It never failed. Whenever he tried to make a speedy, quiet exit, ten things interrupted him, one after the other, until he forgot what he was going to do or where he was going to go.
Icicle tripped alongside him into the elevator before he could press the button for the main floor. “Where ya headed, Teach?”
Logan snorted at his new nickname. “Nowhere ya need ta worry about, boy.” His grip tightened on the handles of the battered duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Logan reminded Bobby of the way he’d looked the first time they’d met: rumpled, disgruntled, haunted, and like he’d woke up in his clothes from the day before. Bobby hadn’t lived long enough, nor hard enough, to know troubles like the ones etched across Logan’s face. Logan hoped he never would.
The two ceased chatting until the elevator doors swept open, admitting them into the crowded foyer.
“Danger Room workout today?”
“Nope. Not with me. Yer trainin’ with Blue.” He didn’t clarify when Bobby could expect to train with Logan again. Clear blue eyes measured him thoughtfully. Before he could probe the matter any further, Kitty scuffled her way down the hall with Jubilee in tow, chattering a mile a minute.
“Mister Logan! We need you to settle an argument for us. Jubes said that there was only one guy who played Darren on ‘Bewitched.’ I know that’s wrong, he looked totally different in the later episodes of the show!” She folded her arms over her chest and watched him expectantly.
“I ain’t got time fer this crap,” Logan grumbled.
“Excuse us for sopping up so much of your precious time doing…whatever it is you do when you’re not kicking our butts in the Danger Room,” Jubes demurred with a casual little fan of her hand. She cracked her gum and blew a huge, pink bubble. Logan never missed an opportunity when one presented itself.
*POP.*
“You’re such a …” Jubilee began, freeing the tip of her nose from the offending sticky skin of Hubba Bubba Strawberry. She stopped herself. Mister Logan, or “Wolvie” as she took to calling him, had that gleam in his eye that just challenged her, dared her to explode at him (literally). Demerits, and possible umbrage made her next words evaporate.
“Yer gonna chew that shit til yer jaw drops off onto the floor, Punkin’,” he admonished. “An’ by the way, Kitty’s right on this one. The first guy who played Darren on that show was Dick Sargent. They replaced him with another guy named Dick York.”
“Told you!” Kitty crowed.
“They were both Dicks,” Jubilee whined, before it occurred to her what she’d said. Bobby snorted under his breath.
“Gotta go. Amscray,” Logan hissed, nodding to them as he made his way into the teachers’ lounge. He’d just left them in his wake when he was nearly bowled over by Artie and Jimmy scuffling their way out of the kitchen. They were a rolling, churning ball of arms and legs as they played an impromptu game of “noogie tag”. Artie found himself shoved squarely into the wall of Logan’s chest. He “oophed” with the impact of hitting something so solid and unyielding.
“Watch it,” he snarled, quirking a brow. “I’m walkin,’ here.” His hand shot out to ruffle Artie’s hair before swatting him lightly upside the back of his head. Artie grinned back and darted away.
“Sorry, Mister Logan!” Jimmy called back over his shoulder. Logan’s boots clicked against the marble as he veered to the left, heading into the lounge. Hank was ensconced in the brocade-upholstered wing chair, enjoying the New York Times.
“Going somewhere, friend?” Hank used the term loosely, but he was optimistic. He grudgingly respected the gruff loner, even liked him, even though his grammar seemed limited to “Eh,” “Furball,” “Bub,” “Beer,” and Hank’s personal favorite, “Fuck off.” He was rough around the edges, but Hank decided that it took all different types to make the world go around…that, and an irresistible magnetic pull.
“Where’s ‘Ro?”
“Oh, she’s not here,” Hank offered, flapping the pages of his periodical and ducking his head behind them again.
“Hnh. ‘Kay. Let’s try this again, now that we’ve got that nailed down. Where’d she go, Blue?”
“Oh. Yes. Right. Beg pardon, my boy. She’s in her office, going over the lesson plans and the expansion for the new wing upstairs.” Cobalt blue eyes with the large, dilated pupils of a cat peered at him over his paper, noting the duffle. “Taking some personal time?”
“Call it whatcha want.” He took his leave, not bothering to offer a goodbye, but he halted by the doorframe, hand on the knob. “And I ain’tcher ‘boy.’ Thought we established that, Furball.”
“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Hank rumbled. The corners of his broad mouth quirked up, without a trace of contrition.
The halls gradually grew quieter as the children made their way to class. Logan barely heard a sound coming from the headmistress’ office from behind the closed door. The faint scratch of a pen against paper underscored her breathing, and the occasional huff of annoyance from her lips. He could smell her tension before he even knocked.
“Come in,” she beckoned in reply to his hard raps against the heavy oak.
“Hey, Boss.” She sighed through her nose at her recently acquired title, even though her blue eyes brightened when she saw him. They hardened slightly when she noticed the duffle.
“What is this about, Logan?”
“It ain’t about anything. I’ve got some business ta take care of.”
“Business.” She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms over her chest, much like Kitty had a minute ago, but with none of the sly one-upmanship. “Don’t let us keep you with our trivial needs, then.” He bristled under the sharpness that crept into her rich, deep voice.
“Never have before,” he parried easily, even though a frisson of guilt nagged at him. They both knew, even if they wouldn’t acknowledge out loud, that the children were growing on him like moss on a tree.
“Just let me know how long to clear your docket for,” she advised him cheerfully. “We’ve decided to extend Sean’s contract for another year. He’s been working out so well with flight class and the shop electives this quarter, and he’s already mentioned that he has no intention of heading back to Muir Island just yet until his next sabbatical.”
“Another year?” Logan scrubbed his nape with his palm, ruffling hair already disheveled from the collar of his worn leather jacket. “Sounds like ya already have it covered, then.”
“If you like.” She shuffled some papers and reached for a stack of folders on top of her inbox. “We can always use a spare pair of hands, but yours are full. We’ll manage without you, one way or another.” She kept her tone cavalier, and Logan didn’t want to admit that it bothered him, her willingness to dismiss him like some errant child she’d just lectured. She wasn’t watching him directly, giving Logan a chance to give her a quick once-over.
Sunlight streamed in through the windows where she’d drawn back the heavy velvet drapes, bathing her in the warm glow that seemed to love every inch of her caramel brown skin. Her hair was down from its characteristic ponytail, tumbling around her shoulders and framing her face in soft, curling waves. The sunlight brought out platinum and blonde glints in the blazing white, turning it into a shimmering corona. She was wearing a casual white button-down blouse with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and a small, silver yin and yang pendant on a choker-length chain. One of those trendy little Italian charm bracelets with the square links decorated her slender wrist. She paused to play with it, twisting it randomly and giving Logan a glimpse at the collection of charms she’d accrued so far. He stifled a smile at the ones with Winnie the Pooh, a Batman logo, and Hello Kitty.
Ororo was never gaudy. Even when she went a little nuts with her hair, she was always turned out in simple clothes that never interrupted the lean, elegant lines of her body or overwhelmed the piquant beauty of her features. Dimples played in and out of the corners of her lush mouth, her upper lip a perfect cupid’s bow that revealed even, white teeth when she smiled. Right now, though, she was wearing her game face. Logan adjusted his and planned his speech.
“I’m headed up north, back t’my old stomping grounds. Got a hold of one of my old contacts with a defense branch up in Canada. Hank’ll fill ya in. They call themselves Department H, instead of the usual long-ass names with goofy acronyms.” Logan’s tone revealed that he didn’t find their current moniker any less ridiculous.
“Henry’s been helping you?”
“Yep. Furball’s not half bad with a computer. Almost as slick at hacking as Pryde,” he mused. It was no secret that the school’s resident specter could slip through firewalls as easily as plaster walls when it suited her. Among Kitty’s gifts, aside from being a superb fighter, were a keen intellect and remarkable technical skills. Every computer gave up its secrets like a Sunday quilting circle after dipping into the sherry beneath Kitty’s sharp eye and lightning-quick fingers. “Blue helped me track down a guy I knew a while back. Name’s Mac Hudson. Stayed a while with him and his old lady, Heather. Decent folks.”
“What made you decide to strike out again to visit them?”
“Department H gets its funding from the same outfit that supports Weapon X.”
“What on earth is that? It sounds so…”
“Don’t ask. Ya don’t wanna know.”
“Try me.” She jutted her chin defiantly, shooting him a look that promised she could take anything he threw at her.
“Weapon X,” he sighed, “was responsible fer these.” SNIKT. He slowly extended his claws, holding them up to the light, letting the sun caress the length of the adamantium blades. “Problem is, I can’t remember the how, or the why. Stryker took that to Hell with him.”
“So Stryker led this so-called Weapon X project?”
“Eh. More or less. It’s complex.” Logan felt the pull of Ororo’s eyes, urging him to stay a while, despite his itchy feet. He sighed, finally dropping his battered duffle. “Awright, ya pried it outta me, Boss.” He grunted as he collapsed into the guest chair facing her, annoying her as he slung his feet up onto her desk, crossing them at the ankle and making himself comfortable. “Stryker was a sergeant. Bigwig in the US military. Dishonorably discharged after his wife died, and he went out on a bender. Hank pulled that up from his files.”
“So you remembered him, when he attacked the school?”
“Just traces of him. That friggin’ Southern drawl.” He nearly added on “and those fucking cruel eyes.” He scratched himself behind his ear. “I remember his scent, from the night that I fought my way out from underground. Not too much else. But that was enough.”
“Go on,” she encouraged, setting aside her file in the inbox and closing her ledger, leaning forward as she listened. Her eyes searched his, warm, open and kind.
“I don’t know how old I am. That much is a blur,” Logan admitted. “Stryker has a clue. He trailed me fer a long time before they dragged me underground. He wasn’t the only one in on it. The only thing I saw of the catacombs at Alkali was the tank.” Ororo saw the shiver that ran through him and her own blood ran cold. “They did things ta me in that damned thing, Storm. Things that no man should live through. I’ve lived through a lot of shit like that.”
“Don’t let that keep you from wanting to live the rest of your life, however you choose to live it.” Her tone was almost protective with those words. He wasn’t imagining it. “You have people in your life now who value you beyond what you can do. Who care about who you are. Logan. Not the Wolverine.” No one had ever separated the two before. Ororo was unique in her ability to recognize that there was more to him than gruffness and violence.
And he was a damned brilliant Jeopardy player.
“Yer soundin’ like a Hallmark card.” She stuck her tongue out at him, surprisingly un-goddesslike. He smirked.
“You’re the one attempting a velvet-coated goodbye. You still haven’t told me how long you expect to be gone.”
“Til I find some answers.” That alone told Ororo to expect his room to be empty for weeks, possibly even months.
“What do you want me to tell the students?”
“Tell ‘em I went away ta battle the Big Bad and keep it from their front door. Tell ‘em whatever ya want. Marie already knows,” he qualified. “Kitty, Petey and Icicle are old enough ta figure it out.”
“Do you think it’s easy for them when you walk out that door?”
He slapped his hands against the armrests of his chair and swung his booted feet to the floor. “Do ya think it’s so damned easy fer me?”
“Yes,” she replied through gritted teeth. “On some level, I do. And I think you’ve grown used to doing this, to protect yourself. And to protect those around you, being able to detach. Walking away before you leave any trace of where you’ve been. Letting any ties you form slip loose and dangle. It hurts too much, letting people in. That’s when they hurt you. When they disappoint you. Fail you. Isn’t it?”
“Think ya got me figured out, eh?”
“You don’t make it hard.”
“That’s where yer wrong, darlin’. It tears strips outta me every time I leave. Weapon X gave me the tools ta kill. They gave me the rage. They gave me the fuckin’ hate. That don’t mean they took away my ability ta feel pain. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t burn through my gut. Sometimes the pain’s all I feel. Ya know it ain’t like I don’t care, princess.”
“Try convincing the children. That’s what they are, even if many of them come to us as teenagers when their mutations manifest, Logan. They have feelings, too. So many of them are cast out from their homes when they receive their gifts. They lose their friends, their ordinary lives. When they walk through our doors, their powers are all that they have. Not unlike when you walked through our door, Logan.”
“Hnh. More like when you and Scooter carted my butt in here. Ass’s still frost-bitten,” he accused. Ororo smothered a dark little chuckle.
“You see my point.”
“Wish ya’d see mine.”
“I do.”
“Then ya know why I hafta leave. I need answers. I need ta sort out my life. It’s the only way ta get back a little of what they took away from me. Get some closure.”
“Closure.” She pronounced judgment on him as the syllables formed themselves on her lips. “If all you focus on is what they took away, you’ll never know what you could gain from reaching out for what’s offered to you now.”
“Chuck was tryin’ t’help me when I first came here. He went as far into my gray matter as he dared. What he saw wasn’t pretty, and keeps me up at night in snatches and pieces. Ya couldn’t live with yourself, Storm, if ya had this dark, ugly thing living inside ya, eating up yer soul.” An eerie blanket of silence settled over them both, hanging thickly in the air.
“I suppose not,” she reasoned. Logan scented her tension again, this time laced with a whiff of anxiety not reflected by her calm demeanor. “None of us really know what you’re going through. It would be silly to try to make you stay.”
She rose from her chair, and Logan’s eyes held hers as he, too, abandoned his chair, drawn up by the fluid movement of her body, pulling at his like marionette strings. She’d coupled her white blouse with a slim pair of black jeans that fit like a second skin; he savored the view now that she was out from behind the desk. She came around from it and reached for his duffle, slinging it over her shoulder and leading the way to the door.
“I can get that,” he offered on a futile grumble.
“I can manage,” she assured him with unspoken resignation. We can manage without you. Her strides were long, swift and even, forcing him to practically jog after her. He was surprised when she headed toward the kitchen instead of the front door.
“Why’re we-“
“You’re not leaving without packing some essentials.”
“Thought I already did. Clean undies, Speed Stick, and socks should about cover it.”
“Not for dinner,” she chided him. “If you aren’t staying long enough to eat with us, then at least have a sandwich." He reached for his duffle, brushing his hand over her shoulder.
“Storm…” Her hand clapped over his before he could get a grip on the straps of his carryall. An almost electric tingle ran up his arm, making the hairs stand on end and sending heat shooting into his stomach. His nostrils flared as he narrowed his eyes. Her hand felt satiny and cool as she squeezed his fingers.
“Sit!” she scolded imperiously. “Don’t make me tie you to a chair and force feed you. You don’t get the bag back til I’m finished.” Her eyes challenged him, and a hint of a smile quirked the corners of her mouth.
He was left with the image of being tied to a chair, with Ororo grinning mischievously, hovering over him and teasing him with tidbits from her fingers. Suddenly his jeans felt very, very…very tight.
He sat grumbling to himself as Ororo hummed cheerfully, taking down the loaf of bread and pulling meat and condiments from the refrigerator, having gotten her way. The duffle bumped against her curvy hip as she moved about the kitchen. She fished out a big grab-size bag of his favorite lime and black pepper potato chips and tucked a thick sandwich full of his favorite cold cuts, topped with spicy mustard and jack cheese into a Ziploc baggie.
“I take it ya’ve done this before?” he muttered.
“Ward, I think you need to have a talk with the Beaver,” she quipped, nonplussed. She packed the items into a vinyl-lined cold sack and unzipped his duffle. He shook his head when she included a Hi-C juice box.
“Ya’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”
“Beer bottles would break,” she reasoned.
He opened his mouth to argue the point, that the beer wouldn’t last but five minutes anyway, he’d more than likely have drunk it down to the last drop before even making it out of the garage, but Ororo was still radiating tension so strongly he could feel it from across the room.
He settled for more smart-assery.
“They’ll never let me sit at the cool kids’ table with a lunch like that,” he mock-complained.
“Then they aren’t really your friends,” she trilled. She plunked his duffle onto his lap, clapping her hands free of imaginary dust. “All done and ready to go!”
“Don’t sound so happy about it,” he opined. She stepped back to let him rise to his full height. They stood nearly eye to eye, his height topping hers by a mere four inches.
“I don’t know how we’ll ever manage without you, Wolverine,” she allowed, preceding him out the back door of the kitchen, holding it wide. “But we will.”
“We will?” he mocked.
“But of course!”
“Uh-uh. Don’t put me on with that shit.”
“Excuse me?” Her smile, falsely cavalier, faltered.
“I wanna know how yer gonna manage while I’m gone.”
“The same way I did before you came.”
“Ya had Chuckles, Jeannie and Scooter before.”
“Don’t remind me of what I’ve lost,” she hissed, her smile gone now. “The world won’t stop turning just because the Wolverine is off on a mission, gone without a trace. That includes my world, Logan. I’m an adult. My sun doesn’t rise and set with you, you cocky, arrogant-mmmmmmphhh!”
Her lips were still forming the words to beat him over the head with when he closed in on them, capturing them with his. Damn his lightning fast reflexes; she hadn’t a semblance of a chance to pull away before his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her against the muscular wall of his torso. The scent of worn leather, a hint of cigar smoke, and the wholly male tang of his flesh tickled her nostrils as she breathed him in. He smothered her complaint, inhaling her protests as he held her immobile and savored his first taste. Pillow-soft lips released a small sigh that mingled momentary surprise and yearning, and her slender fingers snaked their way through his thick hair before he’d even realized her arms had wrapped around his neck.
They collapsed against the doorframe, ignoring the breezy chill sweeping inside and stirring the leaves outside. Her lips parted for him, and Logan’s duffle hit the floor with a light thud. It was his turn to be surprised, and to inwardly kick himself.
She tasted, and felt, like a bit of heaven on earth.
Logan’ stubble rasped beneath her palm as she caressed his cheek, exploring the planes and contours and rugged texture of his warm flesh. His tongue teased the inner seam of her lips, beckoning to hers to come out and play. She melted into him, breasts pressed into his chest as she accepted the “play date” and took what he gave. More, her body screamed, feeling her skin tingle as his hands grasped her hips and ground her pelvis against the straining bulge that reared its head as soon as she threatened him “ albeit playfully “ with tying him up.
The doorframe was killing his butt, but he didn’t care, ignoring the digging of the wood into his back as he drank his fill of Ororo, letting his mouth trail fiery havoc along her cheek, nibbling her chin and settling deliciously down the graceful slope of her throat.
“Goddess! Please, Logan…please.” She couldn’t phrase what she wanted from him, but her hands clutched him, working their way between the buttons of his shirt, seeking his heat. She felt the ticklish mat of hair on his chest beneath the faded flannel, and one of his flat nipples pebbled as she lightly scraped it with her fingernail.
“Don’t…aw, God, Ororo, don’t make this harder than it is,” he groaned, panting with need as he pulled her back enough to stare down into her face. Her lips were faintly swollen and rosy, and her eyes searched his face, beseeching him for a moment before she looked away.
“All right. I won’t,” she agreed, slowly untangling her hands from his shirt and stepping back, wresting his hands from her hips. The invisible wall between them slid back into place as she reached up and smoothed her hair, twisting it into a loose knot at her nape before she reached down and picked up his duffle.
“Godspeed.”
“Yeah. Traffic gets mighty fierce over the George Washington Bridge at this hour,” he mumbled.
“Wasting time here won’t make it any better.” She turned away, not planning any further attempts at goodbye. He hated the sight of her retreating back, efficiently sleek and beautiful, her spine proud and stiff as she strode away.
“Ro,” he called out.
“Go,” she threw over her shoulder without looking back. His hands itched with the craving to touch her again. He let himself out and locked up behind him.
Ororo had already made her way back into her office, back up to her elbows in her lesson plan when she finally heard the roar of the motorcycle’s engine zooming down the road.
Her lips still burned.
*~*~*
It never failed. Whenever he tried to make a speedy, quiet exit, ten things interrupted him, one after the other, until he forgot what he was going to do or where he was going to go.
“I packed you a muffin, Erik. That Thermos is already full of fresh coffee, I just brewed it a few minutes ago.” She tossed two of the plastic, single serving tubs of flavored creamer into the bag before turning away from the counter. Her crystal blue eyes were slightly bruised from a rough night of sleep, and Eric felt guilty over causing her concern.
She woke, running down the hall at his harsh cry. She knocked gently, calling his name in a low voice, not expecting him to open the door to her. Dazed, haunted slate blue eyes peered out through the crack at her, and she heard her name rasped through his chiseled lips, almost a desperate prayer. He swung it open and pulled her inside, and her arms wrapped themselves snugly around his waist, still slim from a lifetime of Spartan living. She felt him drawn tight as a bowstring and was rocked by the shudders that ran through his body. She made herself more comfortable against him, tucking the top of her head beneath his chin and stroking his back, murmuring soothing sounds low in her throat.
“Aleytys,” he pleaded. “It still burns. It won’t go away.”
“Erik,” she whispered.
“Nothing can save me from it. Not even you, my dear. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your apologies. And I don’t need them. You can’t, or won’t change who you are. I won’t ask you to try.” She smiled against his chest. “It was nice while it lasted.”
“Yes, it was,” he agreed, tightening his embrace and kissing her sweet-smelling blonde hair, nuzzling it with affection he hadn’t thought himself capable of in several decades. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel Magda holding him like this in the dark. When he opened them, Aleytys was regarding him with a soft look that almost broke down his resolve. Tiny laugh lines around the corners of her mouth and eyes gave her face character and dignity and heightened her classic beauty. She cradled his cheek in her palm before leaning up and kissing him. He flinched at the gesture at first, then brushed his lips over hers, returning it. Each kiss slid slowly, languorously into the next as she showed him how much their time together had meant to her. She knew it wouldn’t make a difference. She branded him with the memory of her, nevertheless, granting him something to cling to on dark and lonely nights.
She unbuttoned his flannel pajama top and slid her hand inside, flattening her palm against his heartbeat. His fingers deftly untied the sash of her robe and slid it from her shoulders, letting it puddle onto the floor, already free of any other clutter. Erik was nothing if not meticulous.
She took her time making love to him, offering him surcease and muting the screams echoing through his consciousness with her touch. They lay sprawled together in the dark, Erik stroking the length of her slender arm with lazy fingertips as she slept, adopting the pace of her breathing.
This was the life he’d never have. The happiness that was stolen from him during what should have been his golden years.
“Give my regards to the crew,” Erik offered.
“Paolo already had a clue you were champing at the bit. I talked them out of throwing together one last shindig for you. Wouldn’t just been an excuse for everyone to quit early and drink a few brews on deck, anyway. Lazy bums,” she huffed. She retrieved the last of the box of Earl Grey tea from the cupboard and tucked that into his satchel. He’d come with barely anything. What sparse possessions he had he was leaving behind for Lee to dispose of how she chose, except for the clothes on his back. She saw the large lump in his knapsack that he’d guarded protectively since his first arrival in their midst.
Lee dithered and fussed over him, stealing valuable moments before he took his leave. He surprised her as she drove him to the docks, standing in line with him at the ticket booth as he purchased a place on the next ferry. As they walked away from the booth, he pulled her close. Her hands explored the rough knit of his thick cable-knit sweater as he held her in a loose embrace, staring into her eyes.
“Behave yourself,” he admonished.
“Look who’s talking,” she shot back. He reached for her hand and she felt him tuck something into it. She peered down at a small, glossy paper rectangle.
She stared into a small, black and white photo of a dark-haired boy of about ten, standing in front of a shop on an empty street, gripping the handle of an old-fashioned Red Ryder wagon and smiling gappily into the camera. The picture was worn and turning sepia around the edges; the boy’s clothes were impeccably neat, the knee-length breeches, wool socks, sweater vest and oxford harkening back to a time before Aleytys was a glimmer in her father’s eye.
“Think not of what I am, but of what I could have been.”
“You can’t move forward with your life if you’re mired in ‘what could have been.’ Be well. Be safe,” Lee bade him, ignoring the sounds of people milling around them as she kissed him one last time, not giving a damn that Erik despised public displays of affection. She smiled beneath his lips as she felt his fingers tighten, buried in her sheaves of long blonde hair.
“I have one last token for you,” he whispered. He reached into the pocket of jeans so worn they were as soft was a cotton handkerchief. He held out his fist, turned down, waiting for Lee to touch it. She tapped it impatiently, enjoying the last gleam in his eye, just for her.
He turned his fist over and opened it. A cherished sterling silver Claddaugh ring that she’d given up for lost after it got caught and mangled in some wrigging rested on his palm, intact and newly polished. The band had previously been bent and worn through.
“Erik…when did you…?”
“Enjoy it,” he suggested, taking it from her and sliding it into her finger before kissing her knuckles. Something proud sprang into his eyes, and he moved away from her, letting her hand drop as he retrieved his knapsack. “You won’t know where I’m going. It’s best this way.”
“All right.” He heard a patina of tears in her voice, even though her eyes remained dry.
“Aleytys…”
“Go.” She waved to him, letting her fist close as if to capture him in her grip.
The clang of the ferry bell chased her, drowning out her footsteps on the asphalt as she made her way to her tiny car.
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