Fix You Read Free Page A

sit for a second. Here.” He pulls out a chair at a little patio table of the coffee shop and helps me sit. He plunks the coffee tray down and sits next to me. “Do you want coffee?” He checks the two cups, evidently trying to identify which is which.
    My head isn’t spinning anymore, and I’m beginning to feel the full brunt of complete and total embarrassment. It’s early enough that there aren’t other customers to see this whole travesty, but still…I sound sheepish when I answer. “I’m fine. I drink tea anyway.”
    He plucks one of the cups from the holder and hands it to me. “You’ll drink mine then. It’s green tea. I’m trying to make up for eating crap food.”
    I sit very still, hoping I can disappear.
    “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
    “I’m really fine.”
    “Why were you crying?” His head is tilted a little. He seems to want to know. To me, it seems like a very young question to ask.
    “A girl could have a million reasons to be crying while running. Unpaid bills, hormones, lost job, pulled hamstring—”
    “Of course.”
    “My husband died two years ago today.” Why, why did I just say that? I can feel tears crawling back up my throat again.
    He covers his face with his hands. “Oh, Christ. I’m an idiot.” He melts into his chair. Maybe I feel a little less embarrassed now.
    “You couldn’t have known. I didn’t need to say that. I don’t know why that just came out of my mouth.” I put both my hands around the cup of tea. Either the weather’s gone cold, or the turn in the discussion has chilled me. I shiver a little in the morning air. I start to look for an escape route.
    He notices that I’m cold. No one ever notices that kind of stuff. He’s up and out of his chair, and he’s got his coat around my shoulders. It smells like Old Spice and cigarette smoke.
    What do you say to a guy after you just brought up the death of your husband? I’m flummoxed.
    He sits back down, pulls the top off the other cup. He takes a cautious sip and grimaces. “This coffee is awful.”
    “I like their tea.” Apparently inane blather is now all I can manage.
    “No, this is some triple frappawhip vanilla nonsense. Tucker can tough it out. I’m drinking it anyway.” He pulls open the white bag. “Want a muffin?”
    I shake my head no and look at him over the rim of his tea that is now my tea. His brown hair is cut short at the nape and around his ears, but some bangs poke out from under the bill of the ball cap. It’s old and frayed, obviously a favorite. I still can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses he wears. He has a stubbly beard, maybe a day or two. He looks young—younger than me. Maybe in his late twenties? The older I get, the harder time I have telling anyone’s age.
    I’m staring. I should say something. “Do you live here?”
    “Just a couple days of work, then back to LA. What about you?”
    I shake my head again. “No, my parents have a condo here. I live in Idaho.”
    He gives up on the sweet coffee and sits back, picking at the faux wicker on the arms of the chair. “I bet Idaho’s nice.”
    He sits up abruptly and pulls a phone from his back jeans pocket. The phone vibrates furiously. He looks at the screen and jumps to his feet.
    “I have to go. I’m sorry!” He leaves the coffee, the tray with the muffin bag, all of it.
    He literally jogs across the street. He climbs into a black car and drives off before I even remember his jacket is draped across my shoulders. I stand up to see where he’s gone, but the car has disappeared already, turned off onto a side street.
    “Umm…okay.”
    Totally bizarre. I take off the coat and fold it. I check the pockets. There’s a green plastic lighter in one, and the rest are empty.
    I turn back toward Mom and Dad’s condo with the jacket draped over my arm. I walk, too stunned by the chance meeting to muster a run.

4: The Next Morning Run
    I T IPTOE I NTO T HE L IVING R OOM , feeling my way around the boys