This man, his smile, his eyes, his dated clothing and hairstyle, were so much like the man who’d saved her life. But he couldn’t be. Not unless fifteen years could pass without him aging a day.
Jake played with the pendant in his pocket. Hard to believe it was the same girl, but her reaction to the butterfly had been unmistakable.
From the second he’d heard her voice, something about her had been familiar, but it wasn’t until he’d brought out the pendant that he’d seen the oh-so-obvious truth. Even all grown up, in that cop uniform, and without the heavy black eyeliner he’d wiped from her cheeks with that same damn handkerchief, it had to be her.
Across from the police station, he leaned against the brick wall, unable to leave – obsessed – like some chick waiting for the Beatles to emerge from a hotel. Pathetic.
And useless.
Chances were there was some back entrance the cops used. And even if she did see him waiting, she clearly wouldn’t want to. She’d tossed him out.
The year they’d met in the park she’d been a teenager – lost, terrified, out of her depth – and he’d been the big brother figure who’d shared his story, hoping his life lessons might help her.
Her reaction to him that day had been text-book obvious, given her age and the circumstances, and didn’t mean she’d give a damn about, or even remember, him today. She was a fully formed person now, no longer broken. Probably had a husband or boyfriend, at least friends to support her.
More to the point, even if shewerecurious, wanted to find out if they shared the same memory, what would be the point?
In spite of today – evenbecauseof today – the odds were freakishly long that he’d ever see her again. If there was a next time, he’d be just as likely to find her playing on the swings as a toddler, or pushing a walker as a ninety-year-old woman. Both were thousands of times more likely than seeing her on anything resembling tomorrow.
For him, there were no tomorrows.
He pushed off the wall and started down the street. A small car pulled out from the kerb and a line of yellow cabs honked. His first visit to the twenty-first century. Didn’t look that different from the last.
“Mr Reddick. Jacob. Wait. Please. Jake.”
He stopped, but didn’t turn.
“Wait a minute,” her voice pleaded, coming closer.
Talking to her was a dumb idea, yet his feet remained clamped to the sidewalk. Time – however meaningless the term had become – had taught him that interacting with others, making any kind of connection, was pointless.
Human connections only made his existence harder to endure.
Kara slid her hand on to Jake’s shoulder and his head tipped back a fraction of an inch. His sandy curls hit the collar of his plaid jacket, bending like soft springs, and it was all she could do to keep her hand from traversing the few inches required to stroke those curls, confirm their softness, and run the back of her finger along the warm neck beneath.
Crazy. Insane.
She barely knew this guy. They’d spent one day talking when she’d been all of fourteen, yet he’d been the leading man in her dreams for years.
As Jake slowly turned, her hand slipped from his shoulder and stung at the loss of contact. “It is you, isn’t it?” Her voice came out low and breathy.
He reached out, but dropped his arm sharply. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He stepped back, but she grabbed his jacket’s sleeve.
“Yes you do.”
He glared and pulled his arm out of her grip. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“Yes you have. I can prove it.” Her chest squeezed and heat rose in her face. “Your mother died of cancer when you were twelve. Just like mine. Then your father died too. You regretted how you’d cut him out of your life and blamed him for things he couldn’t control. You blamed him for not being your mother.”
He stared at the ground, his jaw clamped so tightly she wondered if his teeth might crumble. So stubborn.
“You ran away at fourteen. Just like me. And you regretted that, too. Had to live hand-to-mouth and work nights to finish high school and land a job that paid enough to cover your rent.” She sucked in a sharp breath. Had his stories all been lies designed to manipulate an impressionable young runaway?
If so, they’d worked.
She stomped her foot like a child – felt like one. “I did what Ipromised. I went home. I apologized to my dad. I kept away from drugs. I finished high school.”
He didn’t move.
