I'm not sure why I turned. As though there was any question as to who it might be. As though it could be anyone else.
All I knew was that I did turn.
To face him.
There he was.
Thomas.
The same as he was the last time I had seen him. Of course, there was no reason for him to look any different. It had only been a few months, after all.
Tall. He'd always been tall. About six foot. But now, knowing Cam, somehow he seemed shorter to me. Though there was no mistaking the fact that he completely towered over me as he stepped out from between the buildings, the coffee he'd ordered for me in his hand. The other one free. He didn't drink coffee.
His hair was the same as always - meticulously cut in that more-on-top style that I personally thought made it all the more noticeable that he had a very weak chin, the kind that sort of dipped right into his neck, giving him an almost constant double chin. Same brown hair. The exact same shade as his eyes somehow.
No stubble.
No tattoos.
Nothing at all distinguishable.
Just your typical obnoxiously average thirty-something guy.
Utterly forgettable.
It worked in his favor.
Today, he was in his usual uniform - blue jeans that weren't tight or saggy, a checkered button-up (this time in blue, red, and white), and simple brown loafers - but there was one small thing out of place.
A chain.
He wasn't a chain-wearing sort of man. The ones who attached their wallets with one. That wasn't his style.
But there was a chain in his pocket. One end of it had slipped out, almost blindingly noticeable as the sun bounced off of it.
I couldn't think of a single good reason for that to be there.
Panic was a noose slowly tightening around my throat, cutting off my air, making my lungs burst into flames with their need for fresh oxygen.
"Didn't you miss me, pumpkin?" he asked, smile sliding up.
The worst part about that smile was that it was genuine. That he didn't think any of this was wrong. That he truly believed I wanted to see him, that I could possibly miss him.
That was what seemed to shock me out of my stupor.
Just in time.
As a duo of women burst out of the door of She's Bean Around.
I never turned so fast in all my life, everything flashing in my peripheral as I rushed forward toward them, looping my arms into theirs.
"Someone is following me," I told them as the shocked looks crossed their faces at finding a stranger between them, touching them.
I had thought they would just pull me with them, get me in a car, help me get away.
I had grossly underestimated the bone-deep anger of the slightly younger, more aware, more confident generation of women inheriting the burden of shitty men who still thought they had a right to touch them, to follow them, to make it hard just to exist in their daily lives.
Because the woman to my left - maybe all of twenty-one years old in bellbottom jeans and a knitted cut-off shirt that showed off an altogether charming little belly roll of dark skin with her hair braided down her back, longer than mine could ever hope to be, and these cunning, bright eyes - immediately planted her feet, looked over at me, then back over my shoulder, and muttered, "Oh, hell the fuck no."
"Yeah," the woman at my right - shorter, wide-shouldered, bright orange-red hair wild as could be, her skin so pale it was nearly translucent, agreed. "Not in this town. Not on our watch," she added, turning along with her friend.
"Hey, motherfucker," the first girl called, tone loud, carrying, drawing the attention of everyone not only on our side of the street, but across it as well. "Yeah you," she added, rolling her eyes as Thomas attempted to look innocent. Or, more likely, genuinely thought he was. "We don't put up with that harassing bitches on the street shit here," she added, jerking her chin over toward me.
"Yeah, so why don't you turn your wholly unimpressive ass around," the second woman added in.
I maybe took too much delight in the way his face went crimson, the way he shuffled his feet, the way his discomfort was so glaringly obvious.
"I just wanted to give her some coffee," Thomas insisted, gaze going toward me, eyes imploring.
"No, you don't look at her," the first girl said, stepping in front of me. "You're talking to me. You look at me. Get. The. Fuck. Lost. You. Creep." She punctuated each word with a finger tap in mid-air. And I suddenly wished I could be half as badass as she clearly was naturally, without effort.
"We got a problem?" another voice joined in, deeper, masculine. I peeked out from behind my saviors, finding a tall, dark-haired, bright-blue-eyed man who looked like he deadlifted monster trucks in his spare time.