“All of it.”
“No. Jumping off a bridge sounds terrible,” I confirmed, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets, trying to pack down the emotions that were predictably stirring from my honest answer.
“And the withdrawal thing?”
“Totally serious.” I cleared my throat, pushing all things Anne out of my head.
Her body stiffened as she covered her mouth. “Shit, I’m sorry. I was trying to help.” Her nose scrunched adorably as she repeated, “I’m sorry.”
She was really fucking cute.
I scrubbed the stubble on my chin. “Or maybe that was an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. I honestly can’t remember.”
Her mouth gaped open. “You jerk!” she exclaimed, slapping my arm.
“Shit. Calm down.” I threw my hands up in defense.
She shook her head and once again adjusted her wig, making sure it was still securely in place. I chuckled, quieting when she pursed her lips in what I assumed was an unimpressed glare.
I, on the other hand, was impressed.
That conversation with her had awakened something inside me that I hadn’t been able to achieve in months.
Distraction.
She didn’t utter another word as we stood silently, side by side, focused on the murky water below. After a few moments, her nails began to tap a vaguely familiar rhythm against the railing. I couldn’t quite make it out and eventually gave up trying.
When the silence became awkward, I decided to make it even worse and blurted, “My name’s Sam.”
“Good to know,” she replied dismissively.
Ouch.
On second thought, maybe the distraction wasn’t worth it. Dismissed might just be a good thing. The fact that she was covered in bruises, wearing shades and a long dress to cover them, made it clear she had a ton of issues in her own life. Lord knows I did. The main one at the moment being that I was out of cigarettes—and suddenly interested in a suicidal woman.
Besides, she seemed somewhat stable. I could go. No worries.
Right?
“I should probably go. Can you promise me that you won’t jump? You know, ease my conscience and all that.”
“Just go,” she whispered.
“That’s not an answer.”
Her tongue snaked out, nervously licking her lips. “I’m fine.”
Fuck.
That warranted all the worries.
Fine was my specialty.
And I knew firsthand that fine was never truly fine.
“Look, I don’t know you. But I think we’ve really bonded over the last two nights.” I bumped her shoulder with mine. “Sure, I may have lived up to the title ‘Tattooed Stalker’ at first, but I didn’t follow you home or anything.” I grinned, and she offered me a courteous chuckle. “I mean, that has to say something about me, right? I’m a decent guy, I swear. How about we grab a cup of coffee”—cough—“and a carton of cigarettes”—cough—“and talk for a little while.” I ended with a grin, giving it every ounce of charm I possessed.
“Sam, I’m serious. I’m really okay,” she assured, but it was a weak attempt.
“Now, that’s just not fair. I don’t know your name. So it’s really difficult for me to sound convincing like that.”
“I’m not telling you my name.”
“Okay, what if I guess?”
She shook her head but said, “Sure. Go for it.”
I stepped away, dragging my eyes up and down her body (only partly to check her out again.) Then I framed my hands and pretended to be a photographer looking for just the right lighting as I walked around to her other side.
She didn’t acknowledge my attempted humor, but when I leaned on the rail next to her, the slightest bit of amusement crept across her beautiful mouth.
“Bianca,” I guessed.
She gasped and her hands flew to her mouth.
“Oh my God. That’s it, isn’t it?” I threw a fist pump in the air.
“That was incredible,” she praised from behind her hands.
I blew on my nails then polished them on my shoulder. “What can I say, Bianca? I’m awesome.”
I wasn’t.