Page 21 of Collide
Crossing the street to the store, I notice its name, Odds and Endings, feels fitting. Like the kind of place where you could find everything and nothing at the same time. Maybe a place forme to find someinspiration.I toss my empty coffee cup into the trash outside and push open the glass door. It feels out of place against the vintage charm of the shop. The moment I step inside, I’m hit by the smell of aged leather and incense—warm and nostalgic, like a forgotten memory that never quite fades.
The store is overflowing with an eclectic mix of items: books stacked haphazardly, vintage rugs and furniture strewn about, random knick-knacks I’m sure I’ll never need, but that somehow draw me in. There are old wooden tables, mirrors leaning against the walls, and countless light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, like they’re waiting for someone to bring them back to life. It’s a feast for the eyes.
A soft indie ballad croons quietly in the background, adding to the cozy, lived-in atmosphere. I spot a tall blond guy in a baseball cap talking with the shopkeeper. His crisp white shirt and designer jeans seem out of place amongst the mismatched treasures of the store.
I stop by a table covered in buttons—different shapes and sizes—and my fingers graze over the cool, smooth surface. Nearby, there’s a wooden curtain rod where dozens of scarves hang, their fabrics catching the dim light. I run my hands through them, mesmerized by the textures.
At the back wall stands a large oak bookshelf, its wood dark and polished with age. I’m definitely coming back here with Philippa. I’d love that shelf for the new apartment.
I make my way toward the other bookshelves, stopping to glance at the variety of books on display. Something catches my eye—a signed Joan Jett T-shirt, hanging on a rack between two shelves.Oh, score!I grab it, noticing it’s a little big, but I can make it work.
Next, I spot a big floppy hat, probably from the seventies, and pop it on my head, whistling to myself, getting lost in the small treasures surrounding me. The store is warm and earthy, full ofhistory and character. I stand close to a shelf, immersed in its hidden gems, when a flash of red catches my eye.
A big red hardcover book with gold-leaf embossing, some of which has rubbed off. The cloth cover is worn and frayed at the corners, and on the spine, the title readsCollection I of Creole and French Poetry. Next to it is another book, bound in cream leatherette, titledThe Greatest Love Poems and Letters, Volume 1. I pick them both up and tuck them under my arm. Maybe they’ll provide some inspiration.
I turn on my heel, my mind already racing with ideas, when—wham! I collide with something hard. Wait,that wasn’t there before.The large floppy hat falls over my face, blinding me for a second.
No, it’s not a wall—I’ve run straight into someone. I lose my footing and topple over, my elbow grazing the bookshelf as I go down. In a rush, I try to reach out for something to steady myself, but it’s too late. The books fall from under my arm, and before I can catch myself, my head makes contact with something, a sickening thud, followed by a crack.
Ouch.
“Sorry…shit,” I hear a man hiss. Instinctively, I reach up to touch the back of my head. When I look at my fingers, they’re covered in red. Blood. My blood.
And then, darkness.
Chapter 5
Collide
Beep…beep…beep…beep…
I crack my heavy eyelids slightly, peering through my lashes. Everything is white—too white. I squeeze them shut again. My head is pounding. I take a deep breath, the smell triggering a memory I can’t quite recall in the haze, but it reminds me of despair.
“Nurse, nurse! I think she’s waking up,” a deep voice I don’t recognize calls out, full of concern. Movement follows, and I hear a smallding…beep…beep…
“Ugh,” I manage, dragging myself back to consciousness. I feel something move beside me—the surface dipping under their weight—and the clinical smell from earlier is gone, replaced by the scent of the ocean. It smells like home.
I open my eyes again, forcing them wide despite fluttering against the blinding brightness. Above me, a pair of stormy blue-gray eyes stare intently. I shift back slightly, even though my body and head are still heavy with fog.
Who the fuck are you?I want to say, but my throat tightens and my chest begins to hum with panic.
“Hi,” he whispers, his voice low and close enough that his breath brushes softly against my skin. Recognition flickersthrough me—he’s the voice from before, the one that smells like a sea breeze on a summer’s day. Warm, comforting, and achingly familiar, even though he’s a stranger.
I don’t know why the scent relaxes me, but it does.
“Hi,” I squeak back, my voice scratchy and weak as I shift beneath crisp, white sheets. What am I wearing? Anxiety blooms as my eyes dart around the room. It’s sterile, impersonal, with cream curtains, a closed door off to one side, and a wide window revealing glimpses of the city beyond.
Where am I?
“You’re in the hospital,” he answers gently, reading my unspoken panic. “I brought you here.”
My eyes flicker between him and the room, trying to process his words and take in my surroundings. The sheets feel like paper against my skin, my limbs heavy as lead. I hate hospitals. I spent enough time by my mother’s bedside to last a lifetime.
He leans back from the bed, standing up, and I finally take in the sight of him. Tall—very tall—blond, wearing a white shirt and jeans. Wait.
He’s the guy from the store!
“What happened?” I breathe, my voice barely audible. My head throbs, heavy and fogged with confusion.
