While we wait for the light to turn green, he tucks the phone into his back pocket, then steps closer, pushing his way to stand beside me. It is possible that I won’t breathe again, at least until the distance between us widens. For the first time I can smell the soap on his skin, and he comes so close our arms touch. He looks down at me and our chemistry is unmatched. I attach myself to his stare, as if it is my only possibility to draw close. His desire for me is transparent just as the light turns green and the crowd pushes us apart. Something about the way his jaw clenches with disappointment reminds me of the night of the attack and the man across the restaurant in the blue sweater.

“Come on,” Ian says while still staring at his phone.

Yet as I walk away, my eyes stay on this man and his on mine. The crowd billows out around him as he stays still, and he continues to watch me until the people swallow him.

CHAPTER SIX

I love Christmas. Even when my students are drawing pictures of Santa a month before the actual holiday, the wave of nostalgia makes me smile. Tonight, the vision of my empty apartment on Christmas morning makes me wonder if I have made a mistake by saying no to Ian’s invitation.

The cold is beginning to seep through my jeans on my way home from grocery shopping. Just as my feet jump off the curb to cross the street, a strong icy breeze lifts the end of my scarf, the smell of possibly burnt potatoes from a nearby house wafts by, and a man is standing directly across the street, staring at me.

I stop abruptly on the asphalt.

He doesn’t move, rather he glares at me with callous eyes. This feels nothing like the other people who have been watching me; rather the same feeling as the night of the attack overwhelms me, the hair on my neck stands upright. My mother reminded me often, “Listen to your instincts.”

He is tall and built, his eyes small and squinty. The wave of his dark hair falls just past his ears and his skin is pasty white as though he hasn’t been in the sun in years. His thick lips are tight as he glares at me.

“Remona.” His voice constricts like someone who hasn’t taken a breath for too long.

“You’ve got the wrong person. I don’t know that name,” I assure him.

When I step off the sidewalk, he starts to run at me.

“No!” I yell. Not again. The groceries fall from my hands to the ground as my feet scrape at the cement to run.

A car pulls down the street unexpectedly and my heart rejoices. Instinctively my hands fly above my head as I wave the car down.

“Help!” I yell.

The man chasing me steps back into the shadows. Everything, from the heavy sole of his black shoe to the way that his body fills out his thick sweater, is terrifying.

The car screeches to a halt and I run to the driver’s window.

“You’re going to give me a heart attack, lady!” the older man yells.

“I’m so sorry. Please help me.”

“Are you crazy? I nearly ran you over!” says the man with a thick Cuban accent and a parent-like shake of his head.

“Please, can you give me a ride?”

“I have to get home.” He shakes his head apologetically. “Listen, lady, I would. I’ve been working for almost ten hours.”

“I know, sir, I understand, but I . . .” I take a quick glance at the man in the shadows.

The driver follows my eyes. It takes him a moment as he finally realizes there is someone else there. His eyebrows burrow into his large mustached nose with speculation. He assesses what is happening, discerning his safety.

“Please,” I whisper.

After a pregnant pause, he nods. “Okay, get in.” I hustle into the back of his car with broken leather seats and lean nearly halfway out of the car to close the door. I yank hard, but it refuses to budge as though it is pinned to the cement sidewalk. A shadow slides over my arm as a large hand yanks the door away from me so quickly that my fingers crack.

He is there, holding the door open. His unfamiliar face staring at me.

I scramble back against the other side door. “No!” I yell. “What do you want?”

“Hey, go on,” the driver yells.

Yet the man from the shadows doesn’t care. His long wavy hair falls in front of his eyes but he does nothing to brush it away. Instead he slithers toward me.

His brown eyes dig into mine, making it difficult to look away, yet I try desperately to search for the door handle behind my back.

“Leave me alone!” I yell.

My head pounds with pain. My skin suddenly feels the sensation of hot pokers. When he turns his head to the side, his eyes digging deeper, the pain surges and forces a groan from my lips and my eyes to close.

“What are you doing?” the driver yells.

Yet the man’s eyes never leave me. He’s dangerous, angry, as though there is something I have done. The closer he comes, the more the pain worsens until my body goes limp and sinks down into the seat in the vehicle.

What is happening? My eyes roll back in my head. His jawbone pulses in and out as he clenches.

Just as I feel my skin stretch to its limit, I hear the gun. For the first time the man’s eyes release mine, giving me instant relief, when he finds the driver’s gun at his temple.

“Back away,” the driver says with a rough voice.

For a moment it seems the weapon isn’t going to deter him. “I got plenty of bullets. Ain’t nothin’ gonna stop me from using them all,” the driver threatens.

Finally, with a low reverberating growl, the man pulls away. Before he can get out, the driver presses his foot on the gas, and I kick the stranger with all my strength until he rolls onto the street. I grab the door as the car peels away and slam it shut. Only moments later, the figure of the man standing directly over the median line of the street glares behind me.

“Who was he, lady?” the driver asks while racing through a yellow light.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have an address?” Instead of answering, I fumble through my wallet and hand him my driver’s license.

I rub my shaking hands together. My breath seems to stick to the walls of my chest. The driver uses his rear-view mirror to check on me several times, so I try to avert my eyes.

This is not my life.

Sweat pours down my face, so I hurriedly unzip my jacket while I fight to breathe. In only minutes, the car slows to a stop before the realization hits that I’m home.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod even though the answer might be no.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“It’s not safe out there.” He hesitates before continuing, “I tell my daughter this all of the time . . . go on . . . I’ll wait till you’re in.” I see the door, but my body remains stuck. Finally, he smiles and says, “Come on.” He jumps out of the car. The father in him takes over as he walks me to the door and even retrieves my keys to open it. “Good night, lady.”