Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(18)

I am relieved when he leaves. I take a long shower and take my time getting dressed, thinking about what he’s said. After a fifteen-year drought, I have two men vying for my attentions. I know Steve will get over it, but it might hang between us for a while and make our easygoing relationship a little uncomfortable until it wears off.

He has left me a laptop case that’s a backpack, so I shove everything inside it and climb onto my bike. It looks as though I’m just taking one of my normal rides, but instead I fly down Spring Street and into Old Harbor. The bakery here has wireless; I remember seeing the sign announcing it when I was here recently for a latte and a muffin. As I dismount, I eye the small storefront and wonder about that wireless Internet. There is so much to learn.

I glance around, checking to see if he is lurking somewhere, but I see no one. I lean my bike against the rack and lock it up, the heavy backpack tugging on my shoulder.

The scent of coffee overwhelms me so that I momentarily forget my mission and order a medium latte. A croissant also seems like a good idea, and I take my cup and pastry to a small table in the corner. I position myself so I am facing the door, the laptop screen not visible to anyone but me. He has given me a URL for a VPN, but I ignore it. I would rather find my own, which I do, easily enough.

Once I’m connected and hopefully safe, I pull that other URL out of my brain, the one that’s been in hiding as long as me. My fingers are trembling as I type it in, wondering if it’s still the same, if I’ll find anyone I know there.

I know better than to use my old screen name, so I create a new one: BikerGirl27. It sounds like I ride motorcycles, not bicycles, which is the whole point.

I go into the first chat room and have a total déjà vu moment. The first time I was here, I was fourteen. One computer class at school had opened a door for me that I hadn’t known existed. I was fluent in French even then, but this was a language that came even more naturally. It made sense when so many other things didn’t, but in my youth and ignorance, I made a lot of mistakes. I was an anomaly: a girl hacker, and I didn’t know enough to keep that a secret. I left portals open that should’ve been shut tight behind me, and my father caught me hacking into his business files. That’s when I found the chat rooms full of other kids just like me, computer geeks who had a special gift of making complete sense out of what looked like gibberish to most people.

It’s where I first met Tracker.

He’s not going to be here, it’s been so long, but I find myself scanning the names, looking anyway, following threads and getting my sea legs back, so to speak, until I force myself to stop. I am not here to rekindle old relationships. I am here to get help.

This is the thing that he doesn’t know. I didn’t do it alone.

I glance out the window and see him walking toward the cafe. Quickly, I shut down the laptop and shove it into the backpack. When he comes in, I am waiting in line for another coffee.

‘You’ve got an early start,’ he says.

‘Thought I’d get a coffee first. Do you want one?’ The barista raises her eyebrows at us, and he orders two lattes to go.

‘I’m not sure a coffee shop is a good idea,’ he explains. ‘Wireless has no boundaries, and you’re right. Maybe we shouldn’t be seen too much together. Let’s go to my room.’

The implication is intimacy, but I know better. We pay for our coffees and head outside.

‘I’ve got my bike.’ I indicate it, locked up outside.

‘Meet me there,’ he says, already crossing the street, both of our coffees in his hands, and I unlock my bike, riding behind him, the backpack slapping against my back.

When we get to the Blue Dory Inn, instead of going into the main building, he veers to the right, toward an outbuilding. He pushes the door open and waits for me as I lean my bike against the building just outside his door. There is no place to lock it up, but it’s so close by it shouldn’t be a problem. I hope.

‘Nice room,’ I say as I step inside and he closes the door behind me. It is a nice room, cozy with a queen-sized bed covered with an old-fashioned patchwork quilt and small throw pillows, the windows covered with lace curtains like the ones I have in my house. I drop the backpack on the bed and peer out the window at the water shimmering under the late morning sun.

‘You called me Tina,’ I say quietly.

His eyes grow wide. ‘I did not.’

‘Yes, you did. When you came out of the bathroom looking for the razor.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I said I didn’t hear you say anything. He thinks you don’t know my name.’

‘He lost some respect for you, didn’t he?’ His tone is kind. ‘I know you’ve made friends here, but I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important.’

‘I know.’ But as I say it, I wonder, do I?

I am sitting on the edge of the bed, and I reach across it to pull the laptop out of the backpack, but he puts his hand out, takes it from me. He stands in front of me, placing the laptop on the dresser. Gently, he pushes me back and leans over me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says softly. I put my hand on his neck and feel his pulse quicken, and he smiles at me. I remember how it was, in the beginning, when my heart raced every time I saw him. I see it in his eyes now, the way he used to love me, and I let him kiss me.

The lesson starts two hours later. We make a feeble attempt to discuss how we can’t keep our hands off each other; we try to laugh about it. But there is an undercurrent of desperation, as if each time we think it will be the last. As if it is a second chance we must cling to before it’s over again.