Page 58 of Girl on the Run
“Hi,” I say.
“You kept the bangs.”
“Yeah.” My hand flies up to make sure the short strands are smoothed down. The scar on my forehead is barely noticeable, but I’m not ready to look at it every day in the mirror and remember.
I don’t know which of us ventures a smile first, but the other returns it. I feel the brittleness of my own expression, and I don’t know how to ease it. I want to. I want to hug him and grin and laugh, because we’re alive and together and not running. But I don’t know how to take that step, and every passing second expands the distance between us.
“Do you want some coffee?” I ask, nodding toward the ordering counter. “Or something to eat?”
“Sure.”
We both go, because it’s better than just standing there. I listen to him place his order. We’re side by side. Inches apart. But I felt closer to him when he was out of state. At least then I could pretend.
My jaw is locked, and my heart is a wreck—beating slow, then fast, then somewhere in between. I don’t have to be afraid, but I am.
And then I’m not.
Warmth.
Skin.
The back of his hand presses into mine.
