Things We Know by Heart by Jessi Kirby Read Free Book Online Page B

over reports and spreadsheets, grumbling about how no one else coulddo any of their jobs properly. It hadn’t always been like that. He used to be the one who got my sister and me up at the crack of dawn and had us out the door for a run along the rolling country roads around our house.
    Now it’s my mom who has him up and out early on weekend mornings. They make the long walk into town, talking and laughing together, just the two of them. Reconnecting, I guess you could say, after so many years devoted to getting a business off the ground, and getting Ryan and me to school, and practices, and meets. It’s good for them both to have that connection again, and I’m glad they have that to focus on, because it takes a little bit off me. To a certain extent.
    Downstairs in the kitchen my mom has left a note reminding me that Gran will be stopping by after brunch with her Red Hat ladies because she wants to spend some time with me (or because Mom asked her to babysit after my accident), and Gran needs help with a “project.” Also that there’s a pitcher of wheatgrass-kale morning something in the refrigerator for me. Juicing has become a part of the regimen too.
    I head to the coffeemaker instead, pop in a little plastic cup, and put a mug underneath the spout. My phone buzzes from the counter, and when I pick it up, I don’t recognize the number. I hesitate for a moment, think about letting it go to voicemail and then calling back later when I haven’tjust gotten out of bed, but I pick it up instead. “Hello?”
    â€œHi, may I please speak to Quinn Sullivan?” The voice is male, formal.
    â€œThis is me—she.” I roll my eyes at myself. “This is Quinn.”
    â€œOh.” He clears his throat. “Hi. You, um . . . I think you hit my bus yesterday? You left a note with this number?”
    â€œI did,” I say, taking my coffee to the island. “I’m so sorry. I know I should’ve stayed and waited for you to get back, but I cut my lip and ended up needing stitches, and—” The doorbell rings. “I’m sorry; there’s someone at the door. Can I call you right back?”
    â€œOf course,” the guy says, and I hang up without saying good-bye.
    I set the phone down on the counter and head down the hallway to the front door, wishing I’d gotten dressed, because Gran’s first reaction to seeing me still in my pj’s when I’m supposed to be ready will be to say something about the importance of “carrying on,” as she puts it, which is what she’s been doing every day for the last sixteen years since my grandpa died. I pause in the entryway, smooth my hair as best as I can, and get ready for her to make a big fuss over my lip and the accident, which my mom has undoubtedly already told her about. Then I take a deep breath and open the door.
    And all the air rushes right out of me.
    Colton Thomas is standing on my doorstep with his phone in one hand and the other behind his back. “Hi,” he says. He shifts on his feet. Gives me a tentative smile. “Soooo, like I was saying, you left me a note, and your number, and—”
    Too many things race through my mind at once, too much to form a sentence; but I look over his shoulder, and there it is, the blue VW bus I smashed into, dented bumper and all.
    He follows my eyes and glances over his shoulder at it. “Don’t worry about that.” He looks back at me. “And please don’t freak out. I just . . .” He pauses and looks at his feet for a moment, then back up at me, at my lip. “I just wanted to—make sure you were okay. And to tell you not to worry about the bus. Gives me an excuse to work on it.”
    Finally, I find my voice, but it comes out sounding sharp. “Why didn’t you tell me it was your car?”
    You can’t be here is all I can think.
    â€œYou were so freaked out, and I didn’t