand soap apart, or mayonnaise and yogurt. She pulls out a random drawer and makes me identify things. I figure out the difference between pens and pencils and my shoes versus someone else’s. It’s another long day but by the end of it, I feel more in control of my life.

As the air cools, which means the sun is setting, I find myself wondering if Drew will come home for dinner or if he’ll work late and eat at the office. He’s done a lot of that lately.

When he swings into the White Room, I attempt to regulate the extent of my smile, but I know it takes over my face.

“Hey,” he says, and I listen to him huff into the sofa opposite me, pull off his shoes, and lump them onto the rug. “I hear you nearly put yogurt on your sandwiches instead of mayo.”

“Have you talked to Miss Tiger?”

“Yup. Said you’re her star pupil.”

“I doubt it.”

“Do you want to meet up with her again?”

“Yes and no. I’m not happy that you have to pay for everything.”

“She’s not expensive. She does two initial tutorials, and then lets you practice yourself before returning if you need her.

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