The Notebook Guy Standing In Front Of House の小説・ストーリー

"I'll make sure they’re settled." He stands on the porch for one second, breathing through his nose, then goes down the steps, murmuring all the ways he’s going to reward me when he gets me home. I’m suddenly in a rush to get going. Heidi’s laptop is still on the back seat. I grab it and stand there a second in the cold, eyes snagging on the trees beyond the yard. There's a very pale man standing absolutely still between two spruces, hands in the pockets of a coat that probably cost more than this cottage.

Just the blank page and two unanswered questions sitting in the same room as each other. I closed the notebook. Set it on the nightstand and turned off the light.

“Do not blame me for this…please.” The house girl stared at him again. This time, he was mumbling words to himself and that was absurd. “Sir, are you fine?” She asked. “You are trembling so much. I can get you a glass of water…” He didn’t pay heed to her. He grabbed his car keys and headed towards the exit. “I am heading out,” he said. “Do not let anyone into this house. And if by chance anyone asks about me, I am not home.” The house girl nodded and watched him leave. Herald’s heart was pounding against his chest. He had a terrible feeling about what was going on. He felt a bad aura. He tapped his steering wheel for a while, thinking of what to do before driving towards Brett’s home.

NATHAN was seated in the corner of the lounge, his phone resting face-up on the small glass table in front of him. A half-empty mug of lukewarm coffee sat beside it, forgotten hours ago. He was leafing through some household accounts on his tablet, trivial things that suddenly felt so weightless in this house that hadn’t known peace in days. This he did every morning since his boss wasn't leaving for the office again.

"What is wrong with you? Calm down." Without even thinking, both of us started moving fast. We weren't even trying, but somehow we were running down the stairs and hallway. We ran straight to the front door. We didn't open it yet. Instead, we both crowded around the little video screen on the wall. The screen showed the camera view of the front porch outside. There he was. Jax. He was standing on the concrete step. He was wearing his full biking kit. The leather jacket was thick and black. He looked massive on the small screen.

He was in the kitchen. Two cups. The January dark at the windows, the fire low in the grate, and the particular quality of a man who had been waiting three hours and had managed not to make it look like waiting mostly. She came in and set the notebook on the counter and looked at him.

At 3:55, I checked in downstairs at Hartwell and rode the elevator back up, keycard warm in my palm. This time, when I knocked and called out, there was an answer. “Yeah, come in.” His voice was muffled, like he’d been across the room. I stepped inside and felt the familiar weirdness of the apartment: luxury staged up front, real life hiding in the back. Today, the coffee table was different. The notebook was still there, but now it had more papers around it, printed schedules, a folder with a logo on it, and a pen that looked like it had been chewed.

He listened the way he always did, that quiet focused attention that felt more unsettling than all the noise the others made put together. But at the end when everyone was packing up he stayed seated for a moment, looking at something in his notebook like he was deciding something. I was gathering my papers when I heard him approach. I didn't look up. "If this is about an extension the answer is no." "It's not about an extension." I looked up. He was standing with his bag over one shoulder, notebook in hand, watching me with that expression I still hadn't figured out how to read after weeks of trying.