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“Laurel, wait up.” I catch up with her.
She stops, phone clutched in her hand, and sends ice daggers at me with her eyes. “What do you want? A punch to your face to go with the kick to the knee?”
So sassy, but so hurt. Her eyes are as full of warning as they are of pain.
I dial down my usual bravado. “I’m sorry for playing along with Bjornson. I’ve known him for a long time, and I’ve never seen him hurt anyone. I thought he knew what he was doing.” I assumed he was trying to get Laurel out of her shell.
“Oh, he knows,” she grumbles.
Understanding dawns upon me. “But you don’t operate under pressure.”
“Something like that.” She’s not rushing to get away from me, and I cherish this second chance. In all the wrong ways.
“Do you have agoraphobia or something?” That would explain a lot—her hiding these past four years and her obvious discomfort with me. I’ve been to The Fox’s hole many, many times. Laurel, however, has never graced any of those parties with her presence. I used to think that none of us—me and Vincent’s other guests—were good enough for her, but that has changed. She’s not snobbish. She seems to be uncomfortable with the world in general, not just me or other musicians.
Laurel exhales and squints up at the nearby lamppost. “Am I afraid of crowds or leaving my own house?”
Good. We both know the meaning of agoraphobia. “Yes. Are you?”
Laurel scowls, but as the seconds pass, bit by bit her expression shifts into a dismayed one. “It may appear that I do, doesn’t it?”
“Forget I asked. It’s a hobby of mine—ask questions that are too personal.”
A late-night, cool breeze whooshes over us, bringing with it hints of rain and garbage, and I’m reminded that we’re standing in the middle of an empty street. Not an ideal spot to have a conversation.
Laurel rubs her bare forearms. A tank top is an okay choice during the day. Not so much when midnight’s approaching. I shrug off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. She lets me—a good sign, especially since Laurel comes across like the kind of girl who does not want rescuing. “Why did you run out?” After she threw that water in Bjornson’s face, I expected her to stay and make Bjornson apologize until the end of days, but she fled.
“Why did you follow me?”
“Bjornson wanted to, but I figured you’d tear him to pieces.” Plus, I won’t lie, I’m unbearably curious. What is she like?
“You’re too nice to Hal.” Her tone remains terse.
“Good friends are hard to come by.” So hard. Gauging whether someone is genuine or wants something from me is the hardest thing. That’s why I stick to the small circle of friends I’ve assembled over the years.
“You’re telling me? My only friend is Hal. After I went into hiding, everyone disappeared from my life. No one stuck around.” Laurel chuckles without any warmth or humor. “Why did I even tell you that?”
She whips around, stalks back to the pub, and sits on the first step, hands pressed to her cheeks.
I crouch in front of her, resting my elbows on my knees. “So you’re Laurel Halifax.”
“That’s me.”
“The Little Fox, the legend’s daughter who buckled under the weight of expectations.” I make her hear these words because they cause her the most pain. I know that feeling of hopelessness and labels. The only way to not drown in despair is to face it. Besides, she doesn’t know me, so it may be easier to deal with the emotions with a stranger.
“Right you are again.” Laurel looks straight at me this time, her eyebrows pinched together in clear dislike of me. It felt like we had a hint of a connection earlier at the Guardian of Rock. I’m somewhat disappointed we’ve come to this.
“That can’t be fun,” I say, “choosing to go your own way and getting called a failure for it.”
Laurel lowers her hands to her knees and stares at me, eyes wide, incredulous, as though I’ve said something outrageous.
“Is that why you’ve been off the radar?” I continue. “Sorry you have to deal with that. And I’m sorry Bjornson and I made fun of that.”
I stand up and offer her my hand—a gesture of sincerity, a sign that I’m her ally from now on.
Laurel’s eyes travel up my arm, linger on my bicep. I suppose years of kung fu training gave me an athletic build, but it’s not the impressive kind. I’m not beefy, just fit.
Warm fingers wrap around my hand, but only long enough for me to help Laurel up. Every second I spend with her, I know, deep inside my gut, that she allows me to do things for her. Laurel doesn’t need me or my compassion, but she allows me near her on her own terms. Out of politeness.
