“The heart, [scientists have found], is not just a pump but also an organ of great intelligence, with its own nervous system, decision-making powers, and connections to the brain. They found that the heart actually ‘talks’ with the brain, communicating with it in ways that affect how we perceive and react to the world.”
—Dr. Mimi Guarneri, The Heart Speaks: A Cardiologist Reveals the Secret Language of Healing
CHAPTER FOUR
COLTON STANDS BETWEEN the bumper of my car and the blue VW bus’s I ran into, taking in the damage. “It’s really not that bad,” he says, squatting down between the two bumpers. “I mean, you took the brunt of it.” He looks at the clump of napkins I’m holding tight to my bottom lip. “That’s gonna need stitches. We should get you to a doctor.”
I try to ignore the “we” part. I need to get out of here even more than I did before, but I’ve just complicated things exponentially. “I can’t just leave,” I say. “I ran into someone’s car. I have to make a report or something. Or at least call my insurance company. And my parents. Oh god.” They were already gone when I left this morning and would probably expect me to be there when they came home for lunch, because I have been there every day for the last few weeks, since graduation.
Colton stands. “You can do all that later—you need to get yourself taken care of first. Just write a note. Leave your number. People are mellow around here. And you barely dented it. It’s really not that big of a deal.”
I want to argue with him, but my lip throbs, and the warm stickiness of the napkins I’ve got pressed to it is making me queasy. “Really?”
“Really,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”
He turns and jogs easily across the street to the kayak rental shop, where a small crowd—presumably the family he mentioned in the café—mills around. The adults alternately eye their watches and glance around while a couple of teenagers lean against the window, absorbed in their phones, and the two youngest kids chase each other between the racks of kayaks. I should go right now. Leave a quick note on the bus and get out of here now, before this goes any further.
I hurry back to my car and duck into the driver’s seat to grab my purse. The sudden movement causes a whole new wave of pain and stickiness to rush to my mouth, and I have to take a deep breath before I dig through my purse for a pen and something to write on.
I look across the street, watch as Colton approaches the family of customers. He looks apologetic as he gestures back in my direction, likely explaining what just happened. They nod, and he takes out his phone, makes a brief call, then shakes everyone’s hand again before turning to come back. I pretend to be so deeply absorbed in writing my note that I don’t look up when his feet stop right in front of me.
“I can take you to the hospital,” he says.
I write my name and phone number at the bottom of the note. “Thank you, really, but it’s okay. I can drive myself.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“It’s not that bad. I’m fine, I—”
“Here.” He takes the receipt from me. Glances down at it. “Why don’t I go put this on the car, you switch seats, and I can drive you.”
I don’t move. Partly because I know this is a bad idea and partly because I’m a little dizzy.
Colton crouches in front of me so I can’t avoid his eyes. “Listen. You need stitches, I just got the day off work, and I can’t let you just drive away like that.”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer but walks to the windshield of the bus, lifts the wiper, and tucks the note beneath it. Before I can come up with an excuse for him not to take me, he’s back at the driver’s side of my car, where I’m still sitting.
I look at him a moment longer, long enough to run through all the reasons that letting this go one step further is a mistake.
“Can I?” he asks. And when he looks at me with those eyes, something deep within them makes me say yes.
We don’t speak as he drives down the main street, not at first. The sleepy little beach town has come to life now, and beachgoers crowd the sidewalks, heading down to the sand in their flip-flops and cover-ups, stuffed beach bags slung over their shoulders. I can feel him look over at me every few seconds, and it takes all my focus not to make eye contact. Finally, when it seems like he’s drifted into his own thoughts, I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, try to take in the details. Blue board shorts, white T-shirt, flip-flops. No medic bracelet. All this surprises me, like there should be some outward sign.
He seems comfortable driving my car, and I try to be okay with it, but I’m not. I don’t think anyone else has driven it since Trent’s been gone, and it feels like if I closed my eyes right now, I could see him there. Sitting in that seat, with one hand on the wheel, the other on my knee, singing loud and getting the words wrong on purpose to make me laugh. Working my name into every song that came on.
But there is no music on now, and Colton Thomas is driving my car. A deep river of guilt runs through me, and as we drive, I try to come up with a new set of rules to deal with the situation I’ve created. I won’t ask him any questions, and I’ll answer as few as possible. I won’t mention where I’m from, or why I was in Shelter Cove, or who I am. Maybe I won’t even tell him my real name because—