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I wonder if he’s thinking how I ended up crouched on a park bench instead of riding in the backseat of a car with my own friends, carefree, happy, racing off to a nightclub.
I wonder if he has any idea what he’s got.
If he has any idea how lucky he is.
The red light goes green, and the car tears off. I watch it go, still hugging my knees to my chest. I watch it until it goes around the corner and vanishes from sight.
I think that’s when I make the decision.
It’s time for me to leave Dreamwood Isle.
“God dang it, fuck me, are you serious??”
I turn around. A cute guy in skinny jeans and a bright yellow t-shirt stands there holding a sandwich in one hand and the lid to a cup in the other. The cup itself is at his feet, having slipped from his grip, spilled across the pavement. His peachy skin is flushed with anger at the cheeks, and his short brown hair looks like it was styled nicely a few hours ago, but now lays as tousled and troubled as his expression.
He’s not having a great day.
When he looks up, he realizes I witnessed his tantrum. “Sorry,” he nearly growls, then kicks at the pavement. “I was looking forward to drinking that, too. Fuckin’ figures.”
“They might give you a replacement,” I point out. “The lady inside is nice.”
“Wasn’t a lady who served it.”
“Oh. If it’s the strict guy with a goatee, you’re shit out of luck.”
He sighs. “Shit out of luck, then.” He frowns when he realizes some of his drink splattered all over his shoes. “Fuck me.”
“Shout that out enough times around here, someone’s bound to obey.”
“Ha,” he delivers dryly, then goes to a nearby trashcan to throw away the lid. “Guess I’ll get another.” Just as he’s about to go, he stops, reconsiders, then glances back at me. “You waiting on someone, or—?”
I shrug.
He frowns. “That’s not an answer. Anyway, I’m going to get myself another drink. You want anything? I planned on eating this in my car, but I hate eating alone, so—”
“I’m not getting in your car with you, you creep.”
His frown deepens. “I’m not inviting you into my—For fuck’s sake, is everyone on this island an asshole? Never mind, forget it.” He heads back to the sandwich place.
I smirk, then face the street again, resting my chin on my knees. The sun is still in the sky, but it’s reaching that time of the evening when the streetlamps get ready to flick on. It’s not an ideal time to leave town. It’ll be night soon.
But I’m not sure I can go back to Cooper’s place. Not with the way I’m feeling right now. I should probably give him this phone back, though. He could maybe return it.
I can try my luck with the old lady. She told me exactly where she’s staying for a reason; she’s expecting to be my lifeline in a pinch.
But she’s still a wildcard. It could just be a trap.
Everything feels like a trap.
A small plastic bag drops onto the bench next to me. I turn to it, perplexed. It’s a wrapped sandwich from the gas station place behind me with a drink sitting next to it.
When I turn, I find the guy staring down at me. “Sorry. I decided it was me being the asshole.” He comes around the bench and sits at the other end of it, leaving enough space between us for a family of four. “Eat it if you want. Save it for later. Throw it away. Doesn’t matter. It’s my apology to you, and in this town, you can eat apologies.” He opens up his own sandwich and takes a big bite.
It’s literally the first rule in any book. You don’t drink anything that wasn’t made in front of your own eyes. You don’t trust any food from strangers, either; certain death or captivity can be a crushed-up pill away, sprinkled between the ham and cheese of any unsuspecting sandwich.
“You know what really gets me?” he goes on through his mouthful. “Fucking first impressions. They’re all such bullshit. People get this idea of who you are in, like, the first five seconds of meeting you, and if it happens to be a particularly shitty five seconds, then there you go, you’re an asshole for life. And it becomes your mission, to prove to the world you aren’t that person.”
I lift an eyebrow. “It’s not that big a deal.”
He looks at me. “Huh?”
“My first impression of you. Who cares? You spilled a drink. I’d be pissy about it, too.”
He seems confused for a second. “Oh. That? No. That isn’t—” He laughs suddenly. “No, that isn’t what I meant. I’m not talking about us or that. Who cares. We just met. I’m talking about the love of my life.”
