“That’s it?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
“You sure you don’t want anything else?”
“Yes. I mean no thank you—I’m sure.” My eyes drop to the ground, though I can feel him looking at me.
“Okay,” he says, after a long moment. His voice gentler now. “I’ll bring it over to you in just a minute.” He gestures at the five or six empty tables. “Plenty of seats, take your pick.”
I do, a table tucked deep in the corner, facing the window. Outside, the sun melts its way through the morning gray, infusing the water with light and color.
“Here you go.”
The café guy sets down a steaming, bowl-sized mug and a plate with a giant muffin. “On the house,” he says when I look up. “Banana chocolate chip. Tastes like happiness. You seem like maybe you could use a little this morning.”
He smiles, and I recognize the careful way he does it. It’s not just this morning. It’s the same smile people have given me for a while now, a mix of what looks like compassion and pity, and I wonder what it is he sees in me that makes him think I need it. My posture? Expression? Tone? It’s hard to guess after this long.
“Thank you,” I say. And then I try for a real smile back, to assure both of us that I’m okay.
“See? It’s working already.” He grins. “I’m Chris, by the way. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
I nod. “Thank you.”
He goes back to the kitchen, and I lean back in my chair, hot mug cradled between my hands, feeling a little calmer already. Though I can still see the kayak shop across the street, this feels like a safe, reasonable distance. Like I haven’t done anything wrong by being here. A surfer walks by on the sidewalk, and I catch a glimpse of green eyes and tan skin that sends my eyes away quickly, down into the foam on my mocha. He’s striking. It’s startling to notice, and doing so doesn’t come without a twinge of guilt.
A moment later the door swings open, and he strides straight toward the counter without seeing me in my corner, dings the bell five times fast. “Hey! Anybody working here today, or you all out in the water?”
Chris comes back from the kitchen, a smile of familiarity on his face. “Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence this morning.” They high five and pull each other into one of those guy half-hugs over the counter. “Good to see you, man. You surf already?”
“Watched the sun come up from the water,” says the one with those eyes. “Just came in. It was good—why didn’t I see you out there?” He reaches for a cup and fills it himself.
“Somebody’s gotta run the place,” Chris says, taking a sip from his own cup.
“Somebody’s priorities are all wrong,” the other one deadpans.
“Chris sighs. “It happens.”
“I know. When you’re not looking,” his friend says simply. He blows gently over his cup. “That’s why you gotta be here now, so you don’t miss that stuff.”
“That’s deep, dude.” Chris smiles. “Any more wisdom you want to impart on me this morning?”
“Nope. But this swell’s supposed to hold up. Sunrise session tomorrow?”
Chris tilts his head, reordering his priorities.
“Come on.” His friend smiles. “Life’s too short. Why would you not?”
“All right,” Chris says. “You’re right. Five thirty. You want grub?”
When a tiny part of me hopes he answers yes so he’ll stay, I realize how intently I’ve been following their conversation. And him. Self-conscious, I raise my mug to my lips, more to have something to hide behind than to take a sip. I force my eyes back to the street outside the window.
“Nah, I gotta go get the shop opened up. I got a family of eight coming in to rent kayaks right now, and I promised my sister I’d be there to get ’em set up.”
His words, casually spoken, hit me quick, like a volley of arrows: kayaks, rental shop, sister. My stomach does a flip at the all-too-real possibility that this is him. Standing right there, just a few feet away. I inhale sharply at the thought, and immediately choke on my coffee. Both guys look my way as I sputter and reach for the glass of water on the table. I knock over my mug instead, sending it to the ground with a crash. Coffee splatters in every direction.
The surfer takes a step toward me as I jump up, out of my seat. Chris tosses a rag over the counter to him. “Colt, catch.”
My heart drops right out of my chest, taking all the air in the room with it so I can’t breathe.
Colt.
As in Colton Thomas.
Scientists have identified individual neurons, which fire, when a particular person has been recognized. Thus, [it is possible that] when a recipient’s brain analyzes the features of a person, who significantly impressed the donor, the donated organ may feed back powerful emotional messages, which signal recognition of the individual. Such feedback messages occur within milliseconds and the recipient [may even believe] that [he] knows the person.
—“Cellular Memory in Organ Transplants”
CHAPTER THREE
COLTON THOMAS WALKS over to me, dark brows creased with concern, rag in one hand, the other reaching across the puddle of spilled coffee. “You okay?”
I nod, still coughing, though I’m far from it.
“Here, step over this way. I’ll get it.” He takes my elbow lightly, and I tense at his touch.