“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.
CHAPTER THREE
“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”
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.
“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.
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 knowledge 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.