Chapter Seventeen

I'm restless. Not even my little tryst with the most sought-after hairdresser in Fort Collins was enough to settle me down enough to catch some sleep. Which is why I'm sitting in a diner playing bad music from the eighties and serving even worse coffee in the middle of the night.

There's really not much else to do in lovely Fort Collins, Colorado – and I don't want to just lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

“Get ya anything, hon?”

I look up at the waitress and smile. I should probably order something if I'm going to be taking up one of her tables. Although, the place is virtually empty, so it's not like she's missing out on much in the way of potential tips.

“How about a piece of chocolate pie?” I ask.

“Good choice,” she says. “We got the best chocolate pie in all a Colorado.”

I nod. “Sold.”

I take a sip of the coffee and grimace at the cheap, burnt taste of it. I don't know how anybody can drink this garbage regularly. But then, maybe long-haul truckers – which seem to be the main clientele of this diner – don't really care as long as it's hot and has caffeine in it. Though, I will admit that I've always been a coffee snob.

I glance around the diner, looking at some of the people. There are a couple of truckers – no surprise – and a young woman sitting in a corner booth all by herself. I don't know what it is, but she looks so out of place that I'm intrigued by her.

As I look at her closer, I realize that her eyes are red and puffy, her cheeks are flushed, and she just has a terrified look about her. It's not difficult to see that she's been crying and looks incredibly upset. Looking around, I see that nobody's even paying attention to her. If they noticed her, they don't seem to care.

Or maybe they just don't want to get caught up in somebody else's shit. Which is probably the wise course of action – and the one I should probably follow. Which is what I normally do. I normally have no desire to get caught up in somebody else's drama. I've got enough crap on my own plate to deal with.

But something about the girl in the corner draws me. Compels me. She just looks so – lost.

“One piece of chocolate pie,” the waitress says as she sets the plate down in front of me.

I look down and have to admit, it looks pretty damn good. She's waiting for me to confirm her earlier statement that this is indeed the best pie in the state. I oblige and take a bite and smile as I chew, nodding my head in the affirmative. The coffee is for shit, but they can apparently do pies up right.

“Amazing,” I say.

“Told you,” she replies and gives me a wink.

I point my fork at the girl in the corner. “What's her story?”

The waitress shrugs. “I dunno. She came in about an hour and a half ago,” she says. “Only ordered a coffee.”

“She looks upset.”

The waitress looks over at her. “Oh yeah, I guess she does,” she says. “Probably had a fight with her boyfriend or something. Probably no big deal.”

“Yeah, probably,” I say. “Thanks for the tip on the pie.”

“Anytime, hon.”

The waitress refills my coffee and walks away and my eyes are drawn back to the woman in the corner. It very well might be that she had a fight with her boyfriend. But something is telling me it's more than that. A lot more. She just looks – scared.

I finish my pie and wipe my mouth with my napkin. Standing up, I drop some money on the table before picking up my coffee cup and walking over to the girl in the corner. And as I walk over, I keep asking myself why I'm going over to her. Why I'm bothering with somebody else's problems. This doesn't involve me and doesn't concern me – so why am I inserting myself into something that has nothing to do with me?

I ask the questions in my head but get no answers in return. About all I can come up with is that I feel drawn to the girl for some reason I don't understand. It's completely out of the norm for me, which I find intriguing enough to let it play out.

When I get to her table, she looks up at me with wide eyes. Her body tenses and she looks ready to bolt. I hold my hand up, trying to put her at ease and show her I'm not a threat.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I just couldn't help but notice that you've been crying. Are you okay?”

“I – I'm fine,” she replies, looking down at the table. “Thanks for your concern, but it's not needed.”

I know I should go, but I can't seem to tear myself away. I just stand there looking at her. She finally raises her head and looks at me, narrowing her eyes and raising her chin defiantly.

“Did you need something else?” she asks, her tone ice cold.

“I – I just – are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine.”

I frown as I look at her. “Pardon me for saying so, but you don't look fine,” I say. “People who are fine don't usually sit in the corner of a diner crying their eyes out.”

“I appreciate your concern, but please go.”

I hear the bell above the diner's door ring, announcing the arrival of new customers. The girl's eyes grow wide and the tension in her body grows more pronounced as she looks at the door. I turn and look at the door where a couple of truckers are wandering in, probably looking for a late-night cup of coffee and a hot meal. The girl looks back up at me and I see her cheeks flush with color.

“Is somebody after you?” I ask.

She opens her mouth to speak and then closes it again. Uninvited, I sit down at her table, setting my cup of coffee down in front of me. The girl looks at me, her eyes simmering with anger, but she says nothing.

“Eric,” I say. “Eric Galloway.”

“What do you want?” she asks.

It's a simple question but one I'm not prepared for. What do I want? I honestly have no idea. I hadn't given it much thought before coming over to her table. But then, I never expected to encounter such hostility and resistance from her either.

“Honestly, I just wanted to help you.” I say.

“You don't even know me,” she says. “Why would you want to help me?”

I chuckle softly and shake my head. “I really don't know,” I admit. “I just saw you sitting here and you looked so upset, I just felt like I had to do something.”

She looks up at me and her eyes soften – slightly. She's obviously a girl who doesn't trust easily – which I can respect. Trust is earned. She's also not the type to vomit all of her problems onto somebody at the drop of a hat – something else I can respect.

But sitting there with her, I can tell that she's isolated herself. There's something in her demeanor that strikes me as a very “me against the world” mentality – as if she believes she really is all alone. That she has no allies to back her against whatever the challenge she's facing is.

“There's nothing you can do,” she says softly.

I shrug. “You don't know that for sure.”

She looks up, her eyes locking onto mine. “Yeah, I do know that,” she says, her voice firmer. “And you're likely to get yourself killed if you do try to help me. So, do yourself a favor and walk away. Pretend you never even saw me.”

I fold my hands on top of the table and continue to hold her gaze. “When you say something like that, it piques my interest,” I say. “It makes me think that you're in even more trouble than I originally thought. Which makes me want to help you even more.”

“What? Are you bored?” she snaps. “Do you feel some overwhelming need to play Good Samaritan? Maybe rack up some karma points?”

There is heat and venom in her voice. She's angry. But I don't get the impression that the anger in her is directed at me. I just happen to be the most convenient person for her to lash out at. Which is fine. I can deal with that.

“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe I feel like I've got a lot to atone for. And maybe God directed me to you.”

Her eyes widen slightly and her face darkens with rage. I hold up both of my hands again, signaling surrender. It's an interesting reaction though – the outright rage when confronted with religion. Which deepens my curiosity about her even more.

“It was a joke,” I say. “Apparently a bad one. I'm not even religious.”

The girl sits back in her seat and sighs. At least some of the tension went out of her body. She looks tired. Exhausted. She looks like somebody who's been on the run and hasn't been able to relax for a long time and is getting worn down.

“Who are you running from?” I ask. “Who's chasing you?”

“Did I say I'm running from somebody?”

“No,” I reply calmly. “But from where I'm sitting, it looks like you are.”

“I need to go,” she says and starts to slide out of the booth.

I quickly jump out and block her path to the door. I know it's an asshole move and that I very well might be scaring her more than I'm helping – but I can't seem to help myself. I know something is wrong. I know she's on the run from somebody – somebody who obviously terrifies her. And knowing that, I can't sit back and not do something about it.

I have no idea why – I don't even know this girl – but something is compelling me and I have to try to help her.

“Get out of my way, please,” she says.

“I want to help you.”

“You can't help me.”

“Is it a boyfriend you're running from?”

She rolls her eyes and starts to move around me. “No. It's not a boyfriend.”

It's not much, but at least it's an answer. The first clear answer she's given me, actually. Which I take as an encouraging sign. Of course, the fact that she's heading for the door to the diner is less than encouraging, but I'll take the good with the bad.

“Why don't you let her go,” the waitress says as I pass her by. “The girl obviously wants to deal with whatever she's dealing with on her own.”

It's a fair question and one I don't have an answer to. I just shrug as I hit the door.

“You wouldn't understand,” is all I say – and it's true, because I don't understand, myself.

The night air is cool and when I look around, I don't see her at first. But I see her hustling down the sidewalk, hands in her big, oversized coat pockets, head down, moving quickly. I catch up to the girl on the street and fall into step beside her. She doesn't even look at me as she walks.

“So, if it's not a boyfriend then –”

“It's nobody you can handle,” she says. “Believe me.”

I shrug. “You might be surprised,” I say. “I've been through a lot. And it's taught me to handle a lot.”

She turns and looks at me, her expression skeptical, but her eyes soften slightly and she sighs.

“Look, I appreciate your concern –”

“You look like you haven't had a decent meal or a good night's rest in a while,” I say. “At the very least, let me buy you something to eat. You don't even have to tell me what's going on with you if you don't want to.”

She looks up one side of the street and down the other, still nervous. I can see the debate in her head as she finally looks at me. A small, uncertain smile touches her lips.

“Thank you,” she says. “I'd appreciate that.”