My stomach drops.
And I’m surprised by my reaction. I don’t really know her, and I definitely shouldn’t care—but I still feel it. That odd pull to comfort her anyway. So, why is she crying?
Without thinking, I step forward—just when a sketchy guy steps out of the building. I duck behind the van like some wannabe gangster. If anyone saw this: a giant Russian behind a van? Yeah, that would be fantastic for sure. My mom would be proud.
The guy heads toward her, and I tense up.
Is that her husband? Her boyfriend? She isn’t wearing a ring. I don’t usually notice things like that—but in her office, I caught it immediately.
No, she’s not married. But they live together. He’s why she cried, I’m sure of it.
I lean against the van and eye him up and down.
Baggy sweatpants, greasy curls, five o’clock shadow—looks like a lunatic.
Why is she with someone like that? She’s completely out of his league.
He says something to her, and her face goes white. It wasn’t nice, I guess. My hands clench into fists, but I force them to relax. Today I’m acting like a damn psycho.
“Bye!” he yells, then stomps off.
Another tear falls down her cheek.
She looks so different now. Like a different person. Soft. Vulnerable. Not intimidating at all.
I watch her drag the bag to the edge of the dumpster. She tries to heave it in again. But then the lid swings open and everything spills out of her bag—comic figures, old clothes, all of it scattering. She slumps against the bin, and I watch as she breaks down again, crying. Okay. I can’t take it.
I walk over to her.
Smart? Hell no. But it feels right.
She stops crying when she sees me. She turns away, wipes her eyes, hoping I didn’t notice.
I say nothing. I grab the torn edges of the bag, jam it back into the dumpster, and close the lid. Then I stand there, clueless.
Damn. On the ice, I never have to think like this.
“What are you doing here?” she snaps, spinning around. The tears and her smeared eyeliner gone. She’s back to her hard shell, arms crossed, chin up—ready to fight. Nothing like she was just a few seconds ago.
“Thanks.”
“What?” She frowns, utterly confused.
“‘Thanks’ is the word you’re searching for.”
“Stalking is illegal, and I’d be a terrible lawyer if I thanked you for a crime.” Her voice is ruthless—no hint of fragility. Nowshe’s angry at me? It’s her boyfriend treating her like shit, not me.
“Look, I didn’t mean… I…”
“Let me guess—you just happened to drive by and thought, ‘You know what sounds fun? Helping strangers with their trash,’ because you’ve got absolutely nothing better to do?”
I grunt.
She lets out a short laugh. “Wow. That’s impressive. I’ve never seen anyone say so little and somehow still be annoying.”
I give her a look.
“What?” she says, shrugging. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
