The Spotlight

Chapter 22

The icy bite of the wind slices through my thin sweater. I hug myself tighter, shifting my weight from one foot to the other on the concrete. Stupid, standing out here in the cold when my throat already feels like a wound rubbed with salt. Each breath escapes in a cloud of vapor that dissolves into nothing, just like the precious seconds we might steal together before the day swallows us.

I check my phone—7:42. Three more minutes if Gary keeps to his usual schedule. Just three minutes of quiet anticipation that make the cold worth bearing, even as each swallow sends a hot wire of pain down the tender passage of my throat.

Down the street, a sleek black Audi turns the corner. My stomach flips and my pulse quickens—a physical response as predictable now as breathing. The car slides into the driveway, tires crunching softly on the gravel. I push away from the wall I've been leaning against, trying to appear casual, as if I just happened to step outside for fresh air rather than deliberately waiting in the biting cold.

Gary emerges from the driver's side, laptop bag slung over one shoulder. The navy peacoat he wears accentuates his shoulders, and his wind-tousled hair catches the early morning light. When he spots me, his eyes widen, and a smile breaks through before he catches himself, gaze darting around to check for unwanted observers.

"Morning," he calls, voice carefully modulated to sound mentor-appropriate, though his eyes convey a different message entirely.

"Hi," I reply, that single syllable somehow carrying the weight of everything I've been thinking during the night, of dreams where we don't need to pretend, where his hands can touch me without looking over his shoulder first.

He approaches with measured steps, concern replacing affection as he takes in my thin sweater. "You shouldn't be out here. It's freezing." The worry in his voice wraps around me more effectively than any jacket could.

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance despite the visible puffs of breath between us. "It's not that bad."

His eyes scan our surroundings—the empty driveway, the quiet street, the house—before he steps closer, closing the careful distance he usually maintains in public. "No one else is up yet?"

"David went for an early run. Everyone else is inside." My voice comes out raspier than intended, the first audible sign of my developing illness.

Gary checks over his shoulder one more time before giving me a quick half-hug that would look friendly and appropriate to any potential onlookers—a mentor greeting his contestant, nothing more. But his hand at my waist presses more firmly than necessary, and I feel the briefest brush of his lips near my temple that could be dismissed as accidental if questioned.

I inhale greedily—citrus cologne tangled with coffee—and fight the urge to turn my face into his neck, to turn this careful embrace into something real. My fingers twitch against his coat, wanting to grab fistfuls of the fabric and pull him closer. Instead, I let my hands rest lightly at his sides, maintaining the fiction that this is just a friendly greeting.

The half-hug lasts perhaps three seconds before he steps back, his hand sliding to my upper arm in a gesture that could easily be interpreted as mentor-like concern.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice dropping to a register meant only for me. "You should go inside before you catch a cold."

The irony almost makes me laugh. Too late for that warning—I can already feel the constricting pressure in my throat intensifying, a telltale heaviness behind my eyes signaling the onset of something worse than a typical morning scratchy throat. But I can't tell him that. The last thing I need is Gary fussing over my health on top of everything else.