Then, as if somehow pained to do so, he finally turns.
Meets my eyes.
“You do?”
I nod and cross my arms, crinkling my T&S apron. “You bet I do. I mean, it’d be absurd not to recognize you.”
He seems disproportionately unsettled by that fact.
He hasn’t blinked.
“You’re the Chase Holt groupie,” I state simply.
He flinches, appearing unsure how to respond.
“And I’m the deranged guy who trauma-dumped on you in a hallway,” I say, coming closer, “which obviously you know, seeing as you’re here. I assume you didnot, in fact, track me down to my hometown like a stalker …”
“Stalker …?”
“… and instead assume Chase Holt’s next stop is … just going out on a limb here … another college in the area? It’s his College Country Crash tour, after all. Is it Fairview Community? Didn’t see Fairview on his schedule—had to check it when I got tickets to the Horseshoe—but maybe there were new locations sprinkled in here and there I don’t know about. Makes sense, with you being here, since Fairview is just half an hourthatway,” I say with a nod of my head. He literally peers over his shoulder as if we can see it from here. “And, oh, I don’t know, maybe the words we shared in that old back hallway of said Horseshoe hit you harder than I thought—sorry, was having a rough day, still no excuse for being a dick—and you’re probably here to tell me how so-very-wrong I was about Chase Holt, defending your bias. Or … and color me stupefied … this reallyisjust a coincidence, and you justhappento be strolling aroundmy town, bored between concerts, looking to kill time, and instead just broke your face on a lamppost.”
A long and uncertain moment stretches between us where I’m pretty sure he’s prepared to just take off running. Maybe he really did stalk me and is now regretting it. I’m likely more emotionally unstable than a real psycho tracking down prey.
Watch out. I’ll talk you to death.
But he doesn’t run. He just stands there awhile longer. Then, after a hint of reluctance, he finally says, “You … got me.”
He isn’t specific about which parts I got right or wrong.
I don’t really care. “Come here.”
His eyebrows shoot upward. “Huh?”
I huff impatiently, then go right up to him and, after sighing out the words, “Just come,” I take his hand, feeling bold enough to do so for some reason, and drag him behind me.
Straight into T&S’s Sweet Shoppe we go. I sit him down at the first table. I guess Billy’s gone into the back and the old couple left while I was outside since no one’s here. I hop behind the counter to fetch the First Aid. Sitting myself across from the guy, I pull out a bandage and some antiseptic, getting to work.
“Is this really necessary?” he mumbles.
“Are you dizzy? Blurred vision? Headache?”
“Seriously?”
“Do you know what day of the week is it?”
“Does anyone?” he retorts.
I frown. “Good point,” I concede. “Anyway, I don’t know what you cut your head on. Those lampposts weren’t exactly installed yesterday. Hope you’re up on your Tetanus shots.”
“Uh, what?”
“Hold still.” I press a gauze pad to his gash. He winces and flinches away. “Sorry. Can you hold this there? Keep a teeny bit of pressure. Scalp cuts can bleed a lot, but they’re usually nothing.”
He takes the gauze pad from me.
Our fingers graze.
Then we lock eyes for some reason.