Gemma didn’t recognize the boy sitting at the table by the window, but Annalisa said he’d asked about her. He was cute, in a rough sort of way, his short cropped hair forming a rounded widow’s peak, his nose wide and mostly flat. He caught her watching him from the café doors and gave her a sharp-edged smile, his laser-beam eyes flashing.
With the force of a whirlwind, she was sucked back, reliving the worst moment of her life. The noise. People screaming and running. Panic. The gun, shockingly-black and grotesque, like an appendage growing out of Kyle’s hand. She closed her eyes and mentally shook herself, silently repeating the words as her therapist had instructed: I am safe. I am protected. This is not real.
Exhaling, she grabbed a white cotton apron from the wall peg and pushed through the swinging doors. Tying the strings around her waist, she approached his table.