Will Grant.
Large, hesitant eyes. The color makes me think his maker mixed a cloudy, marbled sky with the color of the Blue Ridge Mountains against a haze. Honey-brown hair, several inches long and in desperate need of taming after his crash. His face is clean-shaven and square-shaped, his chin very softly dimpled right in the middle. He’s older now—but still my same age, so twenty-seven or twenty-eight?—with the beginnings of crow’s feet forming in the corners of his eyes.
And look. Maybe he works on them, probably he doesn’t. But I have a three-step lash routine, and Will Grant is outdoing me.
“Josie?” His voice is different, too. Deeper, and maybe less…alive? It’s like he’s working very hard to say my name, which, sure, given the accident—
I snap out of my daze, give my head a brief shake, unlock every clenched muscle that seized in his presence. Thenowis more important than thethen.“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” he groans, rolling out his neck.
“You don’tsoundfine,” I say, panicked for a plethora of reasons. “You sound like something’s broken.”
Will half sighs, half grunts, eyes on the pavement. “Doesanybodywho says they’re fine ever really mean it?”
His voice is coming out smoother now, more mellow, but the words are doing a better job of conveying a feeling than acting as a method of communication.
That feeling is: exasperated.
Already, after a grand total of twenty-eight words exchanged between us afterten years without seeing each other,Will Grant isexasperatedwith me.
“I guess what I mean is, are you imminently close to death?” I ask.
Will finally looks up again. He blinks at me twice. “I’m on my knees in the middle of an extremely busy road. That’s relative.”
“Do you need an ambulance?” I try again.
“No, I’mfine.” This time, one corner of his mouth ticks up, though it drops so quickly I might have imagined it. “Will be, anyway.”
“I amsosorry,” I mutter, hands fluttering helplessly over his form. I’m nervous to touch him. Nervous it’ll hurt worse if I get too close.
“It’s my fault, not yours. I hit you.”
“Still—”
The driver behind us unleashes a long peal of their horn. We both turn and glare at the woman gesturing through her window.
“Let me pull over,” I say. “Can you manage your bike?”
He nods, squeezing his eyes shut before pushing off the ground.
I jump back into my car, pulling onto the shoulder of South Lamar Boulevard. It’s eight o’clock on a Wednesday morning. Traffic could not be worse heading into downtown Austin.
What’s Willdoinghere?
Better question: What’s Will doinghere?
My abs still do not unclench, even as I slowly rationalize that yes, I probablyshould haveexpected a run-in like this one day.
Not like aliteralrun-in. But figuratively speaking.
I met the Grant twins when they moved to Nashville as high school seniors. According to my sources (read: my mother), they both live and work in Manhattan now, but their family isfrom here.Austin. My current city of residence. I couldn’t have expected to build a whole-ass life intheirhometown without seeing one of the twins eventually.
Though, between Will and Zoe… I think I’m relieved it’s him and not her.
Ithink.
I mutter bountiful profanities under my breath. Today is a bad day to be late. It’s a bad day to be distracted by high school memoriesandlate.
