“Sorry,” he says, dropping his hand quickly. “I . . . you sure you’re okay?”
He’s standing there, right there in front of me with a dishrag in his hand. Asking me if I’m okay. This should not be happening. This isn’t what was supposed to happen, this—
I look away. Cough once more, then clear my throat and take a shaky breath in. Calm down, calm down. “I’m sorry,” I manage. “So sorry. I just . . .”
“It’s okay,” he says, like he might laugh. He glances over his shoulder at Chris, who looks like he’s already making me a new cup.
“Fresh one on the way!” Chris calls.
“See?” Colton Thomas says. “No worries.” He gestures at the closest chair. “I got this. You can sit.”
I don’t move, and I don’t say anything.
He crouches down to sop up the coffee with the rag but then looks back up at me and smiles, and it shocks me because of how different this smile is from the weak one in so many of his sister’s pictures. Because he doesn’t look like he did in the pictures. I don’t think I would’ve guessed he was even the same person. Maybe not even if he’d walked right into his parents’ shop.
The Colton in the pictures was ill. Pale skin, dark circles, puffy face, thin arms. A smile that seemed to take effort. This person kneeling down in front of me is vibrant, and healthy, and the one who—
I want to look away, but I can’t. Not with the way he looks at me then.
His hand stills and hovers above the sticky floor like he’s forgotten what he’s doing. And then, without taking his eyes off me, he stands slowly until we’re face-to-face and I can see the deep green of his eyes as they search mine.
His voice is softer, almost tentative, when he finally speaks. “Are you . . . have you . . . do I”
His questions float, unasked, in the space between us, and for moment they hold me there. And then panic comes rushing in.
When I say it out loud, the reality of what I’ve done—or come dangerously close to doing—hits me, sends me past him with a bump to his shoulder and out the door before he can say anything else. Before we can look at each other a moment longer.
I don’t look back. I walk as fast as I can down the sidewalk to my car, driven by the certainty that I shouldn’t have come and that I need to leave now. Because mixed up with the certainty that I’ve done something horribly wrong is the overwhelming feeling that I want to know this person better. Colton Thomas, with green eyes and tan skin, and a smile like he knows me. Who seems so different from the person I thought I’d find.
The sound of the door behind me, and then footsteps, makes me want to run.
“Hey,” a voice calls. “Wait!” His voice.
Those two words.
They make me want to—stop and wait, turn, and just look at him again. But I don’t. I walk faster instead. Away. This was a mistake, a mistake, a mistake. I jam my hand into my pocket and click the unlock button on my key over and over, near frantic now. Just as I step off the sidewalk and reach for my door, his footsteps come right up behind me, close.
“Hey,” he says again, “you left this.”
I freeze, fingers curled tight under the handle.
My heart hammers as I turn, slowly, to face him again.
He swallows hard. Holds my purse out to me. “Here.”
I take it. “Thank you.”
We stand there, catching our breaths. Searching for more words. He finds his first.
“I . . . are you all right? You seem like . . . maybe you’re not?”
Tears well up instantly, and I shake my head.
“I’m sorry,” he says, taking a step back. “That was—it’s none of my business. I just . . .” His eyes run over my face, searching again.
This is more than a mistake. I yank up on the handle and swing the door open, duck inside, and close it behind me with a shaky hand. I need to leave right now. I fumble with my keys for the right one, but they all look the same, and I can feel his eyes on me, and I just need to leave, and I should never have come, and— I find the right key, jam it into the ignition, and turn it. When I do, I look up in time to see him take a startled step out of the way, back onto the sidewalk. I shove the gear into drive, turn the wheel, and hit the gas. Hard.
The impact is sudden and loud. An insult that comes out of nowhere. Metal and glass crunch. My chin smacks into the steering wheel. The horn blares, and in the stillness of the moment it sinks in, what I’ve just done. Everything I’ve just done. I close my eyes, hoping feebly that somehow none of it happened. That I just dreamed it, the way I dream about Trent, where everything is so clear and real, until I wake up and realize that I am alone and he is gone.
Slowly, I open my eyes. I’m afraid to do anything else, but my hand moves automatically, puts the car in park. And then my door swings open.
Colton Thomas is not gone. He’s right there, looking at me with concern and something else I’m not sure of. He leans in and reaches across me to shut the engine off.
“Are you okay?” There’s worry in his voice.
My mouth throbs, but I nod my head, avoid his eyes, bite back tears. I taste blood.
“You’re hurt,” he says.
He raises his hand, just barely, like he might brush the hair away from my face, or wipe the blood from my lip, but he doesn’t. He just keeps looking at me.
“Please,” he says after a long moment, “let me help.”