I used to. I don’t anymore.

It’s true, but deep down somewhere inside me, the truth feels wrong. Pottery is something I’ve done since I was a little girl, something that brought all the craziness and unpredictability of life into perspective for me. Whenever I sat behind the pottery wheel, the world slowed down and I could think again, breathe again. Just like running. Earning a B.F.A. in Art in college didn’t leave me many career options, but that was okay with me. It was Brantley who earned the Business degree, and with her fondness for baking, The Art Of Java was born. I taught her how to do pottery, and she’s passed on her love of baking, although I’ll never be as good at it as she is, and vice versa.

But since waking up from the coma, I haven’t touched the pottery wheel. Haven’t shaped clay into something beautiful and called it art. Haven’t pulled a hot masterpiece out of the kiln and waited anxiously for it to cool so I could paint it with the love and care I have always given each piece of my work.

Glancing around the shop now, it’s startling to see that most of the display shelves that are used to house my pieces are empty. Brantley’s art is just for fun; she never sells it. The pieces that are priced to sell are all mine, and they’ve all been bought.

I can only imagine the questions Brantley’s been answering about why there’s no new art for sale.

A wave of dizziness hits me, and I grip the countertop in front of me, biting my lip until the pain is sharp enough to keep the sob inside. I didn’t just lose the love of my life and my son that day in the accident.

I lost a chunk of myself.

The shop is quiet, the only customer being the mysterious blind man who popped up about an hour ago, much to my dismay, and my shallow breaths echo around the cozy room.

Music. I forgot to turn on the music this morning.

I’m not sure if it’s the sound of my strained breathing or the fact that I’ve stopped moving, but the man, sitting at a window table close to the counter with his laptop open in front of him and his dog lying down beside him, looks up. His head turns toward me, his brow furrowing.

“Hey. Are you okay?” The deep rumble of his voice spreads through me, and I try harder to take a deep breath.

The bottle of my prescription anxiety medication floats into my head as an image of safety, but I answer him before reaching for it. I’ve already been rude enough to this man; ignoring his question will just put me over the top.

“I—I’m fine.” I pull in a shaking breath. Or something like it. I work on making my voice sound like I mean it this time. “I’m fine.”

But he doesn’t turn back to his computer. He continues to stare in my direction, and for a moment, I want more than anything to be able to see the expression in his eyes. Is he judging me? He can’t see my face right now…so why does it seem like he’s reading me?

Turning away, I grab my purse from under the counter and pull out the bottle of pills with violently shaking hands. These panic attacks come at least twice a day, and before the coma, I never took medication. My fingers tremble as I place one tiny pill under my tongue and close my eyes against the wave of weakness pulsing through me.

Turning back to the shop, I’ve never been so thankful for the silence that comes with the emptiness. Stretching my arms out toward the front of the counter, I rest my head on top and continue taking in one shallow breath after another, waiting for the medicine to kick in.

Alone. You’re all alone now, Arden, and your life looks nothing like it should. You should be going home to a husband and your sweet baby boy today. Instead, you’re going home to nothing.

Nothing.

The heart-stopping thoughts are seconds from taking me over completely, dragging me into the dark, when a pair of large, warm hands cover mine. My body reacts, jumping to pull away and going painfully tight and stiff, but the hands hold me in place with a gentle firmness.

“It’s just me,” he whispers. “Just me.”

The man with the laptop. I relax in his hold, and suddenly, tears are streaming silently down my face.

Brantley’s in the kitchen, and she’s been nothing but a lifeline throughout this whole horrible nightmare. But other than her and my parents, who are obligated to be there for me, I’ve felt so damn alone. Invisible. Life has gone on around me, but my world never started turning again.

The feel of his hands wrapped around mine is warm relief wrapped in dark reassurance.

“What’s your name?” The man’s voice is quiet, like he’s afraid a louder tone will scare me away.

I swallow, still not picking up my head from where it lays on top of my arms. “I’m Arden. Arden Fontaine.” I squeeze his hands. “What’s yours?”

“Arden.” He rolls my name around in his mouth, tasting it for the first time. “I’m Flash. Flash Jackson.”

A giggle bubbles up inside me. Oh, wonderful. I’m having a panic attack in front of a stranger, and now I’m hysterically laughing at his name. It doesn’t get much better than today…

But I hear his answering chuckle. “Yeah. My brother’s name is Axel. Pretty sure my parents were high on something when they named us.”

I laugh harder, still hiding my face. “Oh, God. I’m sorry, Flash. I like your name…it’s different. This has nothing to do with you.”

He pauses for a beat, and the smile in his voice has disappeared. “Rough day?”

I want to laugh again, but I can’t. The amusement was there for a moment, and now it’s gone.

Rough forever.

“Something like that.”

I glance down, wanting to escape the scrutiny in his expression, and allow my eyes to land on the dog at his feet. “What’s your dog’s name?”

His lips quirk upward into a smile, and I notice his mouth, not for the first time. His lips are full, his mouth wide and expressive, but I get the feeling that smiles don’t cross his face often.

Has it always been that way for him? Serious? Stoic? Or did something happen to make him that way?

If anyone can understand life’s curves changing someone’s entire personality, it’s me. I used to be bubbly, busy.

Happy.

“His name’s Nitro.” The dog’s ears perk up and he glances up at his master. “And he’s kickass. I never had a dog before him. But now I can’t imagine my life without him.”

I step out from behind the counter, something I used to do often during my shifts but now hardly ever bother with, and bend down to scratch the dog’s ears. “I know he’s working, but can I get him a treat?”

Flash’s smile grows, and I find myself pausing, staring up at him. “If any dog deserves a treat, it’s Nitro.”

Standing, I back up until I’m behind the counter again. “Dogs love peanut butter, right? Let’s do a peanut butter snickerdoodle.”

Flash nudges Nitro with his knee. “Hear that, Nitro? You’re getting spoiled. Say thank you.”

Nitro whines, and Flash’s smile transforms until it’s more wry than amused. “We’re working on that. He’s supposed to bark.”

I feed Nitro the treat, which he wolfs down in five seconds flat. He licks his chops and I can’t help but chuckle. “You’re welcome, Nitro.”

“Your breathing is better,” he remarks, his unsolicited attention turning back toward me.

Something in this man’s gaze, even though hidden behind his glasses, burns me like fire. He’s intense, and he can see past what the usual eye can interpret. I can feel him trying to figure me out, and the fact that I’m such an emotional wreck makes my face heat. I never cared, not until this moment, what a stranger could see radiating out from inside me.

So, instead of accepting the connection weaving its way between us, I sever it the only way I know how.

“That’s what drugs will do for you. It’s miraculous what a tiny little pill can do when you feel like your heart’s going to explode.”

He doesn’t react. Dammit, why didn’t that make him react?

“You like to run.” He leans casually against the counter, like he has nowhere else to be today.

It’s not a question; more of an observation. And it’s true. Only, I don’t like to run. I need to do it. Every day.

And which type of running is he referring to—the type you just attempted? Or the kind in the park?

“I jog sometimes for exercise,” I lie.

One corner of his lips tips up, as if he knows I’m telling a half-truth.

“Well, I run because it helps me breathe when everything around me seems like it’s falling apart.” His tone is frank, matter-of-fact.

That’s exactly why I run. But everything still falls apart.

Every single day.

“Oh, yeah?” Keeping my tone casual, I stand up straighter as the little bell on the door chimes and a woman walks in. Recognizing her as a boutique owner from half a block down, I groan inwardly and attempt a smile.

She approaches the counter like a hunter closing in on his wounded prey. Her eyes are sharp and probing as she scans my face. Apparently, she’s been into the shop a lot while I was at home, trying to keep myself from falling over the edge. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since I’ve been working again.

“Oh, Arden.” Her palms meet the counter, and I glance down to see her long, fake nails are painted a fiery red. They match the strawberries bursting across the pattern in her leggings.

Strawberries. On a pair of pants.

Flash steps aside, making room for her at the counter. He doesn’t go back to his seat to finish his work or sip his coffee, though. He waits, and I can almost see his ears prick up as he listens in, staring straight forward.

More than anything in the entire world right now, I don’t want my shattered, pitiful story to reach this man’s ears. Somehow, I know his pity is something I never want to see.

The boutique owner’s, however, is scrawled across her face in magic marker.

“Hi, Skylar. It’s been a long time, right? How’s the shop doing?” My words tumble over one another in their attempt to escape my mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Flash’s head tip slightly to one side.

“Oh, business has dropped some since the summer rush ended. But you know how that is, right? How have you been doing, since—”

I slam a mug down on the counter, desperate to cut her off. She jumps, and I smile. “What can I get for you today, Skylar?”

Obviously disappointed she’s not going to get any sobs from me today, she orders a coffee and a biscotti. After making her latté and placing her treat in a small, white bag with our shop’s logo, she shoots me one last pitying glance before leaving.

My eyes close before my attention slides back to Flash.

“So, do you want to?” He scoots back over and continues our conversation like Skylar never interrupted.

Staring at him, my mind blank, I fold my arms across my chest again. It’s something I’ve done a lot since I woke up, feeling like I need extra protection from the world around me.

“Want to what?”

He clasps his hands together, his forearms resting against the counter. He’s not holding Nitro’s leash, but the dog stays right by his master’s side.

“Run together.”

Stunned, silence stretches taut and thin between us, as I stare at him in disbelief. “You want me to run with you?”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Why?”

I can’t, for the life of me, understand this man. Why would he want to put himself into the orbit of someone who’s so obviously clinging to her sanity with only her fingertips?

He shrugs. “Because I need you.”

Warning bells sound off in my head, and I wrap my arms tighter around my waist.

No one needs me. Not anymore.

And if I admitted that they do, it would mean that I need them too. And I’ll never be the woman who lives in that place again, waiting for the people she loves to be ripped out of her life.

Flash must sense the turmoil his words just triggered, because he adjusts his statement. “I mean, I need you to help me run. What happened yesterday in the park? That happened because Nitro and I aren’t ready to be out there on our own unless we’re walking. I went out with him too soon, and our incident was a result of that. I can’t”—he clears his throat, like saying the word is painful—“run alone until Nitro and I have trained together longer.”

His words settle in, thawing me and making me feel foolish. He doesn’t need me.

What’s wrong with me? Of course he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Without waiting for his reaction, I swallow down the ball of emotion that always seems to be sitting just near the surface, and toss him a final farewell.

“Enjoy the rest of your day. The weather is beautiful.”

Then, turning, I flee to hide in the art studio.