Colleen Hoover - Losing Hope

So many emotions are coursing through me right now and I can’t tell if I’m angry or elated or freaked the hell out.

Does she recognize me, too?

We’re still staring at each other and I can’t stop wondering if I look familiar to her. She doesn’t smile. I wish she would smile because I would recognize Hope’s smile anywhere.

She tucks in her chin, darts her eyes away, and quickly turns around to face her cashier again. She’s obviously flustered and it’s not in the same way that I tend to leave girls like Shayna/Shayla flustered. It’s a completely different reaction, which only makes me all the more curious if she just remembered me.

“Hey.” The word rushes loudly out of my mouth involuntarily and I notice her flinch when I speak. She’s hurrying her cashier at this point, grabbing her sacks in a frenzy. It’s almost as if she’s trying to get away from me.

Why is she trying to run from me? If she didn’t just recognize me . . . why would she be this disturbed? And if she did recognize me, why wouldn’t she be happy?

She exits the store in a rush, so I grab my sacks and leave the receipt with the cashier. I have to get outside before she drives away. I can’t just let her go again. I head directly through the exit and scroll over the parking lot until I spot her. Luckily, she’s still loading her groceries into her backseat. I pause before walking up behind her, hoping I don’t come off as crazy, because that’s exactly how I feel right now.

She’s about to shut her door, so I take a few steps closer.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared to speak.

What do I say? What the hell do I say?

I’ve imagined this moment for thirteen years and I have no fucking idea how to approach her.

“Hey.”

Hey? Jesus, Holder. Nice. Real nice.

She freezes midmovement. I can tell by the way her shoulders rise and fall that she’s taking a calming breath. Does she need calming because of me? My heart is racing at warp speed and thirteen years’ worth of pent-up adrenaline is making its way through my body.

Thirteen years. I’ve been looking for her for thirteen years and I very well may have just found her. Alive. And in the same town as me. I should be elated, but I can’t stop thinking about Les and how I know she prayed every single day for this moment. Les spent her whole life wishing we would find Hope and now I’ve found her and Les is dead. If this girl really is Hope, I’ll be devastated that she showed up thirteen months too late.

Well, maybe not devastated . I forgot that word is on reserve. But I’ll be pretty damn pissed.

She’s facing me now. She’s looking right at me and it’s killing me because I want to grab her and hug her and tell her how sorry I am for ruining her life, but I can’t do any of these things because she’s looking at me like she has no clue who I am. I just want to scream, “Hope! It’s me! It’s Dean!”

I grip the back of my neck and try to process this whole situation. This isn’t how I pictured finding her. Maybe I fictionalized it and played it up all these years but I thought her recovery would be way more climactic. I thought she would have way more tears and way more emotion and not appear to be nearly as . . . inconvenienced ?

The look on her face right now doesn’t register as recognition in the least. She looks terrified. Maybe she doesn’t recognize me. Maybe she appeared flustered inside because of the idiotic way I was staring at her. Maybe she appears terrified now because I practically chased her down and I’m giving her absolutely no explanation. I’m just standing here like a creepy stalker and I have no idea how to even ask her if she’s the girl I lost all those years ago.

She eyes me warily up and down. I hold out my hand, hoping to ease some of her fear with an introduction. “I’m Holder.”

She drops her gaze to my extended hand and, rather than accept the handshake, she actually takes a step away from me.

“What do you want?” she says sharply, cautiously peering back up to my face.

Definitely not the reaction I expected.

“Um,” I say, not really meaning to appear taken aback. But honestly, this isn’t going in the direction I was hoping it would go. I don’t even know what direction that was at this point. I’m starting to doubt my own sanity. I glance across the parking lot at my car and wish I had just kept walking, but I know if I did, I’d regret not confronting her.

“This might sound lame,” I warn, looking back at her, “but you look really familiar. Do you mind if I ask what your name is?”

She releases a breath and rolls her eyes, then reaches behind her to grab the doorknob of her car. “I’ve got a boyfriend,” she says. She turns and opens the door, then quickly climbs into the car. She starts to pull the door shut, but I catch it with my hand.

I can’t let her leave until I’m positive she’s not Hope. I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life and I’m not about to let thirteen years of guilt and obsessing and analyzing her disappearance go to waste just because I’m afraid I might piss her off.

“Your name. That’s all I want.”

She stares at my hand holding open her door. “Do you mind?” she says through clenched teeth. Her eyes fall to the tattoo on my arm and my adrenaline kicks up a notch when she reads it, hoping it’ll spark some recognition on her part. If she can’t remember my face, I’m almost positive she’ll remember the nickname I gave her and Les.

Not even the slightest jar of emotion flashes in her eyes.

She attempts to pull the door shut again but I refuse to release it until I get what I need from her.

“Your name. Please .”

When I say please this time, her expression eases slightly and she looks back up at me. It isn’t until she looks at me this way, without all the anger, that I realize why I’m so flustered. It’s because I care more for this girl than any other girl in the world who isn’t Les. I loved Hope like a sister when we were kids and seeing her again has brought back all those same feelings. It’s causing my hands to shake and my heart to pound and my chest to ache because all I want to do is wrap my arms around her and hold her and thank God we finally found each other.

But all those feelings come to a screeching halt when the wrong answer comes out of her mouth. “Sky,” she says quietly.

“Sky,” I say aloud, trying to make sense of it. Because she’s not Sky. She’s Hope. She can’t not be my Hope.

Sky.

Sky, Sky, Sky.

She’s not saying she’s Hope, but the name Sky is still eerily familiar. What’s so significant about that name?

Then it hits me.

Sky.

This is the girl Grayson was referring to Saturday night.

“Are you sure?” I ask her, hoping for a miracle that she’s as dense as Shayna and just gave me the wrong name. If she really isn’t Hope, then I completely understand her reaction to my seemingly erratic behavior.

She sighs and pulls her ID from her back pocket. “Pretty sure I know my own name,” she says, flashing her driver’s license in front of me.

I take it from her.

Linden Sky Davis.

A wave of disappointment crashes around me, swallowing me up. Drowning me. I feel like I’m losing her all over again.

“Sorry,” I say, backing away from her car. “My mistake.”

She watches me as I back up even farther so she can shut her door. In a way, she looks disappointed. I don’t even want to think about what kind of expression she’s seeing on my face right now. I’m sure it’s a mixture of anger, disappointment, embarrassment . . . but most of all, fear . I watch as she drives away and I feel like I just let Hope go all over again.