I lift my head to see a brunette in a long, flowing, brown dress standing by the gunky paint. She looks about my age, with light brown hair pulled into a French braid, freckles across her nose, and kind brown eyes that look older than the rest of her.
“I’m fine,” I lie, trying to smile. “Just had a fight with my boyfriend. Nothing serious.”
She nods but doesn’t return my smile. “You’re American?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I’d been planning to pretend to be Canadian. My friend Mindy had warned me that some Kiwis don’t care for Americans, but I don’t have the energy to pretend to be someone I’m not right now. Not while I’m so busy lying about everything else.
“My uncle married an American,” she says. “He and his wife live here half the year and in Northern California the other half. They invited me for Christmas last year, but I didn’t want to miss the good weather here. I work as a street artist in the summers.”
“That’s cool,” I say with a sniff. I feel like I should get to my feet, but I’m suddenly so tired, and it’s not like I know where I’m going. I still have no idea what to do aside from pray for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
She smiles. “I’m sorry. I’m babbling. I don’t really know what to say. I just feel like you’re in trouble and need help, yeah?”
She steps closer, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper. “Do you need someplace to stay? There’s a women’s refuge on the other side of town. They take in girls who are scared of their boyfriends or…whoever, help them get back on their feet.”
“That’s really nice of you, but I’m not scared of my boyfriend. He’s…wonderful.” I press my lips together, ignoring the burning sensation at the back of my nose. “I’m just confused. But I’ll figure out what to do. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” she asks. “I don’t mind helping. I’d like to. I know what it’s like to be in a tough spot. My dad used to rough me up and my stepmom threw me out when I was sixteen. I’ve lived all over the place since. It can be hard here without any family to back you up. Hard anywhere, I bet.”
“How did you make it?” I ask, feeling like an asshole. I used to feel sorry for myself about my parents’ divorce when I was younger, but I’ve really had it easy in so many ways.
At least until recently.
“Friends, the kindness of strangers,” the girl says, a big smile creeping across her face. “Thank God for good people, right? It seems like just when I’m about to give up, someone comes along and makes me believe in people again.”
I nod, not trusting myself not to start crying if I try to speak. She doesn’t know how right she is. She doesn’t know how much I needed someone like her right now.
“I’m Meg, by the way,” she says, holding out her hand.
“Sam.” I reach up, giving her palm a firm clasp. “Thank you.”
She laughs. “For what? I haven’t done anything yet.”
“You have,” I say, getting to my feet, my knees feeling stronger than they did a minute before. “You made me think maybe the world isn’t against me, after all.”
She cocks her head sympathetically. “No, it’s not, but it can feel that way sometimes, can’t it.”
She reaches out, giving my arm a gentle squeeze. “You want to grab a cuppa with me or something? There’s a good place down the road. They’ve got free Wi-Fi, and Dave, the guy who owns it, has a bunk in back where he lets people sleep for free. I’m not supposed to tell anyone else about it because the last kid who slept there had lice and it took him forever to get rid of them, but I can tell you’re not buggy.”
I laugh. “No, I’m not buggy. I actually have a hotel room for tonight, but I might take you up on that bunk tomorrow. I need to see how things shake out with my boyfriend.”
“Sure thing,” she says, reaching into her roomy corduroy purse and pulling out a battered old flip phone. “Want to give me your digits, and I can give you a call when I get off work tomorrow?”
“I don’t have a phone,” I say. “But I can write your number down if that’s okay?”
“Of course. I think I even have a card somewhere.” She drops her phone back into her purse and digs around at the bottom before pulling out a brightly colored business card. “Here you go. I work until three, but I’m free all night after.”
I take the card, smiling as I read—Meg Bugsby, street art, cartoons, commissions, free smiles.
“Do call, ’kay?” She squeezes my arm again with one hand, while the other reaches casually for a twenty-four pack of oil paints and slips it into her purse. “I want to know you’re right. And don’t worry about this.” She nods toward her purse. “I’ll pay them back on Friday when I get paid. I just can’t wait that long for more paint. I’ve got a mermaid swimming around in my imagination I need to get on wood before she disappears.”
I shrug. “I’m not in any place to judge.”
“Cool.” Meg winks as she backs away. “I like you. You call me tomorrow. We’ll work everything out. No more tears in the pharmacy, eh?”
“No more tears in the pharmacy.” I lift a hand and wiggle my fingers.
“Seeya, Sam.” She turns and walks away. I stand watching her, holding my breath until her bobbing brown head bobs out the door without the shopkeeper tackling her to the ground and pulling the paints from her purse.
My guardian angel is a shoplifting artist.
Something about it feels right.
I tuck Meg’s card into my purse and make my way to the checkout via the hair products aisle, where I snag a pack of rubber bands. I pay for the ties and step out onto the street, standing in a patch of sunlight as I rake my rapidly expanding hair from my face with my fingers and subdue it into a ponytail.
I’m still standing there, wondering whether I should start walking toward the rafting company only a couple of miles down the road, or try to find a cab or a bus to take me to the hotel and hope Danny ends up there sooner rather than later, when I catch a flash of bright red paint and our rental car pulls into a parking spot across the street.
Danny is out the driver’s door a moment later.
His eyes find me immediately, leaving no doubt I was the reason he pulled over. His body is so tense I can practically feel it vibrating from across the street and the expression on his face is a heartbreaking mix of anger, betrayal, and confusion that makes me wish I was still hiding in the arts and crafts aisle of the drug store.
But I’m not going to run away again. Danny deserves better than that, and just because I’m afraid doesn’t mean I have to be a complete coward. Kind-hearted girls who want to help the friendless still shoplift from struggling store owners. Creepy guys who refuse to let girls out of their trucks love to pet little dogs.
The world isn’t black and white. It’s made up of a thousand shades of gray, and maybe there is a shade that can work for me and Danny.
Maybe there is a way to tell just enough of the truth to keep from losing the man I love.
I take a deep breath and start across the street, praying that I’ll be able to make it work. I can see in Danny’s green eyes just how much I’ve hurt him by running off for less than an hour. I don’t want to imagine how badly I’ll hurt him if I need to keep running for the rest of my life.