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I lose it mid-leap, arms flailing like an out-of-control helicopter, all momentum gone. Everything gone. It’s like I’m a damned piñata that’s been struck mid-flight. I plummet, straight into the thick, muddy bank. At least I manage to catch myself with my hands before I end up on my ass, or worse, my face.
I don’t want to look up to see his expression. I’ve got no clue when he arrived, never heard a vehicle pull up. And I don’t know why the hell he’s here, though I think I do. My hair’s making a curtain over my face, I’m looking into the water, brown and nasty, with tiny green crap floating around.
There’s this part of me that hopes he’s not really here and that I’m seeing things, that he didn’t witness the indignity of my flapping epic fall. God, then there’s this other part of me. The biggest part of me. That’s the part that hopes he’s here. Hopes for so much more than just his being here.
Breathe, Cassie, breathe. I’m only ankle-deep in the water, my new shoes ruined. Slowly, I lift my head, then my hands, and rise to a full stand.
Yep. He’s here. Alone. Watching me. He’s standing at the top of the concrete incline that leads toourspot.He couldn’t see me, not where I was sitting, back against the concrete. But surely he saw Dad’s truck. He had to have recognized it. Unless he parked on the other side of the bridge. Then he would have thought he was alone.
Is he looking for me or looking for a place to mourn, like I am?
I can see his jaw muscles working, tensing, untensing. “Twice in one day,” he says.
I nod. “Yeah,” I barely manage to choke that out. Seeing him again, now—here—it makes me want to cry. My eyes are fighting to water, and I’m fighting to stop them. The battle meets somewhere between my eyes and my nose, resulting in this burning feeling. One that I’ve become quite familiar with. I look down so he won’t read my expression.
My hands are covered in silt. Leaning down, I swish them in the water, freeing them from the mud. I pick up one leg, and with a nasty sucking sound the shoe comes loose. It’s covered in the same silty, thick swill. I jerk the other foot out. Wrong move. The shoe gets left behind.
Great. Just great.
And why would I want the shoe anyway? It’s ruined. The leather will smell like bayou water forever. Screw it. I kick the other shoe off and make my way to dry land. It’s a slow arduous process of sinking and pulling out of the mud.
Now, I no longer have an excuse not to look at him. I raise my eyes.
Josh has moved. He’s in front of me, and he’s holding an old towel and a coffee can. He leads me to the inclining concrete under the bridge and gestures for me to sit. After planting myself on the chilled concrete, I shudder. My feet—the toenails that were a nice pink color are now streaked with shades of brown. Josh fills the large coffee can with water from the bayou and trickles it over my feet, rinsing them of the nastiness.
That done, he takes the towel and wraps my feet in it. Then rubs them briskly through the fabric. He quits abruptly but still keeps his hands on my feet. I can’t help watching him—no man should have long hair that’s sexier than a woman’s. The way his hair falls about his face reminds me of the times he would peel my jeans off, then my panties, then lower his head and, with his talented tongue and lips, take me to a place that was rapture-filled.
He looks up, and a flood of heat rises to my face as if I’ve been caught looking, much like a dirty-minded voyeur. His eyes are so black that the irises blend in with the pupils.
“Got lucky. You could have had a worse spill and had to dry off more than your feet.”
Shit. That brings images to my mind of him drying my body off. A flush that’s not shame nor embarrassment rises to my cheeks. It’s desire—pure, aching, craving desire.
I jerk my feet out of his hands, tucking my knees up close to my body and hugging them. “Thank you for your help.”
“You leaving?” He raises a brow, and I wonder where he’s going with that question.
“Not just yet.” God, I want to ask why, but I’m so guarded.
“Then keep your feet wrapped up. Don’t need you getting chilled.” He wraps the towel tighter around my feet and then leans back, still squatting in front of me.
I shudder, knowing he’s right, and tuck the fabric under my feet.
“Returning to the scene of the crime?” He’s not smiling when he says this.
TRESPASSERS AND HOSTAGES
CASSIE
I want to ask him exactly what he means because there are so many implications behind that question. Does he mean this spot right here is the scene of the crime as in when we first kissed? Or does he mean it in the sense that I’m back in Boar Creek, and the town is the scene of the crime? I want an explanation. I want clarity. I bite back the next bittersweet thought that comes to mind, but it slips into my consciousness anyway. I want Josh.
“Crime?” I hope he takes this one-word question as a prompt to talk more.
A look of incredulity crosses his face like he can’t believe that I’m asking this.
“How are you doing?” he asks instead of answering my question.
How am I doing? Shitty.Still missing him. Still dreaming of him. Every night now, since I quit drinking and stuff more than a year ago.
