One True Thing Read Free

flash I saw in the seconds before impact. He’s tall and well-built, which explains how he so neatly knocked me down in one hit.
    â€˜What the …?’ I hear Harry’s voice in my head, reminding me to behave in public, and stop myself from swearing. But Harry never said anything about shooting daggers. ‘Look where you’re going, will you!’
    The man – no, boy, I decide – seems pretty unconcerned by my anger. In fact, he looks almost ready to laugh, which infuriates me more.
    â€˜What? You can’t say sorry?’
    The boy grins openly. ‘You’re right. Sorry.’
    I scowl as I straighten my guitar and brush myself down. My jeans are trashed, the left knee damp and torn, and the right one muddied all the way down to my shin. ‘Well, you’ve ruined my jeans,’ I say, hating the whiny edge in my voice.
    â€˜Sorry. Again.’ He pauses, seeming to wait for something.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜You know I saved you from oncoming traffic, right?’
    I stand taller and glare at him. ‘You knocked me over in the first place!’
    He lets out a short, sharp laugh.
    â€˜This is funny to you?’ I snap.
    He’s laughing properly now, his whole body shaking, and it doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to understand that, yes, he does think this is funny.
    I’m just about to cut him down with a brilliant, witty line – or I would if I could come up with one – when a man, well into his thirties with a greying red beard and looking nothing like the handsome teenager in front of me, stops and asks me if I’m okay.
    â€˜Sorry about before,’ he says. His brown hoodie with gold trim is a perfect match to the one the boy is wearing. ‘I didn’t see you.’
    It registers that both of them are wearing Hawthorn colours and it’s finals time. The Hawks are playing thisweek, so there are people wearing brown and gold stripes pretty much everywhere you turn right now.
    I look from the boy to the stranger and then back to the boy. He’s no longer laughing. Actually, he seems to feel sorry for me, which is so much worse.
    â€˜It’s fine,’ I mutter.
    â€˜You sure?’ the man asks again, already turning to leave.
    â€˜Yeah. I’m fine.’ I look down, hiding my burning cheeks.
    I watch the older man disappear into the crowd, taking the extra seconds to come up with the right words. I know I need to apologise to this guy – thank him, even. And I want to. I do. So why are the words sticking in my throat?
    â€˜You’re welcome,’ he says, as though reading my mind.
    I look up to see if he’s being a smart-arse, but he’s smiling gently now, and it’s possible he’s just being nice. Plus, he has a dimple. Two dimples. Two unbelievably perfectly proportioned dimples that do something sharp but not unpleasant to me when they appear.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘I thought it was you.’ I have to force myself to look at him, determined to finish what I started. ‘And thanks for … you know.’
    â€˜Saving your life?’ he offers helpfully. His eyes are a startling green and his skin is a rich Mediterranean olive.
    I laugh. ‘It wasn’t that serious.’
    He cocks his head and runs a hand through his hair. Dark curls, long but not too long, loose and wild, like he might have pulled a comb through them this morning, but also maybe not. It takes all my willpower not to brush his fringe from where it’s fallen over his left eye.
    As though reading my mind, he pushes the rogue curl away.
    â€˜School,’ I blurt with the snappy brilliance sometimes seen in zombies.
    â€˜Does that belong to a sentence?’
    I nod, then shake my head. Then nod again. Jesus . I force a laugh, trying to play it cool. ‘Maybe he shook my brain loose,’ I offer, hoping to recover even a tiny bit of composure.
    â€˜Sounds