During my lost thoughts of past naivety, I find myself pulling up to curb outside the homeless shelter. I’ve driven by it twice since getting the address and always find myself driving away in the end, talking myself out of it.
Another night in the car wouldn’t hurt.
Other people need it more than me.
I have other options.
My hands grip the steering wheel, squeezing and twisting until an unruly sound comes from the motion. Putting the car in park, I stare at the front doors. The building is welcoming—well kempt with a bright yellow door and trimmed grass. Their white sign on the front lawn is lit up with lights surrounding it so anyone can see it during the nighttime, with the OPEN 24/7 in clear bold letters.
Swallowing, I turn off my car, examine the messy contents thrown about it, and grab my bag from the passenger seat.
“You can do this,” I tell myself with a nod of the head before getting out and locking the vehicle. I don’t have many valuable things, mostly sentimental pieces given to me by Grandpa Al and Grandma Birdie that made the move to Cali, but nothing anyone would want to take if they had the opportunity. Even my parents said some of the stuff is junk, but it’s my treasure simply because of who it once belonged to. “One night, Rylee. One night and you can figure out what to do in the morning.”
I’m halfway to the door when I hear a familiar accented voice ask, “Do you always talk to yourself?”
Yelping, I spin and swing my bag around in defense. It smacks the tall, lean body standing behind me and the person in question stumbles back from the unexpected blow.
“Hell, sweetheart.” Garrick steadies himself while I stare wide-eyed at him and try calming my erratic heartbeat. One of my palms flattens against my chest and I feel the hammering slowly start to go back to normal. “What is in that thing? It packs a punch.”
I shake my head in disbelief at the six-foot-something singer. “What are you doing here lingering by a homeless shelter?” Readjusting my bag over my shoulder, I take a deep breath and exhale to calm down. “Do you volunteer here or something?”
It’d be a cruel joke fate is playing on me if I get sent to the one place Garrick Matthews volunteers.
The small snort that comes from him tells me I’m way off. “No. Though, I’m sure my management team would love to set something like that up to make me look good. Maybe I’ll bring it up to Michael when I get home.”
Not able to stop myself, I roll my eyes. “I think the media will probably have a way to negatively spin the Garrick Matthews volunteering at a women’s homeless shelter out of all the places this side of California has.”
The grin on his face stretches, showing two identical dimples and perfectly straight white teeth. It’s only then I realize the banter we’re having is one of old buddies. Our last interaction surfaces, and an invisible fist grabs my heart and crushes it, reminding me to stop the conversation.
Sensing the mood change, he steps toward me. “I’ve come here every night for the past week, actually.”
I gape. “Why?”
Now his eyes roll like I asked if the chicken came before the egg. “Because of you. I need to apologize for what happened. I feel like a complete dick for what I said.”
The similar sense of discomfort coats my skin as I evade his eyes by staring down at the tips of my shoes.
Suddenly, a pair of brown leather boots come into my line of vision. Hesitantly, I shift my gaze upward from the expensive looking footwear until I meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, Rylee. I jumped to conclusions and I may have been wrong.”
May have. “You still think I was doing drugs in your house,” I state, refusing to let the hurt bombard my tone.
“In my defense,” he replies casually, “I don’t know anything other than your first name, that you sleep in your car, and that you most likely have some sort of medical condition. And yes, the garage owner told me. Well, Zayne told me first but he’s friends with Taz, which is how I know Ta—” He winces at his rambling. “It doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t know you, but that doesn’t mean I should have assumed the worst. For that, I’m sorry.”
Blinking at his flustered apology, I absorb his words slowly. He didn’t have to say any of that or track me down, but he did both.
My throat tightens at the emotion welling inside it. “I appreciate that.” The words get stuck, causing me to clear my throat. “But you didn’t have to find me. It was an honest mistake. Like you said, you don’t know me.”
There’s a brief pause between us that makes me uncomfortable, so I take a step back to get some air. His presence is overwhelming, and I can’t figure out if it’s in a good or bad way. When someone like Garrick Matthews pays you any attention, those blue eyes find ways to lock you in and make it hard to focus.
It’s when he softly says, “You don’t have to go in there” that has my breath catching. His head tilts, eyes warm yet demanding as they settle on me like he’s trying to will me to agree.
Maybe that works on some people, but not me. Not when I feel like I’ve exhausted all of my other options at this point, short of dialing my parents and telling the truth.
Feet feeling pinned to the ground, I let my shoulders drop a fraction. “We both know I do.”
For a moment, Garrick looks over his shoulder at something. It gives me time to study him
