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Alone.
With that know-it-all attitude of hers.
And a dozen strangers who could hurt her.
Jaw locked, I snatch my keys and step out. Stretching, I fill my lungs with late afternoon summer air. It’s warm. A bit damp with the promise of rain I can’t remember the last time I did anything this benign. Or this…sunlit.
Cold hits the back of my arm, and I jerk, finding Briar holding a bottle of spray-on sunscreen.
“What do you think yo—”
“Albinos have more color in their skin, Rowan. Come on. You’ll be burnt in two minutes.” Cocking a hip against the basket resting on her arm, she grasps my hand and…mothers me. The process of coating the bare skin beneath my t-shirt sleeves in spray can’t take longer than thirty seconds, but the sensation leaves me shocked speechless and regretting having insisted on changing out of my meeting clothes before we left. Smiling so sweetly, she says, “Close your eyes, baby. Let me get your face.”
I rock my jaw, but do as I’m told, holding my breath and—
The sound of the bottle sprays, but only her cold hands meet my cheeks.
Eyes flying open, I jolt back.
She smirks. “What?”
“What are you doing?”
She shows me the label. “Don’t spray on face. It’s like you’ve never interacted with sunscreen before. Which means you don’t bathe in the stuff. Which must mean this is your first time ever seeing the sun.” Popping the bottle back in her basket, she twists on her heel and spreads her arms wide at the sky. “Isn’t it spectacular?”
My mouth opens. I close it. Gather my thoughts.
Grunting, I rub the remnants on my face in until the chill has abated.
Smiling, her eyes roll. “So articulate.” Her hand—still slick with sunscreen—takes mine hostage, using it as an anchor to drag me across the street to a bench beside a sidewalk that cuts through the swathe of garden before us. A couple children with chalk play hopscotch past a handful of flowerbeds. A few women I can only assume are their mothers chat amiably on another bench.
Beyond this splash of bright foliage, it’s all chipped paint and faded bricked. Cracks run through the sidewalks. Dandelions pop up from the fractures to bob in the warm breeze.
The mundane peace saturating everything I can see pricks at my nerves.
It is far too unfamiliar for comfort.
“Sit down,” Briar says.
I fix my gaze on her as she plants herself on the bench, opens the basket, and offers me a sub sandwich.
There’s a smiley face drawn on the paper wrapper, right next to the tape holding the bundle closed.
I drag my attention back to her eyes.
Her head tilts. “I’ll take the first bite if you think it’s poisoned; however, there are far more enjoyable ways to kill you. And I’ve had plenty of opportunities.”
Sitting, I take the sandwich, stretch my legs, and battle the unease gnawing away at my gut.
Briar retrieves another sandwich from the basket and rips open the tape beside her own smiley face—a winking one. Grabbing a crinkle-cut pickle that fell out of the overstuffed bread, she pops it in her mouth.
Despite the surrounding bustle, the crunch of her bite is distinct.
I point at the smiley face in my lap. “Why?”
“Chip’s a sweetheart.” She peers into the basket and pulls out a napkin covered in neat penmanship. “He likes doing this sort of thing.”
I look at the pristine scrawl.
