Until May (Until Her/Him #11)(3)

“We will.” We hang up, then I reluctantly send my sisters a text, letting them know I’m heading home because Mike was a no show.

Of course they all start calling me right then, so I end up doing a group call with them on my drive home. And by the time I reach my house, April—with her husband’s help and using the photo Mike used for his profile—is able to find out that the man in the picture isn’t a guy named Mike but a man named Aiden Bender. Aiden apparently grew up in Tennessee, played soccer for Stanford University in college, then went on to play for some big-time team in London.

Since Aiden didn’t have any social media, she couldn’t find much more about him besides that. But what more was there to know? The man I had been chatting with for weeks was the worst kind of liar, and I was the world’s biggest idiot.





Chapter 2


May

STANDING ON MY front porch with a cup of hot coffee held tightly in my grasp, I smile as I watch a group of kids sledding down a hill on the opposite side of the road, in a lot the builder has been using to store extra dirt. It rarely snows here in Tennessee, so when it does, the kids tend to take advantage of it before it all disappears. The kids in my neighborhood lucked out this year, having the perfect sledding hill right in their neighborhood. And I lucked out, since the weather should be clear tomorrow when I’m due to leave for Florida, where I’ll be meeting Willow, Hanna, and Nalia for two days on the beach.

After the last few weeks, I really need to get away for a few days. Mike, or whoever he is, of course called and texted me the day after I was supposed to meet him, apologized profusely, and told me some tall tale about how he had a family emergency. I didn’t answer the phone calls, but I did text him back some article I found on Aiden that proved Mike was a liar. He didn’t message me back for a few days after that, but then he started calling and texting me nonstop again—so much so that I changed my number.

Hearing my cell phone ring in the house, I come out of my thoughts and turn for the door to go in and grab it, but I stop when I hear a kid scream. Not the kind of scream you hear when a child is having fun, but the kind that causes a chill to run down my spine. I spin around, scanning up and down the street, then my heart starts to pound. At the end of the block, where the retention pond is located, a little boy wearing a winter cap and bright-red coat is fighting to get out of the water in the middle of the snow-covered pond that froze over in the latest cold snap.

I don’t think. I run down the steps of my porch, tossing my cocoa into my yard, cup and all. As a woman who doesn’t run—ever—I’m breathing heavy by the time I reach the edge of the pond and clumsily make my way down the steep slope in my house slippers.

“I’m coming,” I tell the little boy, my heart stopping when I take my first step onto the snow-topped water and hear the sound of ice cracking under my feet. Swallowing, I look around for a stick or someone else to help me come up with a plan, but there is no one here but me.

“Help!” the boy yells, and I drop to my hands and knees, hoping that with my weight dispersed I’ll be able to make it to him without the ice cracking and taking me under.

“I’m coming, buddy. Just try to be as still as you can, okay?” I beg, seeing that the more he thrashes, the bigger the hole is getting around him. The good thing is, it seems like he’s standing in the water, but it’s still up to his chest and obviously freezing-cold.

When I’m near him but not too close, I stretch my arm out as far as it will go. “Grab my hand, and I’ll pull you out.” I wiggle my fingers at him, and his fear-filled eyes lock with mine. “Come on. I’ve got you.” I stretch farther and grasp his ice-cold fingers, then use all my upper body strength to pull as hard as I can.

It’s not enough, and it’s obvious he doesn’t have the strength to help. Scooting forward on my belly, the ice groans under my weight. And knowing it’s likely to give way at any moment, I get up on my knees, grab the shoulders of his jacket, and tug with all my might, pulling him out of the pond. He lands on top of me, soaking my clothes through with freezing water as I fall to my back, and I wrap my arms around his little body.

“Thank you, Go—” My words end on a startled gasp as I’m grabbed under my arms and hauled backward across the snow-covered ice so fast that my head spins.

“Are you okay?” a deep voice asks as I focus on the handsome face, with wisps of dark hair peeking out from under a black beanie, and crystal-blue eyes looking down at me. I blink, sure I’m seeing things.

“No way….” I breathe as my heart starts to pound for a different reason.

“What?” Who I swear is the man in my catfish’s profile pictures, Aiden—or his exact lookalike—frowns at me.

Shaking my head, I clear my throat. “I’m fine. He’s not,” I tell him as the little boy’s tiny body shakes violently against mine.

“I got him. You can let him go,” he tells me, and I reluctantly release the kid and watch the man pick him up and hold him against his chest as he carries him up the edge of the pond.

Rolling to my belly, I push myself up to stand and follow him up the embankment. “Do you have a phone? We need to call an ambulance. We also need to find his parents,” I call to his back, and he stops to turn and look at me.

“He’s not yours?”