“Of course,” the guy says, and I hang up without saying good-bye.
I set the phone down on the counter and head down the hallway to the front door, wishing I’d gotten dressed, because Gran’s first reaction to seeing me still in my pj’s when I’m supposed to be ready will be to say something about the importance of “carrying on,” as she puts it, which is what she’s been doing every day for the last sixteen years since my grandpa died. I pause in the entryway, smooth my hair as best as I can, and get ready for her to make a big fuss over my lip and the accident, which my mom has undoubtedly already told her about. Then I take a deep breath and open the door.
And all the air rushes right out of me.
Colton Thomas is standing on my doorstep with his phone in one hand and the other behind his back. “Hi,” he says. He shifts on his feet. Gives me a tentative smile. “Soooo, like I was saying, you left me a note, and your number, and—”
Too many things race through my mind at once, too much to form a sentence; but I look over his shoulder, and there it is, the blue VW bus I smashed into, dented bumper and all.
He follows my eyes and glances over his shoulder at it. “Don’t worry about that.” He looks back at me. “And please don’t freak out. I just . . .” He pauses and looks at his feet for a moment, then back up at me, at my lip. “I just wanted to—make sure you were okay. And to tell you not to worry about the bus. Gives me an excuse to work on it.”
Finally, I find my voice, but it comes out sounding sharp. “Why didn’t you tell me it was your car?”
You can’t be here is all I can think.
“You were so freaked out, and I didn’t wanna make you feel worse, and— I’m sorry. I should’ve said something.”
“But how did you know where I—” You can’t be here.
He opens his mouth to answer but hesitates. Clears his throat. “I know some people.”
“At the hospital? That nurse? She told you where I live? I . . . you . . .”
Can’t be here.
I stop myself, realizing that he’s no more guilty than I was for searching him out. I don’t know what to do with the way seeing him again makes my face go hot and my legs feel shaky. I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly too aware that I’m still in my pajamas. Look down, away from him, at the toenails I haven’t bothered to polish in forever.
“I’m sorry,” he says, bending a little to catch my eyes. “I’m really sorry to just show up like this. It’s not—it’s not something I would normally do. I just . . .” He looks at me like he did in the café, and it lets loose a flutter that starts deep in my chest and spreads out over the rest of me in an instant.
“Yesterday was . . . you were . . .” He frowns. Clears his throat and looks at the ground, my house, the sky. Finally, he looks at me. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I just . . .” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I just wanted to see you again.”
Before I can respond, he takes his hand from behind his back. Holds it out to me. And I break, into a million invisible pieces.
He looks from me to the sunflower in his hand and back again. “Um . . .”
I can’t answer. I can’t even breathe. My eyes burn, and the ground feels unsteady beneath me. I look at him standing there on my doorstep, a single sunflower in his hand, and all I can see is a flash of Trent. It’s too much. All this is too much. I shake my head like I can make it go away.
“I . . . no. I can’t. I’m sorry.” I take a step back, start to close the door, but his voice stops me.
“Wait,” he says, looking confused. “I’m sorry. That was— I didn’t really think this through, I just . . . really liked meeting you yesterday, and I thought maybe . . .”
His shoulders sag, and he looks lost in a way that makes me want him to finish his sentence.
“What?” I whisper. I open the door a fraction more. “What did you think?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and I don’t move from the doorway.
“I don’t know what I thought,” he says finally. “I just wanted to know you better, that’s all.” The hand holding the sunflower drops to his side. “I should go.” He bends and lays the flower on the doorstep, at my feet. “It was good to meet you, Quinn. I’m glad you’re okay.”
I don’t say anything.
He nods like I did, then turns and walks slowly down the front steps, away. I look at the sunflower lying there on the doorstep. Colton walks across the driveway to his bus, and I know that if he leaves now, he won’t come back and that will be the end of it. That should be the end of it. Only, in this moment, I don’t want it to be.
My heart pounds louder in my ears with each step he takes, but when he reaches for his door, the only sound I hear is my own voice.
“Wait!”
The word surprises us both.
Colton freezes, and there’s a second before he turns around, when I worry I’ve made a terrible mistake. That I’ve crossed a line not only with him, but with Trent too. It’s not until he turns and looks at me with those soulful eyes that I realize I’m already standing on the other side of it.
“Wait,” I say again, softer this time.
I don’t have to say another word, which is good, because I’m still so shocked at myself I can’t. Colton crosses the yard and is back up the porch steps quickly, but cautiously, like he doesn’t want to frighten me off again. He stops in front of me, one step down, so we’re eye to eye. Waits for me to say something more.
My mind races. What am I doing, what am I doing, what am I doing?
“What about . . . what about your bus?” I stammer. “How do I . . . I need to take care of it, or pay for it, or . . . something?”
He shakes his head, smiles. “No you don’t. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing, it’s . . .” I fumble for the right words, for any words, really. “I have to make it up to you somehow—for your bus.”