I even forgot to take my walking stick when I left his apartment—my excuse for going over to see him. I am transparent in my actions, an open book, and he’s like an encrypted message. He may have told me a few things about his past, but he remains a mystery. Apart from telling me he basically grew up in foster care, I still know nothing much about him.
Cassie clears her throat, then opens her mouth and closes it. Her brows shoot up. I have no clue what she sees on my face, but she opens her arms and pulls me in for a hug. Stunned, I let her.
“You really like him, don’t you?” she whispers against my shoulder, and I stiffen a little, because damn, I’d like to keep a few of my thoughts private, thank you very much. “I think he really likes you, too. I saw the way he was looking at you.”
“You should warn people you’re a mind-reader, you know,” I mutter.
“Where’s the fun in that?” She pulls back and smiles. “I know everything you like and hate.”
“Do you, now?”
She nods as if accepting the challenge. “You hate this job. You don’t care for sports, or selling things. You love your family, but they are too controlling and often negligent. You want to work with the homeless and those in need.”
“Hey, wait a minute.” Shock steals my breath. “How the heck do you know all this? I never told you about—”
“And you love Micah.”
Her final words ring in the small changing room like bells.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I finally manage. “I don’t love him. I don’t even really know him and…”
She arches a brow, and the rest of what I was about to say dies on my lips.
I don’t love Micah.
Do I?
I open the door and head out to the shop, hoping a customer shows up soon. I really don’t want to face what’s in my head right now.
***
My cell phone beeps as I finish work. A message from Micah.
‘Wanna come over to my place tonight? I finish at ten.’
God, I’d love to. But Mom will have a fit if I don’t show up home tonight, and Joel… My jaw clenches. I’m nineteen. I don’t have to be a good girl and stay home every night. I don’t have to do it to please my mom. Come on!
My fingers hover over the keys. Then I type as fast as I can, before I lose my nerve: ‘Sure. See you there.’
Two seconds later, my phone pings with another message from him.
‘Great! R u near Damage? I have my break now.’
Damage? As in Damage Control?
I worry my lip between my teeth, then I grin. My heart starts to pound at the thought of seeing him again—and it’s only been a few hours since I left him. Jesus, this is ridiculous.
‘On my way.’ I stare at the words I’ve just typed and shake my head at myself.
Hopeless, Ev. Hopelessly addicted.
I barely limp as I leave the store and hurry down the street, my bag swinging. I feel alive, more alive than ever, my every sense alert, every nerve singing. Everywhere I look, the colors are bright, every detail crystal clear. I still see the misery and pain, that isn’t going away—the people sleeping on cardboard boxes, wrapped in filthy sleeping bags, hands with blackened nails cradling their unshaven faces—and although that pain tugs at me, and I slow down to look at them, memorize where they are, try and think what they may need most, I feel light and happy.
I feel so good, so drunk with joy it’s scary. After the high, usually there comes a low. The higher the rollercoaster, the steeper the dive.
Before I manage to frighten myself more, I reach the donut shop and turn toward Damage Control, across the street.
He’s there, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, his jacket gray and his hair golden. He’s looking right at me, his grin so wide I can clearly see it from where I’m standing.