The shower curtain flicks water at me as I shove it open to grab my towel off the rack on the wall.
I kept my distance after jumping out the back door of that bus, but there was no way I was going to leave her there without my protection. So I stayed an extra day too.
My flight home left twenty minutes after Cassandra’s, but with my lack of checked luggage and the speed of my driving, I made it home—truck parked, garage door closed—eight minutes before Cassandra’s parents pulled up to my neighbor’s house with their daughter in tow.
I braced myself for my girl to storm straight over, demanding an explanation. But that didn’t happen.
Maybe because her parents spent all day at her house.
Maybe I just imagined her gasping my name on the bus.
Maybe she didn’t put it together.
I have the towel over my head, squeezing water out of my hair, when I hear something.
I lower the towel and stand in stillness for a moment.
Then I hear it again. The sound of my name being shouted.
I’ve taken two steps when the knocking starts.
“Hans!” Cassandra’s voice is panicked. Scared.
I cut across the living room.
“Ha—” Her shout cuts off when I open the door.
