I would’ve reached out with both hands and grasped hope. Now I knew hope slid through fingers, and I didn’t believe in fate. It had let me down far too often.

And still, I wanted to look.

I mean, my father probably wasn’t the guy standing next to me, and if I looked at him, I’d know that. But I wanted to pretend he was something he wasn’t. Even if it was only for two-point-five freaking seconds.

Then I had to do it. He’d been standing there so long, waiting for me. The average person wouldn’t do that. And there was this strange sticky air hanging heavy between us. So I had to look up at him.

I had to.

Like the fingers of God, the sun poked my eyes with blinding white punishment. All I could see were shadows and light.

My heart thumped hard.

I shielded my eyes with my hand. As his features came into view, my heart flattened. He was too young to be my father. It had happened too many times for my heart to deflate in disappointment like that. But it always did.

I allowed myself just one shared smile before dropping my hand and returning my gaze leg level. I’d seen all I needed to.

But …

I had also seen dimples, good teeth, a very flat belly, and no mullet. He was probably out of college. I figured he’d come from the truck pulling the trailer filled with lawn-mowing equipment, since it was the only one left at the pumps, so I was pretty confident he at least had a job.

“So, what? Are you just hanging out?” he asked.

I tilted my head, looked at his legs. His shins were covered with little grass clippings, making it look like his leg hair was green. Ah, a fellow alien. No wonder I was so drawn to him. I reached out and dusted some off with the pads of my fingers; he didn’t flinch or move away or stammer.

“Yep, just hanging out,” I agreed belatedly. Then amended, “Well, walking home.”

He squatted down, all his weight on his toes, bending creases into the worn leather of his boots. “You wanna ride?”

His eyes—green flecked with amber—were no longer hidden by glare.

Did I want a ride?

I wondered if, now that he was down on my level, he could smell the wet trash clinging to the pavement the way I could. Would he take my hand and lift me away from it, tell me I shouldn’t be sitting here? Maybe he would say something like, “Let’s get you out of here.”

My teeth worked against the insides of my bottom lip as I dropped my hand down to the curb, my cigarette sticking out like a broken sixth finger as it grew ash. I glanced at his eyes. His dimples flashed, prompting me to answer yes.