Page 4 of Heartless

Until they begin flowing in streaks down my wrist.

“Winnie!” Martha gasps, moving across the floor. “Oh god! You cut yourself on that plate, didn’t you?”

“N-no, I—” I look up toward the window, as if glaring at the stupid decals will provide me with the inspiration to lie about why there’s definitely blood rolling down my arm. “I?—”

But then my words die in my throat and every single thought goes out of my head when my eyes lock with a distantly familiar ghostly blue gaze outside.

Cassian.

I haven’t seen him in years, but I could never forget his eyes. I’ve never met someone with bluer eyes, nor someone who’s just so…

Well, Cassian.

He’s standing across the street, staring toward the diner sign. His light brown hair curls over his ears, swept back from his face and held there either from habit or gel.

It has to be him.

Right?

“Winnie?” Martha’s voice is concerned, and her touch on my arm makes me look down, eyes wide as my heart pounds against my ribs.

“Martha…I—” My breath catches in my chest as my gaze finds the blood on my arm. It runs toward my elbow as Martha gropes for a napkin to press against the deep cut on the side of my hand, but I don’t feel any pain.

Just a dull tingling.

“Do you see—” My words come to a halt when I look up through the glass again, searching for the familiar figure across the street.

But he’s not there.

Instead, two guys around the same age laugh at something they’ve said, and one of them pushes his light brown hair back from his face.

It’s not Cassian.

Maybe it never was.

“Winnie!” Martha’s loud, panicked tone breaks me out of my thoughts and I look down at her frantic, pale face.

“What?” I ask, dazed and just a little bit woozy all of a sudden.

“Your hand!” She shakes my arm in her grip and I look down at the now bloody napkins pressed to the side of my palm. Admittedly, it’s…a lot of blood. More than I’d expected to see.

“Oh. Huh.” As if drawing attention to the injury is the trigger, my hand starts to sting, my palm pulsing with discomfort. “Well, that’s…” I don’t panic. I never panic anymore unless it’s something worth panicking. “Do you think I need stitches?” I move my hand to peel back the napkins, but Martha holds them tight.

“I’m having Jeremy take you to urgent care,” she says, pulling me to my feet. “Jeremy!” Her voice is loud and in seconds her eighteen-year-old son stumbles out from the kitchen, eyes wide at his mother’s panicked tone.

“What’s wrong—Oh…” His face goes pale when he sees my hand, causing his freckles to stand out like dots from a marker. “Oh shit. That’s a lot of blood.”

“It’s a medium amount of blood,” I disagree, glancing out the window again. It’s probably a good thing I’m so distracted by what I thought I’d seen outside. Otherwise, I’m sure my hand would be hurting like a bitch and refusing to be ignored.

“Can you take her to urgent care?” Martha asks, grabbing my other hand and pressing it to the napkins. “Now,Jeremy. Go get your car and pull it around.”

“Need any help, Martha?” our regular with the thick newspaper asks, getting to her feet. “I can help you decorate or clean up.”

That drags me out of my trance, and I grimace apologetically. “Shit, Martha, I am so sorry.” I look at the mess of plate pieces and utensils on the floor, then up at her. “I can stay. Let me help?—”

“Nope!” Martha marches me to the door, her grip like iron. “You are fine, Winnie. It was just an accident, but you need to go get that looked at. Laura can help me with decorating. You heard her.”

Yeah, sure, but it’s not herjobto do it, I think to myself, sinking into my guilt. My steps drag, and I open my mouth to argue, but Martha shoots me a glare that’s somewhere between maternal and commanding.

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