Page 82 of Ghosts Don't Cry

The drive to Feldman’s takes fifteen minutes. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel the entire time. Every red light takes an eternity to change to green. Every turn brings me closer to a confrontation I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for. Twice I almost turn around. Twice I force myself to keep going.

What the hell am I doing?

My heart is hammering against my ribs. Sweat prickles along my spine. Through the windshield, I can see inside the floor-to-ceiling window—the same faded sign, the same drinks coolers lining the walls, the same fluorescent lights washing everything in sickly yellow. The parking lot is empty except for one other car.

I force myself out of the car before I can change my mind.

The walk to the door seems to be miles long. The handle is cold under my palm when I pull the door open. The bell chimes, and the sound makes me flinch.

He’s behind the counter when I walk in, reading a newspaper. The image stops me in my tracks. It’s so familiar, it hurts.

How many times did I stand in this exact spot, counting out coins with shaking hands, head down, trying to be invisible?

He looks up, recognition dawning slowly across his face. I don’t speak. I couldn’t if I wanted to. My throat has closed up tight. He folds the paper carefully, and sets it aside. There’s no fear in his movements, but there’s no anger either.

I clear my throat. “Figured we should talk.”

“About that night?” There’s something in his tone that I can’t quite read. “Or about what came after?”

“Both … maybe?” My fingers curl into fists at my sides, as I fight against the urge to back away and leave. “If you’ve got time, that is.”

“Still take your coffee black?”

The question catches me off guard.He remembers that?

“You don’t have to?—”

“Just made a fresh pot.” He moves around the counter. “Might as well be comfortable while we talk.”

I stay where I am, thrown by his casual tone. “You’re not?—”

“Not what?” One eyebrow lifts. “Scared? Angry?” He fills two cups, steam rising between us. “Sit down, Ronan. Terry will be here to start his shift in twenty minutes. We’ve got time.”

My legs are a little unsteady when I walk over to one of the tables near the window. He sets a cup in front of me, then takes the chair opposite.

“Were you expecting a different kind of reception maybe?” There’s no heat in his voice. “Because I’ve had a long time to think about that night, and the things that should have been done differently.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who?—”

“You were sleeping rough. Starving.” He takes a slow sip of coffee. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. Don’t think others didn’t either. We just … didn’t know how to help, I guess. Or maybe, we convinced ourselves it wasn’t what we thought.”

The coffee burns going down. It’s something to focus on, instead of the guilt chewing up my insides.

“You couldn’t have helped anyway. I wouldn’t have accepted it.” I have to force the words out.

He sighs. “No. Probably not. You had that look. The one that says accepting help is more dangerous than going hungry.”

He’s not wrong. Help always came with strings attached. It meant owing someone, and giving them power over you.

Except for Lily.

I shut that thought down as fast as it forms.

“You’re looking better now, though. Than that night, I mean. But I guess that’s what happens with time.”

“It does.”

“You know what I remember most about that night?” His gaze is steady on mine. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “How damn quiet you were. You didn’t run. You just sat there, waiting for the cops.”