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“Let me refresh your memory: we broke up.”
“No, you broke up. I never did. You like to play games, Evie. Which is why I choose to ignore your little ultimatums and your little tantrums every time.”
A chill goes through me. He’s crazy. “What do you want?”
His lip curls. “If you won’t see me, then you won’t be seeing your homeless buddies, either.”
“What are you saying?”
“I told you to keep away from them. If I see you talking to them, even looking at them, I’ll bust their legs, do you unders
tand?”
I gape at him. “You’re threatening innocent people? Why?”
He shrugs. “I’m only looking out for you. So far you’ve been good, staying on the main street, not deviating. Just keep it up.”
“You’re sick.” My grip on my walking stick tightens. “Stay the hell away from me.”
“Uh-oh.” He wags a finger as he turns and walks away. “Language, Evie. Not very lady-like.”
Damn you, Blake.
I watch his retreating back until he turns a corner and disappears. Fear clogs my throat. I hurry to the sports store and slip inside.
My boss is there, looking pointedly at his watch. It turns out he isn’t overly happy with the two days I had to call in sick and my worsening handicap, and I can’t find it in me to care.
“You should take better care of yourself, Miss Kingsley,” he grumbles, squinting at my walking stick. “Customers at a sport store don’t like to be reminded of accidents that can happen to them while doing said sports.”
“It didn’t happen while doing sports,” I say. “It was—”
“I don’t care what it was. You’d better get rid of that stick as soon as possible.” He actually wags a finger at me. His neck is turning red above his white tennis shirt. “In fact, you’d better put it away for as long as you’re here.”
I gape after him as he walks away, muttering.
“Don’t mind him,” Cassie whispers, her blue eyes wide. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” I stash the stick in the storeroom and do my best not to limp too badly. Of course I fail miserably, because my knee really hurts, and Blake’s appearance and threats have shaken me up pretty bad.
“Afraid he’ll fire you?”
I shrug. Losing this job wouldn’t be the end of the world, I’ll probably find another one soon enough. Maybe I should, and not tell Joel or anyone.
Why does the thought of not passing in front of the tattoo shop—not seeing a certain guy hanging out outside—make me sad?
I force my mind back on the job at hand. Customers come and go, keeping me busy. Going back and forth makes my leg ache so badly I want to weep.
When I finally leave, I’m so tired I can’t see straight. I’m also nervous, thinking Blake may be watching me from the shadows. So when I pass by the tattoo shop and nobody is outside, I’m glad.
Okay, that’s a lie. The sadness that hits me is terrible. Unbearable. I’m amazed that my feet keep moving, my stick keeps hitting the concrete of the sidewalk.
Micah isn’t there.
Maybe I left work earlier, I think as I continue to the bus stop. Or maybe he had to work later today. Or something happened to him. Maybe he’s sick. I remember the way he coughed, and I feel cold. Another face surfaces in my memory—of that young homeless man I lost, his sunken eyes and long stringy hair, coughing as if dying.
I almost turn back and walk into the tattoo shop to see Micah, make sure he’s okay. Almost. But instead I continue to the bus stop, thankful I don’t see Blake anywhere on the way.
I catch my bus and return home, my thoughts churning. When did this happen? When did I turn into an ‘almost’ kind of person?
