She immediately covers her face with both hands, the faintest hint of red visible on the tips of her nose and ears. “Shit, sorry…”She sighs, curling both arms around her chest. “Are you…um…” She shakes her head softly, as if to jog her memory, and comes up empty. Her eyes go to the front passenger seat of my van, and then back to me. “Dad told me he met you and your wife”—she pauses briefly, looking at Nadia once again—“but he—”
“No, you’re thinking of my brother, Nik. He’s the owner. I’m just here to lend a hand. And I’mdefinitelynot married.” I point over my shoulder toward the van. “My sister, Nadia, is here to help too.”
“Oh, okay.” She swallows. “Well, sorry…and, um, good to meet you.” The sound of gravel underfoot brings my eyes downward, to the slit in her dress, and I watch as the tips of her white sneakers twist against the pavement. “I didn’t catch your name…before.”
“Milo,” I remind her, sticking out my hand.
“Milo,” she repeats, nodding slowly, placing her hand inside of mine. That first brush of skin sends a shock wave through my system. It’s the same sensation as when liquor hits the back of my throat or I hear the first notes of a favorite song at a bar—each synapse in my brain fires off, signaling that I’m alert and ready togo.
I smirk, bending forward slightly, refusing to let her hand go just yet. “Are you going to tell me yours or does ‘Killer’ suit you fine?”
“Lucy!” another woman calls, cheery in approach but still out of sight. “Luuu-cy, where are you?” The question is punctuated by a lengthened, sung vowel.
Lucy, I take it, pulls her hand back and runs it down the side seam of her dress.
“Lucy,” I repeat, noticing the inkblot stain on her left thumb.
“There’s a store ten minutes down the road. They’ll havecigarettes. Though you should really take this as a sign to quit.” She speaks quietly but slowly in response, as if she’s not convinced I can follow a simple command.
Bossy…I like it. “I think I’ll like this store more,” I say, intensifying my eye contact and waiting for her to squirm. “In fact, IknowI do.”
She doesn’t budge, not even when we’re standing in silence, just staring impolitely into each other’s eyes. Shedoestilt her head cautiously, as if she’s trying to figure me out. As if a woman like her doesn’t know what a guy like me would want. Suddenly, this town may not be as boring as I thought it was an hour ago.
Her lips jut out as she nods, seemingly making up her mind about me. And, if that scowl is anything to go off of, the verdict is not looking good. “I’ll see you around, Milo.”
A dismissal? When we’rejustgetting started? Over my dead body.
“You can count on that.”
She laughs, but still no smile. A breathy, sarcastic-type laugh that says:Sure.
“What, don’t believe me?”
“Are you always like this?”
“No, I’m not. I think I’m in love with you, Lucy.”Would going down on one knee be too much?
Shealmostlaughs.Nearlysmiles. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And?”Yeah, it would be too much. But should I do it anyway?
“And my name’s not Lucy.”
“Okay, well, not-Lucy.” I take a half step closer, and I don’t miss the way her eyes flare momentarily when she lifts her chin up to face me. “I think—”
“There you are!” I see a white dress round the corner first, then the woman wearing it.
I recognize her immediately. “Mrs. Welch?” I step back fromwho might just be the daughter of my favorite high school teacher as if she’s a plucked grenade. “Mrs. Welch, it is you! H-h-hi,” I stammer, then blink a couple of times before I’m able to refocus. “It’s been so long, how are you?”
“Don’t,” not-Lucy whispers, pleading with those large eyes. “Please…” I sense the dynamic between us shift. As if I went from foe to possible ally, without any idea as to why.
Confused, I look between them.
Mrs. Welch, the woman who single-handedly made me want to become an artist, who pleaded with my other teachers for passing grades, who showed up to parent-teacher conferences when my parents forgot, who cheered the loudest when I walked across the stage at graduation, is staring blankly back at me—as if I’m a stranger she can’t quite place.
My heart lurches up my throat, and a type of hurt follows that is both familiar andfamiliar.
“Do…Do you know this man? Do I know him?” she asks her daughter, tears gathering in her eyes.
