Kissing, Brennan reminded herself. This isn’t Harry Potter. The big hand on the clock finally hit the twelve and it was four o’clock. Brennan took off the protective hairnet that made her look like an extra on the set of a medical drama.
Leaving the deli and entering the world of grocery that existed on the other side of her counter always seemed like a breath of fresh air. Even her feet were glad to be able to be walking rather than just standing there, holding her body weight in one place for so long. They hurt a little less.
She bought a bottled water and a package of peanut butter cups, and headed to the break room.
There were a few other people there, but they mostly minded their own business, other than occasionally making a passing comment about the news that was playing on the TV mounted on the wall. They didn’t even acknowledge Brennan, other than to look up when she walked in. Brennan was totally fine with that. She didn’t really know any of them. Maybe she just hadn’t been there long enough to bond.
She claimed the break-room couch, thankful that, for once, there was no one else sitting there. If there had been, she would have had to sit at the tables, because You can’t sit on the couch if someone else is THERE. What would they think if you just sat down at the other end without saying anything? And asking was out of the question, because Brennan’s mouth had a bad habit of drying up like a desert whenever she opened her mouth to ask people questions.
She opened her water and took a sip.
She thought about the boy who had hit her car earlier. He had looked to be about her age; maybe he was even getting ready to be a college freshman, just like her. He was somewhat skinny but not unattractively so, she defended him in her mind, embarrassed. Ha-ha, her brain seemed to laugh at her. What are you embarrassed about?
He had nice hair. It looked soft, and kind of like he’d just gotten out of bed that way. A crazy part of her wondered if it was as soft as it looked. She’d watched him for a while, until he had noticed her looking, and then she’d turned away, blushing (always blushing). Brennan had an aversion to eye contact. No matter how hard she tried, she could never tell if she was holding it for too long, which resulted in a lot of glancing around and awkward attempts to meet the other person’s gaze. She’d stared at a lot of ears and feet in the process of avoiding eyes.
She thought about the twenty-dollar bill in her pocket. From him, whomever he was. He never had told her his name after she let him off the hook with the insurance thing.
Brennan sighed and shoved her candy into her pocket. You should wait to eat until you get home, her brain muttered. What if you feel sick again? Eating will make it worse.
She thought about the boy again, because he distracted her from herself. He had seemed kind of odd, she had noticed. He looked dreadfully uncomfortable, for one thing. Maybe he felt sick or something. Whatever the case, he also walked kind of weird. Not quite a limp, but not quite a normal gait either. Sprained ankle? Pulled muscle? And he seemed glued to the side of the silver minivan he was driving. Why do I care? she asked herself. Because you don’t know anything about him. Because he’s a mystery, and you spend all your spare time making mysteries out of people. Is it creepy? Maybe it’s creepy. It’s creepy, right?
She did—make mysteries out of people. She watched customers over the deli counter, going about their shopping, and made up stories in her head about what each one was there for, and what they would do after they left the grocery store. Sometimes they were elaborate (he’s an undercover cop and one of the workers here is a suspect in a murder) and others were simpler (it’s her anniversary today and she’s picking up frozen pizzas for the kids so the two of them can go out to eat at a fancy restaurant and have some alone time).
She glanced up at the clock. Thirty minutes had already passed. Break over.
She sighed (You sigh too much. Her brain. Again.) and tossed her empty water bottle in the recycling.
Four hours down, four to go.
Plenty of time for something to go wrong. Do you feel like your pulse is fast? Brennan self-consciously brought her fingers to her neck, as if she was just brushing her hair out of the way. She watched the clock for thirty seconds and then multiplied by two. Seventy. Two beats more than her normal.
You’re fine, Brennan told herself. Fine.
5
JONAS
Every week Jonas’s mom asked him to go on some errand or another with her. Every time before, Jonas had declined. Since school had gotten out, he’d only gone to the follow-up visits with his doctor and on yesterday’s ill-fated excursion to deliver Taylor’s permission slip.
This was why his mom was somewhat surprised that he said yes when she asked if he wanted to go to the grocery store with her for the weekly shopping.
His residual leg was relatively sore from the overexertion yesterday. The last time it had had to bear any weight was when he’d first been fitted for the permanent prosthesis, and he hadn’t used it since then. Jonas stood in front of the mirror on his closet door, hunched over his crutches. Fake leg? No fake leg? He shifted his weight. He’d always hated the way it felt, like he was standing on one leg, even with the crutches. He’d had crutches once before, when he’d twisted his ankle during soccer season. Then there was still the feeling of a leg there, no empty space throwing off his balance. As much as Jonas hated the prosthesis, it felt less like he was hopping around on one leg.
He decided to wear the prosthesis but to still use the crutches. If anyone asked—if she asked—he could say he’d sprained his ankle or something. He’d found the good liner, at least. Stuck in an old box of winter sweaters at the back of his closet.
Jonas hoped she—Brennan—would actually be at work today. Otherwise, bringing along the sixty dollars currently in his pocket would be for nothing. What did dents cost to fix? He didn’t know, but the twenty dollars he’d given her yesterday certainly couldn’t be it. Would sixty more? He hoped so. He’d spent the morning digging through his sock drawer, his desk drawer, and a stack of old birthday cards, pulling together every bit of cash he had. He didn’t have anything else, and talking to his parents wasn’t an option.
Once Jonas was actually in the passenger seat of his mom’s minivan, he regretted agreeing to come along. What was I thinking? Brennan hadn’t wanted money; maybe if he’d listened, he wouldn’t be forcing himself out of the house again. He massaged his leg absentmindedly—that pins and needles sensation there again, this time in his toes (his toes that weren’t really there anymore). He hated the phantom sensations. It was bad enough to feel pain, but to feel pain in a limb that wasn’t there? It was creepy. At least with the proper liner the prosthetic leg felt like it would actually stay on.
“Jonas?” His mom’s voice was hesitant. “Are you all right?” They stopped at a stoplight and she turned to look at him with concern.
Jonas snapped out of his thoughts, recognizing the stoplight as the one from the fender bender. He thought about how easy it would be for one driver to not be paying attention—one driver to hit them. One driver—an old man in a semitruck—to hit him.
“Fine, Mom,” he said, giving her a small smile. He thought this one might look a little more real than usual.
She seemed satisfied and continued on when the light turned green.