Page 15 of The One Who Got Away

“Like you give a damn,” I pouted, almost wishing Ashton would pop her head out of the bar and save me. She’d be the pit bull I should be right now and maul him.

The wind lifted my mess of hair and spun it like crazy. That was the cherry on top, to stand in front of some living model of male perfection while I looked like a hot mess. I pawed at my hair, trying to pull it behind my ears. He caught one of the tendrils and my world paused. He fondled the dirty blonde strand, then gently swept it behind my ear. His fingertip stroked the line of my chin before he jerked back like I had a few moments ago.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, and he didn’t look at me when he said it. Lincoln Carraway was 6’2 of peevishness and handsomeness.

His gray eyes finally glinted at me and my world picked up where it left off and then some, everything upside down and whirling like a carousel spinning off kilter.

“I do give a damn,” he said softly.

A whisper.

A promise.

He wasn’t giving up.

I watched him go and ignored the fact that a smile was definitely trying to work its way across my face.

Chapter Five

I fiddled with my ID badge as I cruised onto Poole Road, pointed toward Morgan Elementary. Rosa had greeted me a few hours ago, her smile a little cautious but still megawatt. It was pretty clear that she was filled with questions like, who was I that I could talk to Lincoln Carraway like he was little more that gum on the bottom of my shoes and live to tell the tale? When I’d just signed the new employee paperwork and flashed a tight, pained grin for my badge photo, she got the hint and bygones were bygones. I had a week to get settled and wade into the Backpacks for Change program, but I’d never been one to wade into anything. Program materials tucked in my red leather briefcase and destination punched in my phone, Siri guided me to the first school on the agenda.

I kicked the gearshift to park and turned off my car. I gently eased the visor down, carefully opening the weary flap to reveal a mirror that had splintered years ago but by some magic, hadn’t rained shards of glass on me. I found a sliver and gave my face a once over. Except for some mascara and concealer to hide my late night, I was makeup free. I reached for my purse in the backseat. I smoothed the Neutrogena gloss over my lips and rubbed them together. Just that tiny motion reminded me of Lincoln’s departure last night. I’d nailed my feet to the ground, forbidding myself from running after him, snatching him to me, and kissing his lips right off his face. Instead, I watched him climb into his ridiculous Escalade, glittering rims and all, and followed his exit from the lot. I’d proceeded to go back into the bar, only to find that Ashton hadn’t missed me at all. She was engrossed in a conversation with Josh about whether Breaking Bad or The Sopranos was the most badass show ever. I’d unknowingly signed up to be a third wheel, which meant that the one drink plan became the ‘Drink until somebody cut me off’ plan.

Unsurprisingly, I woke up with craters beneath my eyes and a headache the size of Alaska. Surprisingly, it was nothing Advil, a dash of makeup, and determination to take care of business couldn’t handle. And today’s agenda was getting Backpacks for Change off the ground...and not thinking about Lincoln Carraway.

Part one of the agenda was well under way. The fractured grimace that multiplied like some fun house mirror was proof that part two needed some work.

I tucked the visor back in place and slipped from the car. With my briefcase in hand, I smoothed the front of my pencil skirt and buttoned my blazer. My blonde and honey brown strands were pulled into a bun that sat at the nape of my neck. I strode across the parking lot, the sound of kids playing on a playground just out of sight lassoing my heart. For some of those kids, the kids the program would benefit, school was the only place where they could be kids. The bell rang and they went from a playground to a battlefield. There were no toy soldiers, no Nerf guns, only real ones that had the power to snuff out their dreams—whether they were the ones taking the bullets or being coaxed into firing them.

From the outside, Morgan looked like a non-descript elementary school that one would find in the suburbs or a city anywhere in the country. Inside was a different story. The door opened to a security guard that looked like he ate testosterone for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The metal detector looked just as imposing, like some hell gate that I imagined must be terrifying for the children who walked through those doors every day.

There was a pigtailed girl in a pair of overalls and a cotton candy pink polo in front of me. Some mothering instinct I didn’t know I had made me want to crouch down and tell her it would all be okay, but she bounded forward, shrugging off her glittering backpack so it could go through a separate X-ray machine, and stepped right up to the man. I waited for him to crack a grin or do something reassuring like give her a high five. It was a school, not a prison, after all. He just raised an expectant brow, and the girl stepped her legs apart and put her hands behind her head while he took a metal detector wand and passed it over her body. She passed inspection, walked through the second scanner with nary a beep, then grabbed her backpack and skipped down the hall.

“Miss?” A guttural sound wrenched my attention from where she’d been before her dark pigtails went flying. I came face to face with the guard.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, my face darkening. I pushed my briefcase down the conveyor belt, a nervous chuckle falling from my lips as I stood there awkwardly. “Haven’t gone through anything this thorough since my last flight.”

My joke pinged right off his hardened face. “You can keep your jacket and shoes on, but I need to wand you.”

“O-Of course,” I stuttered dumbly, copying the little girl’s stance, lacing my fingers and looking up at the ceiling as he made sure I wasn’t a security threat.

He grunted an ‘all clear’ and I briefly made eye contact before my gaze dropped to a nametag that read ‘Abel.’ It was some sort of sick irony that a man that looked ready to draw blood and take someone out if the occasion called for it shared a name with someone so gentle. I gave the final stage, the big mama metal detector, the evil eye and walked through. I half expected the thing to go off, shouting that I was some bleeding heart liberal that wanted to turn it into scrap metal. It didn’t make a peep.

On the other side, I raised my chin and snatched my briefcase from the conveyor belt. “Just so you know, I’m here because I want to make things like this-” I pointed an angry finger at the metal detector. “-obsolete and unnecessary.”

Abel’s salt and pepper brow arched past where I’m sure his hairline would have been if he wasn’t bald. “You think I like patting down six year olds, lady? I wish my job wasn’t necessary too, but last year, some kid brought a gun in his backpack and thought it would be a good idea to shoot his classmate because he wouldn’t hand over his sneakers.” His eyes simmered like coals. “You have a good day now.”

He’d turned his back, thoroughly putting me in my place, but I lingered there, my heart, my soul officially in the pit of my stomach. I studied sociology in school, understood the cycle of violence and poverty and how access to programs and resources had the power to change lives. There was no debating that we had a long way to go. Metal detectors and security guards would be obsolete when we made a better, kinder, and more fair world, not when I shamed the people who were just cogs in the machine. He was the first line of defense in the very war I was fighting. He wasn’t the problem.

I smoothed a hand over my hair and apologized. “I’m sorry.”

The door swung open and Abel went back to work, a cluster of boys waiting for their turn through the metal detector.

Get your game face on, Cat. It was the nudge I needed to get me down the hall. My heels clicked on the floor as I walked past construction paper and poster boards tacked to the walls, covering various subjects from science to family trips that tiny hands recreated with crayon.

A group of boys in various comic book inspired t-shirts rushed past me into the office, the door practically shutting right in my face. A stern elderly woman with white hair did not approve. Her lipsticked mouth became a thin line and without a word, the last boy in rushed back to hold the door for me. They erupted in a chorus of apologies and conducted their business, each taking custody of boxes of books and barreling out of the office as quickly as they barreled in.

The receptionist and I exhaled in unison and she beckoned me to the desk.

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