Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
I blink around. I’ve never been here, on this corner, in this coffee shop. Or maybe it’s new. The world has been changing around me over the last year, and I haven’t taken notice.
The line moves forward, and I let it pull me along. You would have hated this place. The overly bright lighting, the din of thirty or so people chatting, the hiss of a barista foaming milk, the whirr of the grinder. Paying seven bucks for a coffee.
“Good afternoon. What can I get you?” A woman with a gummy smile and a blond ponytail is a little too eager to take my order.
“Coffee. Black, please.” I hand over cash, accept change, and shuffle down the line, eyes lingering over a cranberry-orange scone. I try to remember if I’ve eaten today.
“Meredith? Coffee, black,” a voice rings out.
I pull off a glove to pick up the paper cup and let the warmth seep in through my skin as I scan the room for an open table. There’s only one, near the front of the shop, looking outside. It gives me something to focus on, at least. People swarm the sidewalks, tourists gaping up at the tall buildings with shopping bags in hands and locals grumbling as they’re forced to weave through them. Hundreds of people come and go in only minutes. It’s a sea of ambiguity, face after face after face, until they all start to blur.
But then… there’s a flash of familiarity. A face I know in the crowd.
I lean forward, ignoring the table digging into my ribs as I stare at the man. My hand comes to my chest when recognition turns to dismay. And my heart gallops off wildly.
It can’t be him.
Can it?
Olive skin, dark beard, lean build. He smiles—lips curled up as he talks into his phone. Then laughter, the sort that rocks his whole chest as he tilts his head up, smiling at the sky. This man wouldn’t laugh—couldn’t laugh. After all, he’s been through worse than I have.
I squeeze my cup too hard and coffee sloshes over the edges, scalding my hand. Pain radiates across my skin, and I look down at my pink flesh.
It feels good. The sting floods me with an odd sense of relief.
It’s not a normal response. I’ll probably spend hours overanalyzing it at some point. But right now… my attention is back to the window. He’s way more interesting.
I’m out of my chair, dumping my barely touched coffee into the nearest garbage, and through the jangling door in seconds. The man strides down the sidewalk, walking between gaps in pedestrians, making it easy to track him. Easy to—I jolt forward—follow him.
It’s akin to following a ghost.
Except he’s not the one who died.
They are.
We are stuck here. In limbo.
Me. And him.
Gabriel Wright. The last time I saw him, I felt almost exactly as I do now. Numb. Distant. Unbelieving. That night.
I slip my hand into my pocket again, reaching for your keychain to help shake away the bad memories. But there’s no time to soothe myself now because I’m falling behind. So I speed up, give chase. Gabriel turns a corner, hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s leaving Gramercy, heading south toward the East Village. We’re not the only two striding this way. I step behind three women, oversize shopping bags hung over elbows like trophies they’re bringing back from a hunt. Tourists. They’re the perfect blind for my own hunt.
I want to know what he’s doing, where he’s going. Why he’s here of all places, and most of all—I flash back to his face, laughing, smiling—is he really happy? Happy enough to laugh. To feel joy, after what you did.
Gabriel stops at a newsstand up ahead. A rush of suited office workers flood the sidewalk coming out of a building. It’s after seven now. I’ve been outside since noon, wandering. I should go home. Order in some food, find a way to spend my time—
But I can’t force myself away from him. I press my phone to my ear to block my face as he scans the sidewalk, waiting for his turn. He holds up a hand, uses his phone to pay for a pack of cigarettes—some brand in a white package—and shoves them into a pocket.
An urge to get closer hits me. He probably wouldn’t recognize me. We never met, not formally anyway. No. We just went through hell together, several rooms apart.
You in one room.
His wife and child in another.
I swallow the acid rising in my throat, the consequence of coffee on an empty stomach and stressing while speed-walking down the sidewalk after a man I should steer clear of.
Gabriel stays at the newsstand a moment longer. Smiling again. Chatting up the man who works behind the counter.
I step back, lean against the brick of a building, and pull out a tiny notebook, the one I keep my to-do list in. I haven’t written in it in weeks, maybe months. No point in a to-do list when there’s nothing to do. But now, I scribble.