Two years after a horrible accident, Kinsley's determined to make it through vet school, but she didn't expect to meet country boy Noel McLean who's just as mysterious as he is charming.
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Kinsley Hastings suffers from PTSD. After surviving a fata...
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Noel
On Wednesday night, I'm sitting in a sushi restaurant. I'm waiting for Kinsley to arrive.
The place she picked is off campus, about twenty minutes away. She's half-an-hour late. I'm thinking she's ghosted me.
I sigh, poking at the yam tempura I ordered. Holding off on ordering became too difficult as the minutes passed. I needed sustenance. My stomach was twisting inside out.
Kinsley skipping out wouldn't be surprising. That girl... I don't think she's fond of me. To be fair, I've given her reason to dislike me. But I don't think overriding her opinion and making the mistake of inviting other friends out for the night is enough to make her so standoffish.
Whatever made her standoffish has to do with her terrible limp. I didn't notice it until last Friday night. After our conversation, Kinsley left. She didn't look back. She gave me the prime opportunity to watch her. I stood there, beneath the streetlight, and rubbed my jaw, wondering what happened to her.
Accidents are common. What kind of accident she was in... that's something I don't want to ponder. Thinking about accidents brings back the side-effects of trauma. Any types of accidents. Knocking over a glass of milk. Breaking a dish. Falling out of a tree and breaking my arm...
The list continues on and on.
I pick up a piece of tempura and dip it in the sauce before taking a bite. If Kinsley isn't here within the next five minutes, I'm giving up. Sitting here and waiting is a waste of time. I'll text her and let her know something's come up. Exchanging phone numbers in class was a smart idea. That way we can talk about our labs and bailing out on outings.
Just when I think I'm out of luck, the bell on the door jingles. Turning around, I see Kinsley step in. It's been below average for October, signalling a rough winter. It's no surprise to see her cheeks and tip of her nose are pink. Minus that, she's prepared for what's coming. I'll give her credit for choosing the right clothing. She's wearing jeans and layers upon layers of upper body clothing. A shirt beneath her sweater, topped off with a jacket and scarf. A toque sits atop her head of blonde hair.
"Did you walk here?" I ask as she sits down across from me.
"Yes," she replies, shedding the scarf and jacket. She drapes both of them across the back of her chair. "I don't own a vehicle. Nor do I trust bus systems. They don't have any seatbelts, which is alarming."
She has a point. I've never understood how buses can drive highways without seatbelts.
"I could have picked you up," I offer. "We're close to each other on campus."
She cringes. I can't help but feel a little offended. What the hell did I do now?
"It's fine," she replies. "Walking is excellent exercise for the lungs, heart—your body. I don't mind walking."
