by Jessi Kirby
I startle at the voice that comes from behind the counter.
“Morning! Be right with you.” The voice is warm. Easy, like a smile.
“Okay,” I answer, aware of how stiff I sound in contrast. Like I’m out of practice interacting with people. I try briefly to think of something else to add but come up blank. I step back and look around the café instead. It’s a cozy place, with deep-turquoise walls that make the black-and-white surf photos on them stand out. Above me, colorful old surfboards hang side by side, suspended from the ceiling by loops of weathered rope. Next to the counter another surfboard—this one with a jagged bite taken out of it—leans against the wall, serving as the hand-painted menu board.
I’m not hungry at all, but I scan it anyway, looking for a breakfast burrito out of habit. Trent’s favorite, especially after morning swim practice. If he got out early, and we had time before school, we’d go downtown and grab one to share at our own little secret spot: a bench hidden away behind the restaurant, overlooking the creek. Sometimes we’d talk—about his next meet or mine, or our plans for the weekend. But my favorite times were the ones when we’d just sit there with the soft sound of water flowing over rocks and the comfortable quiet that comes with knowing each other by heart.
A guy with wild blond hair and bright-blue eyes steps through the doorway from the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. “Sorry about the wait,” he says, flashing me a smile that shines white against his tan. “Help hasn’t showed up yet. No idea why.” He nods at the chalkboard reporting the day’s surf conditions: 6 ft south swell, offshore breeze . . . get out there!
When he glances out the window toward the beach and shrugs, I get the idea he’s okay with it.
I don’t say anything. Pretend to examine the menu. The silence is a little awkward.
“Anyway,” he says, clapping his hands together, “what can I get you this mornin’?”
I don’t really want anything, but I’m here, and it feels too late to duck out now. Plus he seems nice. “I’ll have a mocha,” I say, not sounding entirely sure.
“That’s it?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
“You sure you don’t want anything else?”
“Yes. I mean no thank you—I’m sure.” My eyes drop to the ground, though I can feel him looking at me.
“Okay,” he says after a long moment. His voice gentler now. “I’ll bring it over to you in just a minute.” He gestures at the five or six empty tables. “Plenty of seats—take your pick.”
I do, a table tucked deep in the corner, facing the window. Outside, the sun melts its way through the morning gray, infusing the water with light and color.
“Here you go.”
The café guy sets down a steaming, bowl-sized mug and a plate with a giant muffin. “Banana chocolate chip,” he says when I look up. “Tastes like happiness. You seem like maybe you could use a little this morning, so it’s on the house. The coffee, too.”
He smiles, and I recognize the careful way he does it. It’s not just this morning. It’s the same smile people have given me for a while now, a mix of what looks like compassion and pity, and I wonder what it is he sees in me that makes him think I need it. My posture? Expression? Tone? It’s hard to guess after this long.
“Thank you,” I say. And then I try for a real smile back, to assure both of us that I’m okay.
“See? It’s working already.” He grins. “I’m Chris, by the way. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
I nod. “Thank you.”
He goes back to the kitchen, and I lean back in my chair, hot mug cradled between my hands, feeling a little calmer already. Though I can still see the kayak shop across the street, this feels like a safe, reasonable distance. Like I haven’t done anything wrong by being here. A surfer walks by on the sidewalk, and I catch a glimpse of green eyes and tan skin that sends my eyes away quickly, down toward the foam of my mocha. He’s striking. It’s startling to notice, and doing so doesn’t come without a twinge of guilt.
A moment later the door swings open, and he strides straight toward the counter without seeing me in my corner, dings the bell five times fast. “Hey! Anybody working here today, or you all out in the water?”
Chris comes back from the kitchen, a smile of familiarity on his face. “Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence this morning.” They high-five and pull each other into one of those guy half-hugs over the counter. “Good to see you, man. You surf already?”
“Watched the sun come up from the water,” says the one with those eyes. “Just came in. It was good—why didn’t I see you out there?” He reaches for a cup and fills it himself.
“Somebody’s gotta run the place,” Chris says, taking a sip from his own cup.
“Somebody’s priorities are all wrong,” the other one deadpans.
Chris sighs. “It happens.”
“I know. When you’re not looking,” his friend says simply. He blows gently over his cup. “That’s why you gotta be here now, so you don’t miss that stuff.”
“That’s deep, dude.” Chris smiles. “Any more wisdom you want to lay on me this morning?”
“Nope. But this swell’s supposed to hold up. Sunrise session tomorrow?”
Chris tilts his head, reordering his priorities.
“Come on.” His friend smiles. “Life’s too short. Why would you not?”
“All right,” Chris says. “You’re right. Five thirty. You want grub?”
When a tiny part of me hopes he answers yes so he’ll stay, I realize how intently I’ve been following their conversation. And him. Self-conscious, I raise my mug to my lips, more to have something to hide behind than to take a sip. I force my eyes back to the street outside the window.
“Nah, I gotta go get the shop opened up. I got a family of eight coming in to rent kayaks right now, and I promised my sister I’d be there to get ’em set up.”
His words, casually spoken, hit me quick, like a volley of arrows: kayaks, rental shop, sister. My stomach does a flip at the all-too-real possibility that this is him. Standing right there, just a few feet away. I inhale sharply at the thought and immediately choke on my coffee. Both guys look my way as I sputter and reach for the glass of water on the table. I knock over my mug instead, sending it to the ground with a crash. Coffee splatters in every direction.
The surfer takes a step toward me as I jump up, out of my seat. Chris tosses a rag over the counter to him. “Colt, catch.”
My heart drops right out of my chest, taking all the air in the room with it so I can’t breathe.
Colt.
As in Colton Thomas.
CHAPTER THREE
“Scientists have identified individual neurons, which fire, when a particular person has been recognized. Thus, [it is possible that] when a recipient’s brain analyzes the features of a person, who significantly impressed the donor, the donated organ may feed back powerful emotional messages, which signal recognition of the individual. Such feedback messages occur within milliseconds and the recipient [may even believe] that [he] knows the person.”
—“Cellular Memory in Organ Transplants”
COLTON THOMAS WALKS over to me, dark brows creased with concern, rag in one hand, the other reaching across the puddle of spilled coffee. “You okay?”
I nod, still coughing, though I’m far from it.
“Here, step over this way. I’ll get it.” He takes my elbow lightly, and I tense at his touch.
“Sorry,” he says, dropping his hand quickly. “I . . . you sure you’re okay?”
He’s standing there, right there in front of me with a dishrag in his hand. Asking me if I’m okay. This should not be happening. This isn’t what was supposed to happen, this—
I look away. Cough once more, then clear my throat and take a shaky breath in. Calm down, calm down. “I’m sorry,” I manage. “So sorry. I just . . .”
“It’s okay,” he says, like he might laugh. He glances over his shoulder at C
hris, who looks like he’s already making me a new cup.
“Fresh one on the way!” Chris calls.
“See?” Colton Thomas says. “No worries.” He gestures at the closest chair. “I got this. You can sit.”
I don’t move, and I don’t say anything.
He crouches down to sop up the coffee with the rag but then looks back up at me and smiles, and it shocks me because of how different this smile is from the weak one in so many of his sister’s pictures. Because he doesn’t look like he did in the pictures. I don’t think I would’ve guessed he was even the same person. Maybe not even if he’d walked right into his parents’ shop.
The Colton in the pictures was ill. Pale skin, dark circles, puffy face, thin arms. A smile that seemed to take effort. This person kneeling down in front of me is vibrant, and healthy, and the one who—
I want to look away, but I can’t. Not with the way he looks at me then.
His hand stills and hovers above the sticky floor like he’s forgotten what he’s doing. And then, without taking his eyes off me, he stands slowly until we’re face-to-face and I can see the deep green of his eyes as they search mine.
His voice is softer, almost tentative, when he finally speaks. “Are you . . . have you . . . do I?”
His questions float, unasked, in the space between us, and for moment they hold me there. And then panic comes rushing in.
The reality of what I’ve done—or come dangerously close to doing—hits me, sends me past him with a bump to his shoulder and out the door before he can say anything else. Before we can look at each other a moment longer.
I don’t look back. I walk as fast as I can down the sidewalk to my car, driven by the certainty that I shouldn’t have come and that I need to leave now. Because mixed up with the knowledge that I’ve done something horribly wrong is the overwhelming feeling that I want to know this person better. Colton Thomas, with green eyes and tan skin, and a smile like he knows me. Who seems so different from the person I thought I’d find.
The sound of the door behind me, and then footsteps, makes me want to run.
“Hey,” a voice calls. “Wait!” His voice.
Those two words.
They make me want to—stop and wait, turn, and just look at him again. But I don’t. I walk faster instead. Away. This was a mistake, a mistake, a mistake. I jam my hand into my pocket and click the unlock button on my key over and over, near frantic now. Just as I step off the sidewalk and reach for my door, his footsteps come right up behind me, close.
“Hey,” he says again, “you left this.”
I freeze, fingers curled tight under the handle.
My heart hammers as I turn, slowly, to face him again.
He swallows hard. Holds my purse out to me. “Here.”
I take it. “Thank you.”
We stand there, catching our breaths. Searching for more words. He finds his first.
“I . . . are you all right? You seem like . . . maybe you’re not?”
Tears well up instantly, and I shake my head.
“I’m sorry,” he says, taking a step back. “That was—it’s none of my business. I just . . .” His eyes run over my face, searching again.
This is more than a mistake. I yank up on the handle and swing the door open, duck inside, and close it behind me with a shaky hand. I need to leave right now. I fumble with my keys for the right one, but they all look the same, and I can feel his eyes on me, and I just need to leave, and I should never have come, and— I find the right key, jam it into the ignition, and turn it. When I do, I look up in time to see him take a startled step out of the way, back onto the sidewalk. I shove the gear into drive, turn the wheel, and hit the gas. Hard.
The impact is sudden and loud. An insult that comes out of nowhere. Metal and glass crunch. My chin smacks into the steering wheel. The horn blares, and in the stillness of the moment it sinks in, what I’ve just done. Everything I’ve just done. I close my eyes, hoping feebly that somehow none of it happened. That I just dreamed it, the way I dream about Trent, where everything is so clear and real, until I wake up and realize that I am alone and he is gone.
Slowly, I open my eyes. I’m afraid to do anything else, but my hand moves automatically, puts the car in park. And then my door swings open.
Colton Thomas is not gone. He’s right there, looking at me with concern and something else I’m not sure of. He leans in and reaches across me to shut the engine off.
“Are you okay?” There’s worry in his voice.
My mouth throbs, but I nod my head, avoid his eyes, bite back tears. I taste blood.
“You’re hurt,” he says.
He raises his hand, just barely, like he might brush the hair away from my face, or wipe the blood from my lip, but he doesn’t. He just keeps looking at me.
“Please,” he says after a long moment, “let me help.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“The heart, [scientists have found], is not just a pump but also an organ of great intelligence, with its own nervous system, decision-making powers, and connections to the brain. They found that the heart actually ‘talks’ with the brain, communicating with it in ways that affect how we perceive and react to the world.”
—Dr. Mimi Guarneri, The Heart Speaks: A Cardiologist Reveals the Secret Language of Healing
COLTON STANDS BETWEEN the bumper of my car and the blue VW bus’s I ran into, taking in the damage. “It’s really not that bad,” he says, squatting down between the two bumpers. “I mean, you took the brunt of it.” He looks at the clump of napkins I’m holding tight to my bottom lip. “That’s gonna need stitches. We should get you to a doctor.”
I try to ignore the “we” part. I need to get out of here even more than I did before, but I’ve just complicated things exponentially. “I can’t just leave,” I say. “I ran into someone’s car. I have to make a report or something. Or at least call my insurance company. And my parents. Oh god.” They were already gone when I left this morning and will probably expect me to be there when they came home for lunch, because I have been there every day for the last few weeks, since graduation.
Colton stands. “You can do all that later—you need to get yourself taken care of first. Just write a note. Leave your number. People are mellow around here. And you barely dented it. It’s really not that big of a deal.”
I want to argue with him, but my lip throbs, and the warm stickiness of the napkins I’ve got pressed to it is making me queasy. “Really?”
“Really,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”
He turns and jogs easily across the street to the kayak rental shop, where a small crowd—presumably the family he mentioned in the café—mills around. The adults alternately eye their watches and glance around while a couple of teenagers lean against the window, absorbed in their phones, and the two youngest kids chase each other between the racks of kayaks. I should go right now. Leave a quick note on the bus and get out of here now, before this goes any further.
I hurry back to my car and duck into the driver’s seat to grab my purse. The sudden movement causes a whole new wave of pain and stickiness to rush to my mouth, and I have to take a deep breath before I dig through my purse for a pen and something to write on.
I look across the street, watch as Colton approaches the family of customers. He looks apologetic as he gestures back in my direction, likely explaining what just happened. They nod, and he takes out his phone, makes a brief call, then shakes everyone’s hand again before turning to come back. I pretend to be so deeply absorbed in writing my note that I don’t look up when his feet stop right in front of me.
“I can take you to the hospital,” he says.
I write my name and phone number at the bottom of the note. “Thank you, really, but it’s okay. I can drive myself.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“It’s not that bad. I’m fine, I—”
“Here.”
He takes the slip of paper from me. Glances down at it. “Why don’t I go put this on the car, you switch seats, and I can drive you.”
I don’t move. Partly because I know this is a bad idea and partly because I’m a little dizzy.
Colton crouches in front of me so I can’t avoid his eyes. “Listen. You need stitches, I just got the day off work, and I can’t let you just drive away like that.”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer but walks to the windshield of the bus, lifts the wiper, and tucks the note beneath it. Before I can come up with an excuse for him not to take me, he’s back at the driver’s side of my car, where I’m still sitting.
I look at him a moment longer, long enough to run through all the reasons that letting this go one step further is a mistake.
“Can I?” he asks. And when he looks at me with those eyes, something deep within them makes me say yes.
We don’t speak as he drives down the main street, not at first. The sleepy little beach town has come to life now, and beachgoers crowd the sidewalks, heading down to the sand in their flip-flops and cover-ups, stuffed beach bags slung over their shoulders. I can feel him looking over at me every few seconds, and it takes all my focus not to make eye contact. Finally, when it seems like he’s drifted into his own thoughts, I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, try to take in the details. Blue board shorts, white T-shirt, flip-flops. No MedicAlert bracelet. All this surprises me, like there should be some outward sign.
He seems comfortable driving my car, and I try to be okay with it, but I’m not. I don’t think anyone else has driven it since Trent’s been gone, and it feels like if I closed my eyes right now, I could see him there. Sitting in that seat, with one hand on the wheel, the other on my knee, singing loud with the radio and getting the words wrong on purpose to make me laugh. Working my name into every song that came on.
