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.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“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
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 will 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 slip of paper 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.