“I could have killed him,” Lucy murmurs, reaching up to brush her hair back with her fingers. In front of us the traffic-light is still red, a rear wheel of a motorcycle only inches from our bumper. I pause when I realize it’s the guy. The one I saw in Santo’s. He glances back over his shoulder at us, his eyes shielded by dark glasses.
“You almost ran over the hottest guy in town,” I whisper.
Lucy laughs, looking sideways. “You’re feeling better.”
Then she sticks her head out the window and waves to the guy. “Sorry about that!” she calls. When he doesn’t immediately respond, Lucy hikes her thumb in my direction. “Also, this one here thinks you’re really cute.”
“Lucy!” I shove her shoulder.
The guy’s mouth twitches with the start of a smile, but then the light turns green and he puts his boots back on his bike and drives away before turning at the next street.
“Can’t believe you just did that,” I say.
Lucy leans over to kiss my cheek dramatically as if this all falls under the sisterly code of conduct. She eases the car forward before picking up speed. “Now,” she says. “Let’s get home before I nearly kill anyone else.”
I agree, but as we drive, I peek down the street where the motorcycle turned, hoping to catch another glimpse of the guy. But he’s gone. I bury my fear from the reflection and tear open the bag from the pharmacy, swallowing a pill dry.
Monsoon season is in full effect, the announcer on the radio says. And Thistle is getting unprecedented amounts of rain—continuing today.
I groan as I pull Lucy’s car into Santo’s parking lot at four, clicking off the stereo. The place is packed and I have to turn up the hill to the back lot. I pull the emergency brake and take a second to check my reflection, feeling utterly exhausted. My hair is in a knot at my neck and I’m wearing Lucy’s eyeliner, hoping it will help me appear less tired. It doesn’t.
When I get out of the car, I notice the sky—the clouds covering any hint of blue. I’m not a meteorologist, but I’m pretty sure that the desert is supposed to be sunny—especially in the summer. It’s not fair that it’s so miserable out, especially when I could really use the vitamin D right now.
I head toward the glass door of Santo’s, passing three men smoking cigarettes. One mumbles something perverted under his breath, and I turn, ready to tell him off. But the second I see him, I’m hit with a searing heat over my body. Oh no. Not again.
Bright light illuminates the world around us, blocking out everything else. I’m submerged again in the compassion, the love. I struggle to keep my focus, but then images fill my head—the guy’s life unfolding there.
Paul Rockland is in his forties, with graying black hair and a suggestive smile. But it fades from his face as I stare back into his brown eyes. I make a small sound, unable to fight off the desire to speak to him.
“Paul,” I say breathlessly.
“It’s you,” he murmurs, sounding both frightened and relieved.
Paul’s in town to evict the single mother who complained about his property being infested with cockroaches. With filth. Paul knows his building is uninhabitable, but he doesn’t want to spend the money to fix it. Instead he’s going to threaten her and her children until she leaves. He’ll keep her deposit, making it impossible for her to get another place. I see all of this, and the lines of his face deepen as he cowers under my stare.
“Don’t do this,” I whisper, sad at how he’s forgotten his own childhood. The force inside of me pushes my words forward, even if I’m not entirely sure what they mean. “You won’t be able to turn back,” I say. “Not if you go down this path. Remember where you came from.”
When Paul was a boy, he took care of his mother, a woman unable to hold a steady job. She was illiterate because of a learning disability and it left her easy prey in their seedy neighborhood. Paul worked two jobs under the table to pay rent, rent that was raised unjustly. And when they couldn’t pay, the man asked for a trade. With nowhere else to go, Paul’s mother agreed and walked to the back bedroom, leaving Paul in the hallway, crying and punching the wall. He couldn’t bear his mother being degraded, but he felt helpless to stop it.
At fourteen years old, Paul nearly killed that man. But he didn’t. A light came into his life at the right moment, with the right message. He sees that same sort of light in me now, and his shame is almost too much for him to bear.
“I’m sorry,” he says, starting to cry. He thinks of his mother, how her death several years ago has turned him bitter. Angry. He has so much regret.
I put my hand on his arm, comforting him when he needs it most. Letting him know that he always has a choice. That this is his second chance. And then I tell him to go home.
When I step back from Paul, it breaks our bond—the light gone from around us. His friends are there, although their voices are barely registering in my ears. Paul wipes his face, looking purposefully toward his car, as if about to leave. But I’m the one who is stunned.
I try to move away but stumble—catching myself with my hand on the siding of Santo’s. The warmth is fading from my body, replaced with anxious energy.
That definitely happened. There’s no way that was only in my head. Frightened, I move past the men into the restaurant.
CHAPTER 7
When I rush into Santo’s, I find the room frozen. The hostess is in her checkered dress, holding a menu. A customer has his hand raised to get a server’s attention. Even a glass of soda, half over the edge and about to spill, is motionless.
I gasp, and then the scene slips away entirely as I’m flooded with a memory.
I’m lying in bed, his arms wrapped around me from behind. He’s half-asleep but still murmuring in my ear, his breath tickling my skin.
“Let’s run away together,” he whispers. “Let’s run far away and never come back.”
I smile, my love for him so strong that it almost hurts. “You always say that,” I say, intertwining my fingers with his as I pull him tighter around me. “And I always say yes. Yes, just so long as I’m with you.”
The memory stops suddenly and reality hits me. I cry out, startled, and the frozen world snaps back to life: the hostess drops her stack of menus, the customer waves his hand, the soda spills—prompting a shout from the woman across the table. And then everyone turns to me as I stand in the doorway, trembling.