The deep voice behind me makes me jump. I’d forgotten he was still there.
I turn slowly, swiping at fresh tears. “Why would you do that?”
He looks deeply uncomfortable. “Mostly to make you stop crying.”
I stare at him. He’s serious. Still standing there, still waiting.
I don’t particularly want to get in a car with Arthur Stetson, who seems to barely tolerate my existence. But I want to be late picking up Sam even less.
I take a breath and force myself to pull it together.
“Where are you parked?”
CHAPTER FOUR
ARTHUR
What the hellhave I done?
Elliot blows her nose loudly into a crumpled tissue, the sound jarring in the otherwise quiet cabin of my ridiculously overpriced SUV. Her tears had stopped before she climbed in, but her nose is still running, and she keeps sniffling like her body hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that it’s not crying anymore.
I could’ve kept walking. Ishould’vekept walking. After she literally ran into me I could’ve just brushed it off and gone on with my day. But no. I had to be a jerk. Let the first snarky comment slip out like I was still some rookie asshole with something to prove.
And what did that buy me? Tears.
The full-blown breakdown of a woman I barely know in the middle of a half-empty parking lot.
I hate seeing women cry. Always have. My mom cried enough when I was growing up to cover a hundred lifetimes. Her tears were quiet ones. Always because of my father. And every time she attempted to put on a brave face for me, I swore I’d never be the reason someone cried like that.
So, when Elliot started to sob right in front of me I hated it. Hated the sound of it. Hated the way it made me feel. But mostly, I hated thinking that I was the cause.
“I really appreciate you helping me out,” she says, her voice still thick, but steadier now as she rifles through her oversized purse. She finds what she’s looking for—a small beige tube—and flips down the visor mirror. The cap twists with a soft click and out comes a wand, which she dabs lightly beneath each eye with practiced precision. A creamy line disappears into her skin with a couple of gentle taps. Like magic, the redness fades.
Her movements are smooth, automatic—like someone who’s done this enough times to have it down to muscle memory.
“Do you cry often?”
I thought it was a reasonable question but it makes her snort.
“Sure. All the time. But do I cry in parking lots after my car dies and I’m late picking up my kid? No. Notoften.”
Even though I’m keeping my eyes on the road, I can feel her looking at me.
“Doyouoften offer rides to crying women in your spaceship truck of the future?”
I think about smiling, but I don’t. Nor do I admit that despite having driven this monstrosity for the better part of a year, I still don’t know what half of the buttons on the console do.
“No,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Especially not ones who nearly run me down first.”
Her laugh comes fuller this time, bright and warm and just a little unrestrained. I steal a glance at her. If I hadn’t just watched tears stream down her face, I’d have a hard time believing she was capable of sadness. Right now, there’s nothing but light in her expression—mischief sparking in hereyes, lips tilted into a smile that’s entirely too distracting for someone who just had a full-blown meltdown in a parking lot.
I don’t know why but I’m glad I was the one there to see both versions of her. The woman unraveling and the woman who put herself back together.
Truth is, I didn’t offer her a ride because she cried. It waswhyshe cried. She was frantic about being late to pick up her kid. That kind of panic doesn’t come from nowhere. It comes from love. Responsibility. Maybe even a little guilt.
I’ve been the last kid at practice. I lost count of how many times I sat on the concrete steps outside a rink, shivering in my sweat soaked gear, waiting—sometimes for hours—for my dad to sober up enough to remember he was supposed to come get me.
“You’re never going to let that go, eh?” she asks, a smile tugging at her lips.
