And he wears it all the time when he rides his motorcycle.
Yeah, he has a motorcycle.
Despite all the ways that he is so careful and disciplined because of his sport, he rides a Ducati.
Or at least, he used to.
Back when he still lived in St. Mary’s.
When he left it all behind after leaving for California though, I was devastated. I bet Sarah told him to. She never liked his bike and his jacket.
I cried for the Ducati he left in the garage, covered up with a white sheet. I cried for his vintage leather jacket that I never really knew what he did with. It wasn’t in his closet – I checked.
So seeing it now, it hits me like a storm.
No, not like a storm.
The sight of that leather jacket explodes in my stomach and sends warmth rushing through my veins.
Warmth and coziness.
It’s him.
It’s my Arrow.
God, he’s here.
Here.
I press a hand on my stomach as a breath escapes me and my lips tug up into a smile.
But my smile doesn’t reach fruition.
My lips stop midway when I realize something.
I realize that his face is dipped.
It’s dipped toward someone. A girl whose back is facing me.
For a second I think it’s Sarah.
Ithasto be. Who else would it be, honestly?
But it’s not her.
The girl Arrow is looking at isn’t Sarah.
Because Sarah doesn’t have blonde hair. Her hair is dark like mine. Only my hair is curly – wild and savage – and hers is straight and shiny. But we at least have the exact same shade.
And neither is Sarah that short.
Iam that short, as short as the girl Arrow is looking at.
So short that his tall body has to bend in a little. Like it would if he were to look at me from that close a distance.
This girl is not Sarah.
This girl is someone else and when that someone else reaches up her bare arm and flutters her delicate-looking fingers over hissquare jaw, a jaw that is shadowed due to the low light in that nook of his and under the rim of his baseball cap, I freeze.
