Chapter 7: Good For It

It was still raining when they left the cafe.

Miles had an umbrella, a black one with a bent rib, and he held it over her without being asked.

He walked on the outside, closest to the road.

They went past the Union and the science building and the long hedge that ran beside the quad.

Neither of them talked.

At the corner of Maple Street, Clara slowed.

A gray sedan was parked at the curb with the engine running.

The man inside had his window down an inch. He was reading a newspaper.

Clara's footsteps stuttered.

"Don't look at him," Miles said quietly.

"How do you know it's him?"

"Same car as Sunday."

"Miles."

"Keep walking. I've got you."

He moved a half step closer and tilted the umbrella so it covered the side of her face that was toward the car.

They passed it.

The newspaper did not move.

When they were forty yards beyond it, Clara let out a long, shaky breath.

"You noticed the car on Sunday," she said. "Why didn't you say something?"

"What would I have said?"

"I don't know. Anything."

"You told me in front of the entire mailroom you hated me." He said it gently. "I didn't think you wanted me to say anything."

She flinched.

He saw it, and slowed his steps.

"I'm sorry," Miles said. "That was a cheap thing to say."