Page 27 of Shea's Hero

Instead of answering, Shea stares down at the table. Though the coffee shop is a buzz of activity, a heavy silence falls between us.

Then she looks up at me.

Tears are in her eyes.

Chin wobbling, she whispers, “You’re right. This… I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair of me. I…”

And she slides out of the booth. No. Not slides. More likelungesout of it. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I shouldn’t have… It was selfish.”

As Shea starts to rush off, I catch her hand. “Shea. Where are you going?”

“Home.” She won’t look at me now. Her gaze is skittering everywhere else.

“You can’t.” I stand up from my seat. “It’s not safe.”

“I’ll call a cab. Or an Uber. Or… I’ll go back to work and call B and A.”

“No.” Reaching into my pocket, I take out my billfold and slide a few bills out of it, then toss them onto the table. “I said I’d bring you home. So if you want to leave, I’m taking you.”

Shea clutches her laptop bag, her face downcast. “Okay.”

All the way to my car, she doesn’t say a word.

And on the drive back to her house, she stares out the side window, arms wrapped around herself, looking smaller than I ever remember seeing her.

Guilt settles in.

Digs deep.

Shit.

She reached out to me. Extended an olive branch. Apologized.

And what did I do?

I snapped at her. Made her cry.

Shit.

That’s not the kind of man I want to be.

If Maya knew I made Shea cry, she’d be pissed at me.

I’m pissed at myself.

When we finally get to Shea’s house, she has the car door open before we even come to a complete stop. No doubt eager to get away from me, and for good reason this time.

“Shea, stop.” As she turns to look at me, I add, “I need to walk you to the door. Make sure it’s safe.”

With each minute that passes, I feel even worse. Even guiltier. Especially when I spot the lone tear trailing down Shea’s face while she’s waiting for me to unlock the door.

I made her cry.

Once I clear the house, I end up back at the front door, with Shea waiting silently for me to leave. Finally breaking her silence, she says quietly, “Thanks for taking me home. And checking the house.” A beat, and then, “I won’t text you again, Oliver. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

Oh.

It’s a sledgehammer to the chest.

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