Page 18 of No Good Fight

Dark. Glossy. Parked on the opposite side of the block with the front angled slightly toward the curb. Same make and color as the one I thought I saw earlier this week outside my building, though thought is doing a lot of heavy lifting there because my nervous system has recently started adding ominous background vehicles to the list of things it likes to ruin my day with.

The windshield catches the sun, turning the driver into nothing but glare.

My steps slow.

People move around me on the sidewalk, a woman with a stroller, two teenagers sharing earbuds, a man balancing takeout containers in both hands. Normal life keeps happening all around me while I stand there staring at a dark SUV like it might sprout teeth.

Then the brake lights flash.

The SUV pulls away from the curb and disappears into traffic before I can even pretend I’m getting the plate information.

My stomach tightens.

Coincidence.

It has to be coincidence.

This is a small town. People drive dark SUVs. People park downtown. People exist in places without plotting psychological warfare against me.

I’m pretending that I didn’t see the distinct metallic hood ornament for the newer model luxury vehicle.

Reasonable.

Logical.

Completely unhelpful.

My thumb hovers over Ryder’s contact before I realize what I’m doing.

I don’t call, obviously.

Because calling Ryder Cook every time I feel weird about a car would be pathetic, and I am trying very hard not to build my entire emotional stability around a man who somehow already knows far too much about me.

I’m pathetic, and in desperate need of a new vibrator, but I’m not ready to admit that I need him… or anyone. Not yet.

I shove my phone into my bag and go interview the bakery owner.

For twenty-seven minutes, I behave like a functioning adult. I ask questions. I take notes. I nod at appropriate times. I even manage a halfway intelligent follow-up about commercial rent hikes despite the fact that a corner of my brain is still standing on the sidewalk watching a dark SUV drive away.

By the time I duck into The Daily Grind, the lunch rush is in full swing.

The coffee shop is warm and crowded, filled with the hiss of the espresso machine, low music, overlapping conversations, and the smell of roasted beans and cinnamon. Sunlight pours through the front windows in bright sheets, making everything look safer than it feels.

I grab a small table near the back wall because I’m not completely self-destructive, spread my notes in front of me, and pretend the reason I picked this seat is because it has an outlet and not because I can see both doors from here.

Fantastic.

Now I’m doing crazy things like being overly situationally aware of what’s happening.

I’m halfway through rewriting Mr. Bell’s quote when the front door opens.

I know it’s Ryder before I look up.

Which is deeply inconvenient and possibly proof that my body has betrayed me on a cellular level.

The air doesn’t change. Music doesn’t stop. No one turns in slow motion.

But my spine knows.