by T. K. Leigh
“I’ll be fine. See ya around, Ol.” I continue past him, needing to get as far away from any mention of the infamous Virginia church shooting as possible.
Approaching the front doors, I hesitate when I see the rain is more like a waterfall, coming down fast and hard, the angry wind whipping around. I doubt even an umbrella will help in this weather. Maybe I should just wait for the storm to pass, sit with Oliver for a while. He wouldn’t mind. I’ve done it before.
But then I make out the familiar sound of my father’s voice coming from the coverage of the memorial. I can’t stomach watching that. Can’t face the reminder of everything I lost. Not only when that gunman opened fire in the church, but also five years ago when my own father refused to stand up for me at a time I needed him most.
“You can do this,” I murmur to myself, then open the door and step onto the sidewalk. A gusty wind blows back at me, causing me to lose my balance. I use the side of the building to steady myself, briefly reconsidering this decision, but eventually power through.
I rush down the sidewalk as fast as I can in my heels. The rain pelts me from all angles, scraping against my face, drenching my jeans and blouse. I hold my breath, as if that will make the rain not as bad, but nothing will help against the deluge coating the city.
Fighting to lift my head, I concentrate on the crosswalk signal, seeing the countdown at eight seconds. I gauge the distance to it, not wanting to be stuck at a busy intersection in downtown Atlanta for several minutes in this downpour. There’s no way I’ll make it to the other side in time, but I convince myself it will be okay. That after my crappy day, something has to go my way. So instead of playing it safe, I quicken my pace.
The few yards to the corner seem to expand with every passing second, the crosswalk feeling like it gets farther away with each step. But I don’t give up, powering through the wind and rain, not caring I must look like a sight with my tight, brown curls plastered to my forehead and cheeks.
I step onto the street, my sole focus the sidewalk opposite the four-lane road, praying all the drivers show me some sympathy and don’t gun the gas the second the light turns green.
As I scurry along, my heel slips on the slick pavement, legs giving out beneath me. Time seems to slow as my body is propelled up before my back and head hit the pavement with a hard thump.
Disoriented, I struggle to capture a breath, the force of my fall knocking the wind out of me. My head and back ache, making movement difficult. I manage to slowly turn my head, feeling like I’m in some sort of dreamworld as I watch a white pickup truck barrel toward me.
My brain tells my muscles to move, but they’re frozen, unable to obey a simple command, even though I’m seconds from being hit by someone who can’t see anything in this rain.
You know how people claim they see their entire life flash before them just before they think they’re about to die? Well, that’s what happens to me. When I squeeze my eyes shut, muttering the words to prayers I haven’t said in years, my life flashes before me. It’s almost like a slow-motion rewind, taking me from the present and through my early years. Some moments fill me with anger. Others with regret. And still others with love.
When my mother’s affectionate dark eyes flash before mine, I somehow find solace that, even if the worst happens, I’ll see her soon. Peace fills me, making me feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. That I’m flying.
Then a loud horn blares, pulling me back to the present. I instinctively tear my eyes open, expecting to still be on that asphalt. Except I’m not. I am flying, two strong arms cradling me against the storm.
Weston
Adrenaline heats my veins as I dart across the busy crosswalk, breathing hard, the rain and wind thundering in my ears. The woman’s weight barely registers as I run to the safety of the coffee shop where I’d witnessed her fall.
Other patrons stare at me like I’m crazy for risking my life to help a stranger, but I didn’t even think about that when I noticed her go down. All I saw was a woman who needed help. My grandparents taught me to never stand aside when someone is in need. So I didn’t.
Pushing past bystanders, whose only reaction to this woman’s fall was to grab their phones and film it, I return to my table and carefully set her into a chair, then sit beside her. The sound of grinding coffee beans and conversation fills the space, a stark contrast to the pounding of my heart from mere seconds ago, the outside world slowly returning to my awareness as rainwater drips from my body.
“Are you okay?” I ask, scanning her frame, looking for any sign of injury. I peer into her eyes, making sure her pupils aren’t dilated. I don’t think I saw her hit her head, but I can’t be certain in this weather.
She blinks, still disoriented. “I…” She trails off, her teeth chattering.
A chill washes over me, and I glance up to see we’re directly below an air vent. Normally, it’s refreshing compared to the stagnant humidity. But with our clothes soaked, it only serves to make its effects more prominent.
“Can you get me a green tea, please?” I call out to the barista behind the counter.
She nods and jumps into action. Smiling in thanks, I return my attention to the woman, her entire body trembling.
“You’re shivering.” Instinctively, I take her hands between mine and squeeze, trying to warm her the best I can without coming off like a creep.
“Th… Thank you,” she finally manages to say in a soft voice that seems to lack the typical Southern drawl I hear from people who’ve lived here most of their lives. Like me. “You… If you didn’t help me…”
“I saw you go down.” I glance out the window to the left. “When the light turned green…” I shake my head, hating to think what would have happened if I hadn’t chosen that precise moment to glance up from my phone to see her slip and land on her back. I’ve suffered falls like that. Know how they can knock the wind right out of you. It’s no wonder she was struggling to pull herself together in time to get out of the way of traffic.
The barista comes to our table and sets down a steaming cup. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” I release her hands and slide the tea toward her. “Drink. The green tea should warm you up. And help calm your nerves.” I push out a laugh, running my fingers through my dark, rain-drenched hair. “It usually helps me.”
She wraps her dainty hands around the cup and lifts it to her mouth, blowing on it before taking a sip. “It helps me, too. That, and a shot of whiskey or tequila.”
I chuckle. “I’d probably want more than a shot if I were you. What are you doing out in this weather in the first place? And without an umbrella?”
She sets the cup on the table. “I was heading to my car. It’s parked in the garage next door.”
“And you were in such a rush that you couldn’t wait for the storm to pass?”
She sighs. “I was just fired. The last thing I wanted was to spend any more time than necessary at my office.”
My smile wavers. “I’m sorry.”
“At this point, I’m used to it. June third is a notoriously horrible day for me. It makes sense that not only did I lose my job, but I also almost got flattened by a truck. Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day has nothing on me.”
“I remember that book.” My muscles relax as I recall my childhood memories. “My meemaw used to read it to me whenever I complained I was having a bad day. Said sometimes all we need is a little perspective to realize things aren’t as bad as they seem.”
She tilts her head to the side. “Do you think I just need perspective?”
I pause, leaning back in my chair as I ponder my response, which gives me the opportunity to fully drink in her appearance. Tight curls frame her oval face. Dark, soulful eyes. Plump, heart-shaped lips. And a smattering of freckles running across the brown skin of her nose.
“No,” I finally say, shaking my head. “I don’t think you need perspective. Do you remember the other, and in my opinion, more important
lesson in that book?”
“What’s that?” She furrows her brow, no longer shivering. Instead, she angles toward me, completely engaged in our conversation as if we’re old friends, not the strangers we are.
“That even if things seem pretty bad, they can only get better. So you may be having a shitty day. But when you reach rock bottom, things can only go up.” I wink.
“You know…” She pinches her lips together as a contemplative look crosses her face. “I think they already are.”
“Is that right?”
“If you hadn’t helped me, they’d probably be scraping my body off the pavement right now. So thank you.” She grabs her cup once more, raising it in a toast before sipping her tea.
“I just did what any reasonable human would when seeing a person in need.”
“That’s not entirely true. These days, most people only care about themselves. Look around you.” She gestures at the other tables. I survey the dozen or so patrons seeking shelter from the rain. “They barely take the time to look up from their cell phones, too focused on how many likes they got on their latest Instagram post or story.”
“Then I guess I’m not most people.”
“I guess you’re not.” I extend my hand toward her. “I’m Weston. Or Wes.”
She studies it cautiously, then places hers in mine. “Londyn.”
“Londyn.” My mouth tests how her name rolls off my tongue as I wrap my fingers around her delicate skin. “Like the city?” Custom dictates I should drop my hold on her, but a larger force keeps my hand entwined with hers.
“Yes. But spelled with a y.”
“Well, Londyn with a y, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
I hold her gaze another moment, my pointer finger caressing the callouses on her palm, which only intrigues me even more. Most women I know wouldn’t be caught dead with so much as a scrape on their hands. But it’s obvious Londyn has no problem getting her hands dirty, so to speak. I’m about to ask about the job she just lost when she abruptly yanks her hand from mine and shoots to her feet.
“I should go.”
“Go?” I stand, my six-two frame towering over her by at least a half foot, making me estimate her to be around five-eight. I glance out the window to see the downpour hasn’t let up at all. “It’s still raining.”
“I’ll be fine.” Reaching into her wallet, she pulls out a five-dollar bill. “Here.” She shoves it at me. “For the tea.”
I wave her off. “That’s not necessary.”
“I prefer not having any debts. I can’t repay you for saving my ass, as it were, but I can repay you for the tea. So here…” She sets the bill on the table. “Take it. Or put it in the tip jar. Better yet, give it to Omar.”
I scrunch my brows, unsure I heard her correctly. “Omar?”
“The homeless guy who’s always hanging out by the exit of the garage. I don’t care what you end up doing with the money. At least it will be off my tab.”
This woman becomes more intriguing with every second. Since I moved back to Atlanta from Boston two years ago, not one person has admitted to knowing the name of the homeless guy I buy coffee and food for whenever I can. He’s the reason I came down to the coffee shop today. To get him something to keep him warm in this rain.
“Let me at least walk you,” I suggest. “Make sure you get to your car safely.”
She shakes her head, retreating from me and toward the front door. “I appreciate the offer, but it’s not necessary. Luckily, there are no more unruly crosswalks between here and the garage.” She presses her palm against the door, about to push it open.
“Wait!” I call out, my outburst surprising even me.
She stops, glancing over her shoulder, a single brow raised.
“Can I get your phone number?”
The entire shop goes silent, my question seeming to echo.
I have no idea what came over me. This is extremely out of character for me. It’s almost like some other force has taken over, urging me to act in a way I’ve fought for years now.
And for good reason.
“I-I mean…” I flounder, words escaping me now that I have her attention, as well as the attention of everyone else here. “To check on you.” My voice comes out assured. More assured than I feel inside. “I’d feel better if I can at least text to make sure you got home okay.”
Her gaze shifts from me as she chews on her lower lip. It’s just a phone number, but by the indecision filling the lines of her face, you’d think I asked her to pick her favorite Beatle or what three movies she’d take if she were abandoned on a deserted island.
Finally, she nods and reaches into her purse, shifting the contents around before retrieving a business card and handing it to me.
“Londyn Living?” I read.
“I up-cycle furniture,” she explains. “I find pieces that are in really bad shape but still have good bones and give them a second chance at life.”
That would explain the callouses.
“I’m familiar with the process,” I tell her, taking in the website and email, both of which have Londyn’s name displayed prominently on it. “I’m assuming this is not the job you got fired from earlier.”
“No.” She pushes out a nervous laugh. “It’s kind of hard to fire me from my own company.”
“I imagine so.”
We share another look as her lips curve up into a small smile. It’s not forced or fake, as is the case with so many other women I’m surrounded by. It’s natural, refreshing… breathtaking. In a world full of roses, she’s a sunflower, unique and filled with light.
She opens her mouth, as if wanting to say something. Instead, she takes a step back, becoming overtly professional, spine stiff, shoulders straight.
“Thanks again, Weston.” She turns, about to walk out of the shop when I call out to her once more.
“I hope tomorrow is better than today.”
She stops, her hand on the door. She doesn’t look back at me. But she doesn’t run away, either.
“Although, I must confess…,” I continue, my voice low. “In my book, it will be really difficult for tomorrow to be better than today,” I whisper.
“Why’s that?” she squeaks out, glancing over her shoulder, eyes locking with mine.
“Because I met a beautiful woman.” I smirk, hoping I don’t come off as overly cocky or arrogant. “If you ask me, it’s going to be next to impossible to top that.”
She doesn’t move for several moments. Then she pushes open the door and hurries down the sidewalk, ducking into the garage.
Blowing out a breath as I remind myself why it’s not worth it to take a risk on a beautiful woman I meet in a coffee shop, I make my way back to the counter, everyone in the shop pretending to return to their business. I’m about to hand the barista the bill Londyn gave me, then stop myself, pulling out my wallet and using my own money to cover the tea. Heading back to my table, I grab the coffee and danish.
I dash out of the shop, fighting against the wind and rain until I reach the corner where Omar sits huddled under an awning, keeping himself as dry as possible.
“Here you go, buddy.”
With a smile, I hand him the coffee and danish, almost able to hear my mother’s admonition that I’m only encouraging him to keep mooching off hardworking people by giving him food, coffee, and the occasional self-care items. It’s laughable, considering my mother wouldn’t know what a hard day’s work looked like if it smacked her in the face. For a woman who claims to devote all her free time to charity, she doesn’t have a charitable bone in her body, unless the media is covering it. But I’ve learned that the most fulfilling acts of charity are the ones you do out of the goodness of your heart. Not for accolades or commendation. Which is why I don’t mind helping Omar.
“And a little something extra in case you get hungry later.” I reach into my pocket, about to give him the bill Londyn left, but hand him a twenty instead.
“The world needs more p
eople like you,” he responds in a gruff voice.
“Just doing the best I can.”
He nods as he sips the coffee, appreciation covering his expression. “I suppose that’s all we can do, isn’t it?”
At the sound of a car pulling out of the garage, I look up, my lips curving when I see a dark SUV, Londyn behind the wheel. My gaze follows it as she turns onto the street. When she comes to a red light, she glances over, her expression widening in surprise when she notices me talking to Omar.
He lifts his coffee, waving at Londyn as the light turns green and she follows the flow of traffic down the street.
“I suppose it is,” I murmur, watching until her car disappears from view.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this sneak peek of Possession! Grab your copy today.
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Acknowledgments
Writing acknowledgments is always difficult. It’s always the last thing I do before publishing. (Although if I’m cutting it close to deadline, I sometimes have another round of editing or proofreading to do as well.) In my mind, writing acknowledgments means saying goodbye to the characters and this story, which I always hate doing. But it’s even more difficult in the final book of a series.
