I’m being a colossal ass and I know it.

This woman probably thinks I hate her, or that I honestly care that much about this shirt, or that I frequently snap at strangers on the street. It’s not any of that. I don’t even mean to yell at her – I just don’t want to be stopped here on Main Street for any longer than I have to be. The longer I’m here, standing on this sidewalk, the more likely I am to be seen – to be discovered. The whole reason I get groceries this early in the morning is to avoid situations like this. I’ve perfectly planned these rare trips into town every few weeks to occur at the least crowded possible time.

And because of that, there is now coffee dripping down my shirt and a very pretty woman is looking at me as if she’d like to have a conversation, and all I can think about is getting back up to my cabin before I’m spotted. I know I should offer her more of an explanation, this Mia. I know I should say it’s not a big deal. I should say it was my fault too, or I should offer to buy her another coffee. But I don’t say any of that. I don’t even give her the courtesy to tell her the dry-cleaning offer is kind but unnecessary.

“Well, Jacob,” Mia says, looking at me expectantly, “Give me a call about the bill.” It looks like it’s an effort to bite her tongue, to physically hold herself back from yelling at me, and I can’t say I blame her. I look at my grocery bag, at the slip of paper that’s affixed to it with her number on it, and then back down at my coffee-stained shirt.

The last time I got anything dry cleaned, my life was completely different than it is now. I used to have clothes sent out without a second thought, sometimes with no thought at all because assistants would handle it all for me. Clean, pressed, expensive designer clothes used to fill my closets. I’d never had much use for most of them: the personally-tailored blazers sent by companies hoping to do business with us, the leather shoes sent hoping I’d tell a magazine interviewer where I’d gotten them. Still, the constant supply of clean, fresh goods had been something I’d taken for granted.

But I suppose it’s amazing what you can learn to do without after several attempts on your life.

The last thing I have time to do right now, all things considered, is stand on this street corner and tell Mia all about how, actually, I don’t need her dry-cleaning offer because I wash all my own clothes with a fifty-year-old washing machine I’d spent a week repairing back to working order all by myself. I don’t have time to explain anything at all about my situation to her. Not that I owe her anything. She’s a complete stranger, and one random stranger thinking I’m rude is better than my hideout being found. I consider just walking off, just turning around and ending this conversation, but –

But.

There is something in Mia’s face, a sparkle in her eye and the prodding, slightly disappointed look she’s giving me behind her frustration, that makes me unable to do so. There is something about her that makes me miss my old life all at once in a rush – or at least the freedom it granted to ask out a beautiful woman whenever I saw one. To get her number for so many reasons that aren’t related to dry cleaning.

I pull the slip out of my grocery bag and slide it into the pocket of my jeans. “Right,” I say, nodding. It’s not much better than turning away, but it’s something.

She gives me an annoyed face and sighs. “Well, I’m sure you need to get those groceries home and get that shirt off,” Mia says curtly, “and I happen to have a busy day of my own to get back to.”

“Yeah,” I agree. I always used to be told I talked a lot – that I had a habit of telling rambling, drawn-out stories, that I loved to argue a point or engage in debate even a little too much. I guess I’m out of practice now. Or maybe I’ve just never been as good at the in-betweens, everything I say being either single-word answers or inappropriately wordy thoughts. Either way, it makes Mia narrow her eyes at me.

“Goodbye,” she says in a huff, turning and walking away from me before I can say anything else as if she’s not expecting me to. She’s probably right about that. I watch her for a few seconds and then start on my way back up to my cabin.

My eyes dart around as I walk, on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. I walk quickly, but not quickly enough to attract attention. Coming into town is always a risk, and this morning proves it. I’m not sure how to get around it, but I’m unsettled about it every time I do, holding my breath around every corner until I make it back up to my cabin and lock the door behind me.

I’m not sure if being here is safe, even. If I’ve made the right choice making this place my hideout. I’ve got to be careful with everything that I do – even something as simple as running out for groceries.

If I’m not careful… If I’m found out, it could cost me everything. It could cost me my life.