“My God, it’s Maggie Murphy, isn’t it?”
His outstretched arm was on my elbow, and the
warm pressure of his hand steadied me on my
feet. Confused, I glanced behind me. He said the
name so clearly and with such devoted attention
to each consonant that, for an instant, the sound
of it was unfamiliar. My own name, on his lips.
I stammered, “Y-yes.”
“Are you all right? That car was going far too fast
on such a small street.” He shook his head, and
the blue-black line of his thick eyebrows pinched
toward each other over a long, straight nose.
Kevin had remembered me. The expression of
concern injected a dose of much-needed warmth
to my very core, jolting me to the realization that I
was shivering.
“You just never know when to expect something
like that.” He scooped my tablet from the slush at
the same time that his strong arm wrapped around
my waist. “Here, let me help you.”
“I’m fine, really.” But I gripped the brushed
softness of his jacket sleeve for support.
Embarrassed, I dropped my gaze before it could
meet his, seeking the source of the burning pain in
my flank. I sensed his eyes following the track of
my own.
I gasped to see a single rivulet of maroon blood
traveling like a locomotive from the hem of my
black-and-green plaid skirt, down the ripped
track of my tights, to the top of my boot. My head
buzzed. A sense of being disembodied crackled
heat through my system, as though I’d been
popped from a toaster.
I’d fainted before and knew how it felt. It was
as though a body bag made of cotton balls was
being pulled over me. But before the descent into
oblivion could commence, strong fingers held
my chin. Suddenly, I was gazing into cobalt blue
eyes so close I could see where flecks like black
coal gave his irises the appearance of being large
slices of lapis, imperfect and priceless.
He smiled with the slightest upturn to his mouth
that was at once soothing and seductive. “Maggie,
stay with me.” His breath was sweet with just a
trace of mint, as though he’d recently chewed on
a fresh spearmint leaf. “I live right here. You’ll be
okay.” His large hand eased from the small of my
back to grip my waist. His touch sent ripples of
electricity up my spine.
We turned away from the street and a waft of cold
February air shot a charge of awareness up my
nostrils. I pulled my wool scarf tighter against my
chin and shook my head. I had knitted the scarf
during the long nights when I’d been unable to
sleep. My mother had bought me skeins of soft
alpaca wool, even though she couldn’t afford it.
Blended shades of white, cream, and pale blue
reminded me of wisps of cloud across an April
sky. The touch of it—like soft marshmallows in hot
cocoa—reassured me.
“No, no. It’s fine,” I said. “I’m fine.” I attempted to
pull away but discovered that the muffling had
gone further than I realized, and my muscles were
unwilling to play nicely with the commands coming
from my brain.
Mortification seeped into my consciousness—so
much for being cosmopolitan and engaging. At
least he got a good look at my boots. I inhaled
through my nose the way my physical therapist
always insisted, long and deep. I straightened but
was not yet willing to pull away from the luxury of
his forearm against my waist.
“I’m sorry I’m such a wimp.” I pressed my fingers
against his chest, firm like memory foam through
his jacket. “I don’t want to keep you. Really, I’ll
be fine.” But the truth was, I wouldn’t be fine. I’d
known for months that I wouldn’t be fine. There
would be no university for me next fall.
“Hey, come on. I haven’t seen you in what, five
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