A Season for Hope (Sarra Cannon) (2 page)

Monica walks to the door, then turns back and shakes her head. “Honey, Preston is not your Edward. Trust me on this.”

I laugh as she disappears.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe it is time. Although, as I force myself out of bed and into the shower, I wonder at the fairness of only having three weeks to mourn something that took three years to build.

Chapter Two

Campus is packed. A couple of people wave or say hi as I pass, but I’m already late for work and don't feel like being social.

I spent way too much time in the shower, letting the hot water soak into me, as if it could heal me.

It didn’t.

My heart was still broken when I emerged, my skin pink and raw. I knew I was running late, too, but I couldn’t rush getting ready. I’d already run into Preston once before when I looked like hell. Red puffy eyes. Knotty hair. No makeup. I probably looked like I’d been hit by a bus. And the pity in his eyes was too much to handle.

So I never leave the house anymore without looking perfect. Or at least not like a homeless person.

The Cup, a coffee shop and cafe where I work, is located in the student center at the other end of the quad. I decide to take a shortcut through the science building because there’s a bridge leading to the student center from there. Plus, it’s freezing cold outside.

I’m out of breath as I race up the stairs to the second floor. My feet hit the landing, but before I can reach for the heavy metal door, it flies open. My brain registers the danger, but I’m moving way too fast to stop myself as the door connects with my forehead.

Pain explodes behind my eye and across my cheek. I fall backward. My hands flail, searching for anything that might break my fall. Strong hands reach out and grab my arms.

“Shit, are you okay?” a guy asks.

I can’t answer. My vision blurs and the pain spreads like fire across my cheek. I keep my hold on the guy and sink toward the floor, holding both hands up to my face. Something warm and sticky seeps from a gash above my eye. I pull my trembling hands away and force my eyes open. Bright red blood stares back at me and my stomach churns.

I close my eyes again and take a slow, deep breath in. I’m going to faint.

The guy who hit me throws his bag on the ground and unzips it quickly.

“Lean against the wall,” he says, easing me toward the cool cinder-block. He’s squatting beside me. “Watch your hands a sec. Let me clean this up so it doesn’t get infected.”

His voice is calm and soothing, but my heart is thumping and I’m close to tears. I never should have left the apartment. What if the rest of my life is just a series of painful events?

I lower my hands for him, but keep my palms up against my legs, not wanting to wipe the blood on my clean jeans.

He puts his hand under my chin and lifts my face up toward his. I feel vulnerable and exposed. Stupid. Who gets hit in the face by a door?

For the first time since I was hit, I really open my eyes and look at the guy who hit me. My mouth drops open slightly and I breathe in, a tingle spreading through my veins. He’s a few years older than me. A grad student maybe? And he’s hot as hell. I study him as he cleans my forehead with an alcohol swab.

His dark-blond hair is long and tousled, dipping down near the collar of his grey t-shirt. As he wipes the blood from my face, the muscles in his arms flex slightly and stretch the material at his bicep. His jeans are worn and his sneakers have holes in them. When he lifts his hand to my head again, I notice a tattoo on the inside of his wrist, but can’t see it well enough to make out what it says.

He looks up and sees me studying him. His eyes are hazel with flecks of bright green and something about him suddenly seems so familiar. In my daze, I can’t quite place him.

He reaches back inside his bag and pulls out a bandage, placing it tenderly over the cut. His fingers linger against my cheek.

I briefly wonder what kind of guy carries alcohol swabs and bandages in his backpack, but the feel of his warm skin against mine distracts me. After being out in the cold wind, I wish I could lean into him.

“Were you a boyscout or something?” I ask, my hand fluttering up toward the bandage. When he looks confused, I add, “The bandages and alcohol.”

“Oh,” he says, smiling. “Med student.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I guess in terms of running into doors, I’m lucky there was a future doctor behind this one.”

“That was totally my fault,” he says. “I was in a hurry to get to the lab and I came barreling through the door like an asshole. You sure you’re okay? Do you feel lightheaded or anything?”

I shake my head and go to stand, but the room spins and I sink back down. “Maybe a little.”

“Hang on,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

He stands and goes back inside to the main second-floor hallway.

I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes for a second, but everything spins and my stomach lurches. I open my eyes again and take several deep breaths. My hands are trembling.

My life is such a mess right now. I feel like I’m struggling against the tide, a strong undercurrent of sadness constantly dragging me back under.

I can’t live like this.

The door behind me opens again, and I swipe at the falling tears.

He sits down beside me on the stairs. He hands me a plastic cup full of ice water. “This should help some,” he says.

“Thanks.” I take a sip of the water and hold it in my mouth for a while, letting the cold of it counteract the rolling nausea in my stomach. I swallow and feel the cold liquid make its path down my throat. “Do you need to be somewhere?”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I want to stay and make sure you don’t need to go to the med center.”

“I’m fine, really,” I say. I’m not even close to being fine, but he’s a stranger and he doesn’t need to know that. “You said you were rushing somewhere.”

He leans back against the stair rail. “It’s not important,” he says, his hazel eyes staring straight through me. As if he can see what I've been going through. “Were you heading to a class? I don’t think I’ve seen you in this building before.”

“No,” I say with a laugh. “I was on my way to work.”

“Just my luck,” he murmurs.

I turn my head to the side. “What does that mean?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, the smile taking over his face now.

I can’t tear my gaze away from his lips. My stomach flutters and I swallow, feeling slightly breathless.

I want to ask him more, because I feel like there’s more to it than that. But I’m crazy late for work and I can’t afford to lose my job.

“I should probably get going,” I say. I stand slowly and wait for the head rush, but I actually feel okay.

He stands and grabs my bag for me. “You sure you’re feeling up to it? I can wait with you here for a while longer if you want,” he says.

I shake my head. I have a pounding headache, but I don’t think sitting here is going to cure it. “I’m fine. I’m actually pretty late.”

“I’ll walk with you, then,” he says. He opens the door to the second floor and I walk inside. “It’s the least I can do after slamming into you like that.”

I study him for a second. He’s been so sweet and attentive and now he’s offering to walk me to work? Talk about a good bedside manner. I thought men like this only existed in fairy tales or made-for-TV movies. There’s got to be something wrong with him.

And if there’s not, he’s way too good for me anyway. Besides, my heart is too broken to even think about being attracted to someone else.

“I’m good,” I say. I hand him my empty water glass. “Thanks, though. See you around…?”

“Judd,” he says. His fingers brush mine as he takes the glass. “Judd Kohler.”

My stomach flutters again, catching me off guard. I turn fast and nearly smack into a water fountain jutting out of the wall. I stumble around it, blushing.

When I get a few steps further, he calls out to me. “Wait.”

I stop and look back at him.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” he says.

“Bailey,” I say, unable to control the smile that spreads across my face.

He raises his hand in a wave. “Be careful around doors, Bailey.” he says.

“I will.” I raise a hand in a half-wave as I disappear down the bridge toward the student center.

It doesn’t occur to me until I get all the way to the door of The Cup that I haven’t stopped smiling.

Chapter Three

Work goes by surprisingly fast. There are a ton of customers today. The semester is winding down and everyone is studying for finals, so I know we’ll be busy from here until the Christmas break.

My manager, Mr. Edwards is in good spirits, singing along to the Christmas carols playing on the local radio station. The outside windows have been sprayed with fake snow and we’re selling yummy new drinks like peppermint hot chocolate and snickerdoodle lattes.

When I cash out at seven and head back toward my car, there’s a spring in my step I thought I’d never get back.

It’s dark out and colder than it’s been all year. I hitch my backpack higher on my shoulder and shove my hands into the pockets of my purple leather coat.

I hit the sidewalk leading to the main student parking lot and out of habit, glance toward Preston’s parking spot. It’s late, so I don’t expect to see him. But there he is.

The sight of him creates an ache deep inside. I wish there was some kind of tradition where every time you broke up with someone, they had to wear a collar that would beep whenever they got within a hundred yards of you. No more surprise attacks. My heart can’t take it.

At first, I only pay attention to him. The curve of his mouth. His dark hair and eyes. His tall, muscular body.

But the sound of laughter pulls me from my self-pity trance and I really open my eyes.

Leaning against the side of his car is a girl with short blond pigtails. I can’t see her clearly from here, but I can see him. And the way his eyes shine when he looks at her slices through my soul.

My chest tightens and I breathe in slowly.

Just seeing him is hard enough, but seeing him smiling down at another girl is too much.

I turn and run toward my car, fumbling with the keys. I finally manage to get it started, but by the time I do, my vision is blurred with tears.

I press my head against the headrest and close my eyes. There must be some cosmic rule that says whenever you start to feel happy again after a breakup, the universe must slam you with a surprise sighting just to remind you how much you’re hurting.

Will I ever get over this feeling? Will I ever be able to see him and not feel this tight ache in my core?

And the shitty thing is that I knew this was coming. I knew he was pulling away from me. Ever since Leigh Anne, his ex-girlfriend, came back into town this past summer, things were tense between us. Understandably.

Preston may have cheated on Leigh Anne with me way back in high school, but I always knew he regretted that. I spent the past three years trying to make him see that there was nothing to regret. That I was just as good as her. But even before she came back here, I felt the truth of his love for her somewhere deep inside.

When she returned to Fairhope, it was like the last straw between Preston and me. Even when he was kissing me, I knew the fire had gone out.

And I was helpless to get it back.

Leigh Anne might have met and fallen in love with someone else, but I think something about seeing her again and realizing what he’d lost made Preston start searching for something beyond what I could give him.

Yet here I am, nearly six months later, still clinging to what we had. Wishing I could make him love me.

I start the car and head back toward my apartment, a sadness hanging heavy in my heart. I feel hopeless. Completely lost.

I think there’s been a part of me that was still hoping he’d see the light and come back to me. Even after three weeks of not talking, I guess some irrational hope still lingered. Like maybe he would see me across the quad and realize he’d made a terrible mistake.

But seeing him with someone else broke the last of that hope. It’s really over between us.

I swipe at a falling tear as I zip the car into my parking spot in front of the small apartment on the east end of campus. All I want to do is go inside, take an aspirin and crawl into bed.

The TV is on in Monica’s room, so I sneak past and close my door behind me. But when I go to set my things down on my bed, I notice a large garment bag spread across it.

My stomach twists.

Fuck
.

How could I have forgotten?

I throw my bag and coat on the floor and carefully unzip the white garment bag. I pull the red dress out and hold it up, barely able to breathe.

It’s strapless with a tight ruched bodice adorned with white pearls under the bust. The skirt flares out just above the knee. A beautiful lace pattern is hand-stitched along a split in the fabric where it ruffles and hitches up, revealing a layer of white lace underneath.

It’s my dream dress. Ordered nearly seven months ago from a very expensive boutique in Atlanta specifically for this year’s Christmas Memories Charity Ball. The ball is an event Preston’s mother throws every year at her house. I had planned on going with Preston and if I’m being honest, when I saw this dress, I had a distinct mental image of me wearing it with him kneeling at my feet, a ring stretched up toward me.