Young guy, and of course, still a teenager, but the first day of high school that fall had been transformative.
“But Tim,” she said aloud, with emphasis, combating the negative voice that always popped up when something good happened. She made herself smile, remembering an article she’d read about how smiling helped to reduce limbic system over-reactivity.
In other words, pretend you’re happy and biochemistry might follow.
Tim would be different.
Or at least, she’d finally have some nookie. Different nookie… but as long as it meant getting sweet between the sheets for the first time in way too long, she was happy.
And that made her truly smile.
She read Tim’s newest text again and then, with no sign of Moore, took her place in a long line of cars all doing exactly what she was doing. Once she was under the covered area, the snowflakes no longer blocking her view, everything looked grim and gray.
Airport designers must double as prison planners. Nothing but dirty concrete everywhere.
And frowns. Lots of frowns.
Fourth date magic, she texted back to Tim, adding a peach and an eggplant emoji, giggling as she did it, her smile becoming more and more genuine.
The cars were at a standstill, the smell of exhaust strong, coming in through the vent system.
Ding!
Um, don’t we need three dates before we get to peaches and eggplants? the text read.
Then she realized she’d sent the text meant for Tim to Moore.
Scrambling to cover her mortification, she replied back with, That’s my shopping list. Peaches and eggplants.
Add some jello and a mold and you’re singlehandedly bringing back 1970s cuisine, he replied, making her guffaw.
Tim asked me out for a fourth date, she typed back, heart pounding faster than it should. For all these years, she and Moore had openly talked about their respective love lives, their friendship spanning both his marriages and countless dating partners for each of them.
She’d been there when he married Cammie Forsythe when they were seniors in high school, unexpectedly pregnant and forced into matrimony by Moore’s parents.
Babysat their son, Jordy, for years while Moore busted himself to go to University of Southern Maine and get his degree, all while working as a painter, his parents forcing him to “be an adult” and banning him from the family business until he proved himself.
Proudly watched him get that degree and join Love You Jewelers with the other Mottins.
Been there when Cammie disappeared with his then five-year-old son, Jordy, not long after Moore graduated. Helped him get Jordy back, at least part time.
Been there when he’d married Gia, the sophisticated banker he’d fallen for on a business trip in New York.
Walked in on Gia banging their DJ in the coatroom during the wedding reception.
Held Moore’s head while he puked his guts out the next morning.
Nothing bonds friends like a shared trauma.
As Colleen prepared to send her text to the right guy, finding her text stream with Tim and typing, she looked up to see the cars in front of her moving forward.
But then–
SCREECH!
The car in front of her slammed on its brakes, Colleen doing the same, barely avoiding hitting the bumper.
The sight before her was impossible.
Literally impossible.
About two cars ahead, a man wearing a suit and holding a big brown leather briefcase flew up in the air, his arm first, then one leg. The gymnastic twist made her think of Zac Efron in The Greatest Showman, except instead of a highly skilled circus performer, this was a businessman twisting midair, flailing reflexively, screaming in horror and shock.
Thump.
And now, pain.
Reflex made her turn off the truck, shove the keys in her pocket, and scramble out, running without thought, the smell of diesel and the sound of car horns fading as her nursing skills kicked in. Luview, Maine, where she was born and raised, was a tiny little mountain town, but she’d worked the emergency room there long enough to have first responder adrenaline in her blood.
The man’s head was so vulnerable, and head trauma was bad.
When she reached the body, he was turned away, chin tucked in, his shoulders visible first. But his right foot was angled too sharply.
That was a broken tibia, at best.
“I’m an ER nurse,” she announced, the small group of people forming around him parting at her words. “Someone call 911.”
At least five people wiggled their phones in the air, the universal signal for I’m doing that now.
“Airport security?” someone shouted. “Is there an airport paramedic?”
Colleen heard muted voices, light taps on horns, then the unmistakable crackle of feedback from a walkie-talkie. As long as some chain of emergency medical services was being activated, she could administer early care, then stand down.
Reaching for the man, she said calmly, “Hi, there. I’m Colleen. I’m a nurse. You’re going to be fine. Can you tell me–”
“Colleen? Colleen Luview?” The groan came from the man on the ground, his words making her pulse race. He knew her? Why would some random stranger at the Manchester airport know her name?
Then it was her turn to be in shock and pain.
But an entirely different kind than poor Tim Fields was in.
“Tim!” she gasped, reaching for his shoulder, blood blooming on his jaw as a fresh scrape turned bright red. Thick eyebrows furrowed over dark eyes that were narrowed with pain. His hair was clipped short, his lips stretched wide below his long nose.
But it was revulsion for her that defined the man’s state.
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” he screamed. Yes, screamed. High-pitched and hysterical, the sound made her flinch then glance around. “YOU DID THIS TO ME!”
“Sir? No, no, sir,” said a young man with dark, curly hair, wild eyes, and a painfully guilty look, his phone glued to his ear. His shoulders slumped, the sleeves of his hoodie stretching over his hands. “I did it, sir. She was behind me. I’m the one who hit you and I’m so sorry. So, so sorry! My mom is going to kill me. This is her car! I can’t believe I hit a whole human being with my car!”
The kid couldn’t have been more than twenty, his voice cracking.
“He must have hit his head,” said a woman with gray pin curls, her bright red wool coat a shock of color in the dingy airport underpass. She leaned on a three-legged cane and watched Tim with sympathy, lips disappearing as she curled them in. “Poor man.”
“SHE IS CURSED!” Tim shouted, trying to point at Colleen with an arm that wouldn’t cooperate. She was on her knees on the cracked concrete, absorbing his words as the scents and sounds and overwhelm of everything seeped in.
Colleen knew exactly what he meant.
Dread filled her gut.
“It’s not my fault! No! Tim, it’s not my fault!” She put her hands on his shoulders, trying to assess his wounds, Tim curling frantically away from her.
“STOP! STOP! Don’t let her touch me! She’ll kill me!”
The crowd went silent, all eyes on her.
“She’s Third Date Colleen! Cursed! CURSED!”
“Do you know this man?” A guy in a Patriots ski cap, his face weathered and creased with the kind of wrinkles that skewed vertical, peered at her intently. “I know you didn’t hit him with your car, but why does he think you’re trying to kill him?”