But when my fingers close around the bag, she resists. Not that I blame her. “Get off me!” she shrieks. “Let go!”
“I’m trying tohelpyou,” I hiss, yanking the apples free. I know good and well that if I don’t get there in time, if I don’t stop this, she’ll blame herself. She’ll work herself into a guilt-induced heart attack, right around the corner in Senior Hot Yoga two days from now.
But Hot Yoga Grandma isn’t listening. She’s howling. Andherecomes the doomed try-hard in his lame AF tee and overpriced sweatpants. His $200 sneakers pound the pavement as he races toward me in an effort to wrest Grandma—or, more accurately, Grandma’s apples—from my clutches. Way to show up, dude. Douchecanoe to the rescue.
Thirteen seconds.
The guy’s yelling at me now, something aboutassaultandthiefandwhat the hell is your problem.But I’m not listening because here goes the light, changing from red to green.Fight me for the apples, dude,I think as I watch the bus begin to turn the corner.Call me all the names you want. At least that way, you’re not dead.
I tug at the bag of Granny Smiths. The guy tugs back. For a moment, I actually think I might have thwarted fate.
But no. Because the bag rips straight down the middle and there go the apples, bursting free and tumbling onto the sidewalk.
Ihatetimes like these, when I show up to save the day and wind up causing the damn problem myself. Am I the chicken? Am I the egg? Where is the beginning and the end in the Ouroboros of the curse that is Rune Whitlock’s life?
I don’t have time to contemplate this, though, because…
Ten seconds.
Here goes Hot Yoga Grandma, chasing after her apples, right into the road. Seriously, what pie could be worth risking your life? Does she not see the bus? How could anyone miss it?
Everyone is screaming now, a chorus ofNoandWatch outandThe bus the bus the bus.Where were these people eleven seconds ago?
With a doomed sense of déjà vu, I look up and see the bus driver’s terrified, pallid face. He’s screaming, too, though I can’t hear him. He’s convinced he’s going to hit Grandma, which he isn’t. Who he’s going to hit is?—
I turn, my body moving as if through molasses, to grab for the dude who brought me here to begin with. To stop him. But he’s not there. He’s freaking gone.
Seven seconds.
I scan the crowd, searching desperately for him. People are stepping on the stupid apples. The air smells like cider and my mouth tastes like metal and my heart is threatening to burst through my chest?—
There he is. Striding into the road, putting himself between Grandma and the bus, one hand up like a crossing guard. Like he can stop the bus with sheer force of will, as if he’s Magneto or something. Or like he’s an overprivileged dude who’s gotten everything he’s ever wanted, just by showing up.
Like he’s about to die.
Goddamnit. I really liked these jeans.
With three seconds to go, I shove through the crowd, get a running start, and launch myself through the air into the street, right at Overpriced Sweatpants. I body-slam him in a move worthy of WWE, knocking him out of the path of the bus with inches to spare.
Two seconds.
The world whirls. The guy swears at me. The bus squeaks by, so close I get a faceful of exhaust and start to choke.
One.
We land hard, with me somehow on the bottom, taking the brunt of the impact. My jeans areruined,torn at the butt and both knees.From the way it feels, I’m pretty sure I’m lying in a puddle of fresh-squeezed apple juice. Overpriced Sweatpants is stretched full-length on top of me, crushing me into the asphalt. I can smell his expensive, citrusy cologne.
If we were in a rom-com, this would be the moment that I looked up into his panicked, crystalline blue eyes and realized I’d just met the love of my life. Time would stop as we gazed at each other. Cue awkward dialogue, hot sex, misunderstandings, and, of course, my happily ever after.
But this isn’tThe Wedding Planner,I’m not a female version of Matthew McConaughey, and he’s sure as hell not J-Lo. Not with this fashion sense.
Overpriced Sweatpants glares down at me, clearly furious. There’s a red scrape on his cheek and not a hint of my happy ending in his infuriated eyes. I wait for him to thank me for saving him, or at least to apologize for ruining my jeans. I entertain the notion that perhaps he’ll even offer to buy me a new pair.
“What’s your name?” he says instead, his chest heaving against mine.
“Rune,” I offer, equally out of breath. “Rune Whitlock.”
The dude whose life I just saved bares his teeth at me, like he’s preparing to take a bite. “Well, Rune Whitlock,” he says, “you’re under arrest.”
