Capture

He cleared his throat as one of his hands came to his jacket and he touched the front of his coat.

“Parker,” he said. I felt the single word in my bones, though it sounded like a casual greeting. But it struck a chord because I never thought I’d hear his voice again.

I shifted on my feet, also cleared my throat, and tried to mimic his unaffected intonation. “Sandeke.”

Another long moment passed where neither of us made a sound or movement. It was a bizarre situation to find oneself in for many reasons, not the least of which was all the busy goings-on surrounding us—people rushing by on the sidewalk, cars and buses and taxis whizzing behind him. I heard and felt the subway beneath my feet, the muffled music behind me, horns blaring, sirens whining. But we were still and silent.

Then abruptly, walking toward me, he said, “Do you need a ride?”

I shook my head. “No. No, thank you.”

“I have a car. Do you live in the city?”

“No. I’m still in New Haven.”

“I see…”

He stopped, now some five feet away. His gaze traveled up then down my body and he stuffed his hands in his pants pockets, his exquisite eyes remote and guarded when they landed on mine. I could see him clearly now beneath the light of the alley, and what I saw made my chest ache with the unfairness of him. I couldn’t help but devour his features, recommitting his face, both familiar and unfamiliar, to memory.

He looked older, more like a man, and there was a new hardness in his face. He also might have been an inch taller, or maybe not. Perhaps he just carried himself differently. I didn’t know how it was possible, but he felt even more imposing than he had before, and the gulf between us felt wider than ever.

This was hard. My heart hurt.

I thought I’d matured, grown from a repressed girl into a woman with an adequate amount of aplomb, worldliness; but I could see now that I still had a long way to go. Or perhaps I was always going to be part doofus. Perhaps it was in my genetic makeup to be a perpetual kid. Just standing near him made me feel like an imposter, like a poser trying to play grown up.

He was inspecting me. I could see the calculating gleam in his eyes; I was a problem that needed to be solved. I felt the heavy heat of embarrassment surge uncomfortably from my chest to my neck. Old Kaitlyn raised her hand and suggested I should hold very still and close my eyes until he got the message and left me alone, or thought I’d transformed into a large rock or a living statue.

Old Kaitlyn sure was a nut.

Whereas new Kaitlyn suspected that the chances of making it through the next ten minutes without bursting into tears were about three percent. New Kaitlyn was also very frustrated because she wanted to be over Martin Sandeke. She wanted to be able to see him without becoming an emotional pendulum.

However, both new Kaitlyn and old Kaitlyn wanted nothing to do with drama or angst or unwinnable arguments. I was over being a hot mess and wallowing. I had no idea why he was here, but every instinct told me to extract myself as soon as possible if I wanted to avoid future pitiful behavior.

I decided to embrace new Kaitlyn’s frustration. Old Kaitlyn’s suggested antics would get me nowhere. Whereas I could channel frustration into something useable, maybe even transform it into false bravery.

“Well, I’ll see you around.” I gave him a flat smile, thankful the alleyway was dim because it would mostly hide the impressive blush burning my cheeks, nose, forehead, and ears.

I moved as though to walk past him, and he quickly countered by stepping to the side, blocking my path. “Do you want to get a drink?”

“Oh, no thanks. I have a drink.” I held up my Coke as evidence, trying to keep my voice steady and polite.

The corner of his mouth tugged to the side. “I meant, do you want to go somewhere to drink? Coffee?”

My eyes cut to his. “What about your date?”

“What about her?”

“Well, would she come with us?”

His gaze searched mine. “Would you be more or less likely to say yes if she did?”

This question hurt my heart and sounded like a riddle, so I ignored it. “Nah, I have work in the morning and I’m pretty tired.”

“Work? Another show?”

“No.” I pressed my lips together, not wanting to admit I was basically restarting college in the spring, and worked as a singing barista at the Bluesy Bean. But then I decided I was being a ninny and had nothing to be ashamed of. Martin had always been meant for a different world than mine. We were opposites, we always had been, always would be.

I lifted my chin and glanced beyond him as I explained, “You know that coffee shop with the blue bean hanging over the door? The one next to the row of bars on Crown Street?” I forced myself to meet his gaze again, adding, “Well, I work there now. I’m one of the singing baristas.” I was pleased I was able to admit this without a fresh wave of embarrassment. As well, my voice sounded conversational and entirely normal.

His eyebrows furrowed, transforming his achingly handsome face into a sexy scowl. “You’re working at a coffee shop? Why?” he demanded.

I shrugged. “Why do people work? To make money.”

“Did your mother cut you off? After—”

I interrupted him, not wanting to hear what came after after. “No. Not at all. Nothing like that. I just—”

I stopped myself from explaining, abruptly wondering why we were talking at all. What was the point of this exercise in masochism? I had a nine-month-old wound that felt remarkably fresh. A dull ache had set up camp in my chest and was expanding, inflating to my throat, and pressing against my ribs.

“Listen.” I sighed as I glanced beyond him again, my eyes beginning to sting. Now that the shock was wearing off, looking at him was becoming increasingly difficult. “I need to go. I have a train to catch.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No, thank you.”

“Parker, let me drive you.”

“No.”

“Why not?” he asked quietly, sounding less pushy than curious.

I was about to respond with the truth, that being around him made me feel like I’d made no progress over the last nine months; that I was at a minimum infatuated with him if not still completely in love with him; that I had no desire to cry in his car. I had no desire to cry anywhere ever again.

But we were interrupted by the sound of a door closing, sauntering footsteps, and Abram tossing his arm over my shoulder.

I glanced up at my bandmate, confused by his sudden closeness. “Because she already has a ride,” he drawled.

CHAPTER 2

Acid-Base Equilibria

It took my brain five stunned seconds to engage and realize the ramifications of Abram’s appearance and announcement. In the sixth second I pushed Abram off and away.

First of all, the implication was clearly that we were together.

In order to clarify, I announced loudly, “He’s not my boyfriend. We’re not dating.”

Secondly, Martin was no longer looking at my face; he was looking at the spot where Abram’s hand had rested on my shoulder.

And thirdly, my life was officially a cliché. I wondered if there were some unseen director just around the corner saying things like, Okay, cue the new love interest. That’s right, we want him to walk onto the scene at the worst possible moment.

“But you still want me to give you a ride?” Abram asked, his tone chock full of zealously good-natured solicitousness.

“No. I don’t want a ride. I don’t want any rides. No rides for this girl.” I pointed to myself with my thumbs, burning a brighter shade of red.

Martin’s eyes flickered to mine and narrowed. I was being scrutinized.

Abram chuckled and nudged me flirtatiously with his elbow. He turned his smile to Martin. Martin was not smiling.

“Hi. I’m Abram. Katy’s bassist.”

I shook myself and realized I’d made no introductions. “Right. Martin, this is Abram. He plays bass in the band. Abram, this is…Martin.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Martin,” Abram said, like it truly was a pleasure and offered his hand.

Martin’s glare focused on the offered hand—the same hand that had seconds ago rested on my shoulder—then he lifted his gaze to Abram’s. He reached forward and accepted Abram’s hand for a shake. It was one of those weird, man handshakes that last too long, and where the hands turn a little white at the knuckles.

After several seconds I couldn’t take it any longer. This was Martin Sandeke, grand Jedi Master of the short-tempered fist fight. Ye Martin of old never needed a reason to lose his temper. Granted, I hadn’t seen him in almost nine months. But the last thing I needed was Abram with a busted jaw or—worse—a hurt hand. Willis might never forgive me.

So I reached forward, pulled them apart, and tugged Martin toward the street. “Aaaand we’re done. Martin, would you be so kind as to drive me to Grand Central station?”

“You’ve got an impressive grip for such a pretty stockbroker,” Abram yelled after us.

“I’m not a stockbroker, asshole.” Martin’s voice was low and belied the intensity of his irritation; I could feel hesitation in his steps, like he wanted to turn around and show Abram the meaning of an impressive grip, so I linked my arm through his and increased my pace.