Free From My Window by Karen Jones

Chapter 11

    Here I am. At Mason’s door. I haven’t spoken to anyone in so many years. Will my voice even work? What if it doesn’t and it just comes out like a squeak? Or it doesn’t come out at all? I test my voice.
    “Hello,” I say to the door. That sounds good. Sounds normal.
    I look down at the letter in my hand. I’m ready. I just need to ring the doorbell. I swallow hard and reach out my hand, finger extended, ready to push. The door yanks open before I get the chance. I’m so startled, I take a step back and stumble a little.
    Mason reaches out and takes hold of my elbow to steady me. The heat from his fingers races up and down my arm. It’s a curious sensation. I realize belatedly that his hand might have gone all the way through me. I took a big risk. But, lucky for me, I’m not a wisp of smoke or a mist of some kind. I’m tangible.
    “I’m sorry to startle you,” Mason says.
    “Oh,” I say. Not the most clever reply. But I was startled. And he did touch me. And he looks so adorably cute today. So I can’t really be held accountable for being at a loss for words. Or thoughts.
    “Were you about to knock?” he asks and drops his hand. My elbow feels suddenly cold and lonely.
    “Oh. Yes. Yes, I was,” I tell him. I hold the letter up in front of me.
    He takes it and looks at the address. “Where’d you get this?”
    “It was in my box. By mistake,” I say. My voice sounds strange to me. I can’t get over hearing it again.
    “Well, thank you for bringing it to me. I’ve been expecting it,” he says.
    His eyes are the brightest blue I think I’ve ever seen. I realize I’m staring and I should probably say something. But what?
    Finally, I say, “Well, okay then.” I turn to leave but he grabs my sleeve with two fingers to stop me.
    “I’m Mason,” he says. “Do you want to come in?”
    I turn, scared out of my wits. He lets go of my sleeve but continues to stand there all handsome and expecting me to speak.
    “I’m,” I say, then realize I haven’t told anyone my name in so long I don’t remember it. What was it? How can someone forget their own name? He’s staring at me, waiting. Eleanor. That’s it. It’s Eleanor. That’s so old-fashioned. “Ellie,” I finish. “It’s Ellie. Short for Eleanor. An old family name.”

Chapter 12

    “It’s nice to meet you, Ellie. Would you like to come in?” he asks.
    Should I? I haven’t done something like this before. What are the risks? He can see me. He can touch me. Oh, how I wish he’d touch me again. It felt so wonderful. So alive. But the risks. What could go wrong? There might be someone else in the house. Someone who can’t see me. I shouldn’t risk it. I mustn’t.
    “I’d love to,” I say.
    Mason steps back and gestures for me to pass. I step over the threshold into his home. The scent of apples and cinnamon reaches me. Is someone baking a pie? Would I be able to eat a piece of pie? Wouldn’t that be exciting? To eat. I haven’t even tried such a thing. But here I am, being seen, being spoken to, being touched. Who’s to say I can’t eat a slice of apple pie.
    “This way,” Mason says, and leads me toward the front of the house. The walls are covered in photos. Some black and white, some full color. There are portraits, landscapes, flowers, and animals.
    “Is your mother a photographer?” I ask.
    “No. I am.”
    This startles me. Mason seems so young. And he goes to school. When would he have the time to take all of these beautiful images?
    “There’s so many,” I say.
    “I love photography. It’s what I enjoy more than anything,” he tells me.
    His home is open and inviting with bright colors. He wanders into the living room and I follow. The kitchen is visible on the other side of a marble breakfast bar. Mason offers me a soda. I take a risk and accept. He hands me a Coke in a can. I’m completely unsure how to open it. I must look ridiculous standing there, soda in hand, staring at it.
    “I can