Page 32 of Out of the Shadow

Because I’m still floating somewhere between the present and past, I simply nod.

He apparently doesn’t notice anything’s amiss, because he points to the concession stand. “I’m starving. Can I get you anything?”

My stomach feels like the ocean in the middle of a storm. “No.” My ingrained manners surface, and I add, “Thanks though.”

“Keep me company?”

I look around at the small group of people standing around, most of the women gawking at my date. Mydate? Am I freaking nuts? This man isn’t anything more than my co-worker. He thinks I’m still married, for God’s sake.

While I’m dithering, King wraps his arm around my shoulders and starts us walking toward the food.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You’re shivering.”

Needing to respond, I say, “It’s almost eighty out.” Which really isn’t much of an argument, because he’s right. Iamshaking, and the messed up thing is that I’m not entirely certain it’s from the memories or my proximity to King.

We approach the counter, but King stops walking a few steps short. His eyes are trained on me instead of the menu. Thank God for my sunglasses. With his free hand, he touches my forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”

That comment brings a reluctant chuckle from me. “I never know how people can do that. When I touch someone’s forehead, it feels like a forehead.”

His lips tip upward. “Years of practice with my little brother.”

“I thought you were an only child?”

His cheeks hollow like he’s biting the inside of them. “Long story for another day.” King steps backward. “I’m at least getting you a drink. We can sit over there.” He points toward a table under an umbrella.

I’d rather run back to the car, but if I did that, I’d need to explain. I’m not sure I can. The memories are so unbelievably happy—and so heart-wrenchingly sad, too. Sharing them with him might break me.

He takes my silence as assent and orders me a Diet Coke and himself a couples of waters plus a grilled chicken wrap. After handing me my soda, he leads me over to the table, where I plunk down on the bench. My body doesn’t register if it’s hard, but the noise it made when I sat tells me it’s not exactly comfortable.

King opens his water bottle as I put my straw into the plastic cup and take a long sip. He tips the bottle up to his lips and his Adam’s apple bobs as the liquid slides down his throat. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

Is this a comment about my less-than-stick-thin figure? “I’m fine.”

“Oh, boy.”

What’s that supposed to mean? I reach behind my head and give my ponytail a tug. I repeat, “I’m fine.”

“Listen, I’ve known enough women in my life to know what ‘I’m fine’ means. I know you’re not spending time with me by choice, but I’m here if you want to talk.” He bites into his sandwich. “You know more about me than most do.” He bites again and half of his wrap is gone.

I take another draw through my straw, but my mind remains blank. Until a wedding party walks down the boardwalk in front of us, cameras documenting every step. The bride and groom keep giving each other these radiant looks that shoot arrows straight into my heart. A sob tries to escape. Which I force down, so it turns into a very unladylike snort.

King—ever observant—looks to the group and then to me. “They chose a gorgeous place for photos.”

That’s it. All of the ants scurrying around inside my body decide it’s time to leaveen masse. I race to the side of the seating area, next to the dunes, and puke up everything in my stomach. And then some. Gotta give my co-star credit, though, because he’s right behind me, rubbing my back. I hear him say something, but I can’t make out the words over my retching.

Finally, finally, it stops. Nothing’s left in my stomach, but tears still course down my cheeks, and before I know it, I’m wrapped in King’s strong arms. For the life of me, I can’t stop crying. For me. For Dante. For what we had.

It’s all over, and it’s as if I’m only now, all these years later, allowing myself to realize that.

I cry and cry and cry.

King simply holds me, rubbing my back and whispering comforting words. “Shhhh, it’s all right. I’m here. It’s okay.”

My sobs turn hysterical. It certainly isnotall right. It’s as if the past ten years have disappeared and Dante’s death is fresh.

King tightens his arms around me, fumbling with something behind my back. Maybe he’s checking his phone, desperate for some excuse to escape his crazy co-star. But when he pulls back, he hands me a bottle of water, open. “Here. Drink this.”

I swirl a sipful in my mouth and spit it out. I know I should get it together, but when King pulls me back into his arms, I sink into his embrace. God, I’m so pathetic. My body hurts from throwing up and King’s arms are comforting. I melt into him, letting him take all of my weight.

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