“Right!Right.” I seriously contemplate slapping myself across the face. “I’ll just… wait here then…” I call after him as he disappears upstairs. I think I hear the sound of a chuckle float back to me, but the fog clouding my psyche is so thick, I can barely function. None of my senses are remotely trustworthy.
I look around the foyer. My eyes involuntarily drift to the opposite wall, where Wyatt once hurled a full tray of pancakes, a shocking show of violence from such a pacifist. Lured despite my will, I find myself running a fingertip against the whitewashed wall, searching for any trace of that fateful morning. A smudge of residual syrup, an indent where the tray made contact.
There’s nothing there, though. The space has been scrubbed clean.
As if that day never happened at all.
The thought bothers me immensely.
Memories crowd in from all sides, saturating the space, making me claustrophobic despite the twenty-foot ceilings soaring overhead. Unable to stay there another moment, I wander through a narrow archway into an adjacent room — Wyatt’s home office.
If a room can feel like a person, this one feels like him. Smells like him. Looks like him.
Rich leather and comfortable chairs, dim lighting and bookshelves on every wall. I suck in a deep breath and a pure dose ofWyattinvades my body, filling my every atom. It nearly knocks me to the floor.
It’s not my intention to snoop; I just want a better look at his books. I’ve always thought the paperbacks a person chooses to keep on their limited shelf space says a lot about who they are, how they think, and what they want out of life. As I run my fingers along the spines of Wyatt’s many books, I’m unsurprised to find a wide array of titles, ranging from whimsical —Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, The Little Prince— to the classics —The Sun Also Rises, A Tale of Two Cities, The Grapes of Wrath— to the obscure —A Clockwork Orange, Kafka on the Shore, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Unsurprisingly, I spot more than a few book-to-movie adaptations amidst his collection. A given, considering his deep love of film.
I can’t say exactly how it catches my eye. I spot it unintentionally in my peripherals — its nondescript blue spine peeking out from the stack of papers on his desk. My fingers tremble as I pick it up, sending several sheaves fluttering into the air like vellum birds. I’m bending to retrieve them when the embossed letters on the front cover of the book make my heart skip a beat.
UNCHARTED
This is a first edition hardcover; vastly different from the worn paperback I’ve flipped through in the wee hours of the morning too many times to count. I wonder how Wyatt tracked it down… before remembering that he’s Wyatt Hastings. His connections are endless, as are the zeros tacked on the end of his bank account. There are very few things in the world he cannot acquire, if he puts his mind — and money — to it.
I crack open the book like an old friend. Long before I was ever cast in the movie, I spent countless hours lost between these pages with Violet and Beck on their island. There’s always been something about their story that spoke to me like a drug, seeping its way into my system.
Is it possible to discover yourself in words penned by a stranger? Can you find your soulmate in the pages of a book?
If so,Unchartedis mine.
I reread a few familiar passages then flip it back closed, running a fingertip across the faded name on the front cover and wondering, not for the first time, about the author who penned it.Tywin G. Hassatt.A ghost, if the internet is to be believed, without so much as a biography for me to gather clues from during my gentle stalking session.
“What are you doing?”
His voice is softer than silk, but I jump as though he’s shouted. The book tumbles from my hands to the floor as my eyes fly to Wyatt. He’s hovering a cautious distance away, dressed in jeans and a fitted navy henley that brings out his eyes.
“Shit!” I curse, bending to pick up the book. My cheeks heat when I spot the other scattered papers on the rug — I’ve made an utter mess of his desk. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t snooping, I promise. I just wandered in here and I saw the book…. I’d never seen a first edition before. Where did you get it? I’d die to have one of my own. Not that I need a first edition to enjoy the story, I’m perfectly happy with my old paperback, though the cover is starting to rip a little so I’ll have to get another copy eventually…”
I’m babbling again as I shuffle the scattered pages into a short stack and set them back on his desk beside the book. The top sheet is a memo with his contact information stamped in bold, blocky letters at the top.
WYATT HASTINGS
I freeze. Almost in a daze, my eyes move back to the cover of the book sitting directly beside it, rearranging letters in my head like puzzle pieces snapping into place.
TYWIN G. HASSATT
W-Y-A-T-T H-A-S-T-I-N-G-S
An anagram.
A pseudonym.
My eyes fly to his. He’s watching me warily.
“Holy shit.”
He doesn’t react.
“It’syou.”