Page 14 of Accidentally Mine
She opened her mouth to speak and her brow furrowed.I wanted to hear whatever she had to say.I’d waited all this time to hear it.
Across the café, a baby cried, snapping us back to reality.
She snatched her hand away.
My vision swam, and I felt like a total fool.So she had the same voice.The same eyes.So did probably a million other women in this city.That did not make this one the woman who was there that night.
A glint of fear lit her eyes and her muscles tensed.I was scaring her.
“Wait,” I said, instinctively knowing she was going to flee.I’d never see her again.“What’s your name?”
Her brow wrinkled.Her voice sounded dazed.“My name?”
“Yeah.You have a name, right?”I was past being charming now.I felt desperate.
Her eyes trailed to theBoston Globe, now coffee-stained.She reached for the paper, drawing it closer, the already pale skin of her face growing paler yet.
“I-I…” Her now even wider eyes stayed on the newspaper.
I followed her gaze to the headline about some new strip mall going up in South Boston.My eyes quickly spun back to her, though, afraid that she was just a trick of my fucked-up brain.
She was still there.Now, though, those big blue eyes were pooled with worry.
“Hey,” I started, working through ways I could get her to stay.“This is going to sound crazy, but—”
She pushed away from the counter.“I have to go.”
“Wait,” I said again, but this time, she didn’t listen.She rushed to her table and started to pack her things up, flipping her laptop closed, stuffing it into her bag and throwing her cardigan over her arm.“You don’t have to go so fast, do you?”
“I do,” she blurted, taking a step toward the exit.She stopped as if struck by something, and I hoped she’d say more.Instead, she reached into her pocket, pulled out a crumpled ten, and threw it on the table.“I’m sorry.”
And then she was gone, running out the door as if the energy of the people who didn’t take the time to breathe had built up and lit her fine ass on fire.
I stared after her for a minute, trying to make heads or tails of it.The other customers were watching me as I went back to my seat.When I got there, I cleaned up the rest of the coffee with the mess of napkins and tossed them in a nearby trash can.As I picked up the newspaper, I remembered her interest.Something about this article had caught her, scared her.
I fell back onto my stool and read:
Work on the Red Line Village, an upscale shopping experience scheduled to begin construction earlier this month, was halted indefinitely after the untimely death of Lyndon Reece, the owner of Reece Associates, the firm responsible for the construction.
Lyndon Reece has been widely known as the man responsible for turning the South Side neighborhood of Boston from a poor, struggling area of the city to a thriving and desirable location to live, play, and raise a family.Reece was killed in a construction accident at the site of the new Bayside Hotel in the Back Bay, on May third.
The Red Line Village project was hailed by many and would have brought perhaps hundreds of jobs to the area.
As of now, the future of Reece Associates is unclear.The firm has not disclosed who will manage the construction company from now on.Rumors of a business partner remain unfounded.Lyndon Reece has no living family, except for a daughter who apparently left Boston over two years ago and has yet to return.Some speculate that the daughter is deceased since she was a no-show for her father’s funeral, but others wonder whether she will now return to claim his inheritance.Only time will tell.
Rapt, I turned the page to continue the article and came face to face with the blonde angel.She wasn’t blonde in the picture, but it had to be her.The photo might have been in black and white, but the light in her eyes couldn’t be duplicated.
Typed under the picture was her name, Rebecca Reece.
Rebecca.
I blinked.Wasthe woman who’d flown out of here like the place was burning Rebecca, or was that my fucked-up brain playing games again?
Just then Anita swept out of the kitchen, carrying a tray.Her gaze took in the stain on my shirt.“What happened, sweetie?You have an accident?Hang on.”
She turned to the now empty table where my mystery girl had been sitting and frowned.“You scare her away?That girl is wound tighter than a spring, I’m telling you.”
I opened my briefcase and tucked the newspaper inside.Anita was right.The girl was wound up.Mysterious.But something told me that she had a good reason to be.
