Page 32 of Protecting the Nerd

“Yeah. It’s busier than usual.”

I scanned the people but didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. York grabbed a shopping basket, and we did our by-now-familiar round.

“We’re almost out of coffee.” York snagged a bag of his preferred blend from the shelf.

“Perfect.” I tossed a few bars of the darkest chocolate into his basket. “That should keep us happy for a while.”

We added some fresh ingredients for dinner—I was craving tacos—and had everything rung up.

“It’s so good to see you back in town, York,” the cashier, a woman around our age, said.

“Thanks, Heather. How have you been?”

“We’re good. The twins are about to graduate. Can you believe it? Feels like yesterday that I did. Certainly gives you a new perspective.”

“Jesus, they’re eighteen already? I’m getting old.”

She laughed. “And you’re, what, five years younger than me?”

He nodded. “Class of ‘99.”

“So imagine how I feel with those two about to graduate and three more to come in the next few years. I’m lucky I have my parents, who are amazing and always willing to help.”

York turned to Quillon. “Heather’s mom taught elementary school. I loved her.”

“And she loved you right back. You were always her favorite. She still calls you the smartest and sweetest student she ever had.” She patted York’s hand when he tapped his credit card. “We’re not all blessed with our parents, York. I know I’m lucky.”

His face tightened. “You are.”

“I know. We all know, York.”

He didn’t say anything to that, and with a last greeting, we walked out. As soon as we were outside, he took my hand again, and warmth spread through me. Did he do it out of habit? Or did it make him feel anchored like it did me?

“Hey, freak! Where do you think you’re going?” A harsh, grating voice sliced through the quiet.

A stone’s throw away, two lanky teenagers were cornering a smaller teen against a dumpster. A backpack lay discarded on the ground, contents spilled.

“Leave me alone!” The smaller teen’s voice was desperate. His fear-stricken eyes were darting around, looking for an escape.

York had frozen in his tracks. Thunk! He’d dropped the grocery bag on the ground and snatched his hand from my grip.

“Hey!” he called, jaw tight and eyes blazing.

“The fuck do you want?” one of the older kids asked, but he took a step back when York stalked over, me on his heels.

“Leave him alone,” York snapped.

“Mind your own business, Grandpa,” the kid replied, but his voice had been a little shaky.

“I’ve decided this is my business. Get your hands off him.”

Their mock bravado faltered at York’s imposing stance—over six feet of fury. Then their gazes fell on me, dropped to the hand I had on my gun, and the sneers melted from their faces.

“Come on, man, we were just messing around,” the other bully muttered, already backing away.

“Doesn’t look like ‘just messing around’ to me.” York crossed his arms.

The bullies shared a glance and, without another word, slunk off. I breathed out, taken aback by the ferocity that had erupted from the usually contained and introspective man.

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