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Kiss her. Her face comes back to my mind—her hazel eyes, her small nose, her soft mouth. Hell, I wouldn’t mind kissing her. Not at all.
But dammit, although I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her look my way once or twice, she never waved or came over. Either she hasn’t recognized me, or she doesn’t want to talk to me.
Can I blame her? Even if she recognizes me, why would she wanna talk to me? I was just a guy she was kind to, a guy spat out by the system and left to rot. I bet she never thought she’d see me around, either, a stain on her perfect life, just like I never thought our paths would cross again.
I wonder why she’s here, if she lives or works nearby, and whether she’ll get fed up with donuts and coffee, and I won’t see her anymore.
The thought jolts my heart into overdrive. I’ve put it off long enough. Tomorrow, I’m gonna cross the street and talk to her. Why the hell not? What do I have to lose? God knows I’ve learned by now that life is short, and you should do what you wanna do before it’s too damn late.
My breath steams, and every exposed bit of skin hurts. The wind is ice-cold, and I hurry home as fast as I can. I still manage to make some rounds, though, stopping at Molly’s usual haunt outside a candy store to give her some money, and at the bench where Ben usually sits in the evenings, to check the old man is okay.
A coughing fit grips me as I turn the corner to our building, and I have to stop and catch my breath before I enter. Shit.
Seth isn’t at home when I unlock the door and step inside. Now that I think about it, he said something about starting a new job today. I think it was at a bar nearby? Being a tattoo artist apprentice won’t pay the rent, unfortunately. At least I have a full-time job there.
It’s also damn cold, so I turn on the heater and sink in our threadbare couch, rubbing my hands over my face. I’m still panting. Leaning back, I wait it out.
I’m getting there. Seven months ago, I was a wreck—too thin, too weak, too sick. Too far down to really get up. But I made it.
I really want her to see that. I don’t give a shit about people’s opinion of me. They don’t know me. I don’t know them. Who the fuck cares? But she matters, because she was one of the few who really saw me when I was down and didn’t ignore me. I want to show her that her help amounted to something.
Okay, so it doesn’t hurt that she’s pretty. Cute. I hadn’t even noticed until this week. In my memory, Ev’s just a pair of large, soulful eyes and a soothing voice that kept me afloat when I sank. And I sank pretty damn low.
Maybe it’s not her. And even if it is... Who says she’ll talk to me?
I get up and go check the fridge. Empty. I slam the door closed and consider calling for a pizza. My multivitamins sit on the counter. I should eat and take them, or tomorrow I’ll be fucked up, walking like a drunk.
But I’m tired and not really hungry. Fuck it. I won’t die if I don’t have dinner tonight. Heaven knows I’m used to it. Depression clings to me. It’s too quiet here. Her
face brings back too many memories that crowd my mind, and I don’t want to have to face them.
I weave through the quiet apartment, find my bed by feel and drop on it like a stone.
Chapter Two
Evangeline
The afternoon sky has darkened to coal. Heavy clouds hang overhead as I finish work. I limp down the street from the sports store where I landed a part-time job, heading for my favorite donut place.
Resisting the urge to reach down and massage my aching leg, I walk faster. There it is. It’s a mom-and-pop shop. Mava’s Donuts. I enter and inhale the scent of sugar and fat. Cheap, greasy, delicious sweetness. Just what I need right now. Best drug against nerves.
My hands shake. I’ve turned my cell off after Blake’s last message, and I don’t know if I’ll be turning it on again anytime soon.
Blake. Major asshole. Ex-boyfriend.
Only he doesn’t seem to get the ‘ex’ part. I broke up with him right before the accident, seven months ago. Then life got sort of fuzzy, then sort of exhausting, and then Blake started sending me gifts and coming around to visit me. I thought we could be friends.
But then his hands began wandering, and I had to tell him—again—that we were not an item. And the worst part? He seemed to think I was joking.
God.
My jogging shoes squeak on the floor as I shift to my good leg and stretch the other. People turn to stare at me and I paste on a smile.
‘Where will you find better than me?’ Blake had sneered at me. ‘You’re not getting any younger, Evangeline.’
Yeah, I’m so old. All of nineteen.
‘Why can’t you think of your future? All you do is hang around homeless bums, and look where it got you.’
