But there’s something about the way this man handles himself, the way he speaks, so assured, so confident. He makes it all look so easy. Like it’s his job, his duty to barrel into the fray and rescue me, ensuring my safety.
“You’re not worthy to look at her, let alone fucking touch her.” My rescuer lets him go, shoving him in the chest for good measure, which nearly sends the boy reeling. He catches himself before he hits the ground and spins on his worn Converse high-tops so hard I hear the squeak of his soles against the pavement. He runs without looking back, so fast he disappears into the thin crowd within a matter of seconds.
I wait there alone, experiencing the crash. I’m trembling, almost violently, as if the temperature just dropped at least forty degrees, and I wrap my arms around myself. Relief and adrenaline is a heady mixture as it pulses through my blood, and I try my best to calm myself down from the scary high.
“You okay?”
Glancing up, I find myself looking into the kindest pair of brown eyes I’ve ever seen. A complete contradiction to the dark, menacing man I just witnessed only moments ago.
He tilts his head as he waits for my answer and I stare up at him, at a complete loss for words. He’s wearing glasses, so his eyes look even bigger, and his expression is full of genuine concern; I can at least recognize that. Because I’ve seen it all. Phony, real, every furrow of their brows and purse of their lips, most of it—yes, definitely the majority of it—fake. No one cares about me. Not really. They just want grisly details.
How they hope for the details, sick and wretched humans that we are. Even me, getting excited over a stranger rushing to my defense with a streak of barely contained violence running through him. I found that hint of violence bubbling just beneath his surface strangely . . .
Exciting.
“Hey.” His voice is so gentle, a whisper of sound as he reaches out and touches me, and still I don’t speak. Dark brown hair tumbles over his worry-wrinkled forehead, his full mouth turned upside down. His cheekbones are sharp, his jaw like granite. Like a gorgeous man you see in a magazine ad staring back at you, all angular planes and smoldering eyes, soft mouth and perfect hair. The flawlessness is ruined by the glasses, though, and I like them. They remind me that he’s human.
Imperfect.
Like me.
I look down to see he’s still touching me, his fingers curled around my arm loosely, and I don’t try and pull out of his hold like I usually would. Normally, I don’t allow any man to touch me, especially a strange one.
But this man—for whatever reason—he doesn’t feel strange at all.
“Hey,” he repeats, a little firmer this time around, the deep sound resonating through me. I watch, transfixed, as he drifts his thumb across the bare skin just above the crook of my elbow, and I shiver. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
Slowly I shake my head, my voice just . . . gone. I can’t even look at him. I’m so entranced with his hand on my arm, the way he’s touching me, like he knows me. Like we’ve known each other forever. Like he’s rescued me before and he’ll always be there for me no matter what. It’s as if I feel the silent promise radiating through him and pulsing through me.
Fanciful dreams, silly idiot.
I banish the nagging voice in my head to the deepest, darkest corner of my brain.
“You were holding onto your purse pretty fiercely there.” I tilt my head up to catch him smiling at me, revealing nice teeth. They’re not too white, not too straight. If teeth could be friendly, his are. Which is ridiculous. But I’m starting to think I’m not the most coherent person at the moment. “You probably should’ve just let it go.”
He’s repeating exactly what I thought only moments ago. “I-I know, but I couldn’t.” I clamp my lips shut, hating that my voice is high and breathless and I’m stuttering just like that teenage kid.
Relief crosses his features and he gives my arm a gentle squeeze. I feel it to the very depth of my bones. “She speaks.”
He’s teasing me and I don’t know how to react. So like a zombie, I nod, feeling dumb and completely out of my comfort zone. I don’t talk to men. Ever. Not really, not like this.
“Thank you. For coming to my rescue.” I still can’t believe he did it. I know someone else had to have seen what was happening. Is the world that cold, that callous, that no one wants to reach out a helping hand, especially if the situation could be dangerous?
Yes.
The word whispers through me, defiant and with a hint of snark. Because I knew the answer well before I ever thought the question—I just never want to admit it.
“I, ah, I hope you don’t mind that I let him go.” His hand drops from my arm and I feel the loss like a sharp prick just beneath my skin. Poking and prodding and reminding me that I might not be good enough, not what he could want.