He hasn’t seen us yet, because he’s talking to someone just inside the door. His eyes are tired, and he’s as pale as I am, as if he hasn’t been out in the sun either. His eyes look shuttered, and I don’t think he’s shaved all week. He’s wearing worn jeans and a flannel shirt, and his hair is messy. I want to comb my fingers through the locks and tame them, but instead I look away. I down my water quickly so I’ll have something to do. I tell myself I have to face this if I want to deserve this life. Leaning over, I ignore the worried looks and tell Sloane I’m going to go talk to him, but then I get a chill. “Claire.” He says my name so quietly that I barely hear it over the music. But I feel him. Before he even appears in my line of sight, walking around from behind me to lean slightly against the table, I feel his presence. My next breath trips and stutters, and I’m relieved I’m sitting, or I would trip, too.
