Annabelle sat in the corner booth, looking out the window at all the people walking on the sidewalk. There weren't many people, but there were enough to make it fun to watch them.

She glanced down at her clothes for the third time. It wasn't fancy--a casual blue dress and white sandals, her hair down and clipped with a large white flower. She had hardly any makeup on, and wondered if Louis would like it.

She looked out the window and saw a new person coming down the sidewalk across the street. He was tall, maybe 5'10 or 5'11, and he wore faded jeans and she could see just a tiny bit of a white t-shirt under his navy hoodie. His sneakers were old, kind of dirty and definitely worn, extremely loved. He had dark sunglasses on, and his hands were in the pocket of his sweatshirt, the hood up.

He glanced down the road and jogged across to the café. The bell on the door rang as he opened it, and he scanned the semi-busy café for a moment before sliding into the seat across from her.

"Hey," his voice low and soft, and when he slid his sunglasses off she was met with sparkling eyes. He pulled the hood down from his head--his hair was messy and slightly damp from a previous shower. For the first time she noticed the scars on his face, but surprisingly they didn't detract from his appearance.

"H-hi." She stammered. "You look nice."

"Hey," he frowned, absently running a hand through his hair. "That's my line."

"Sorry,"

"Seriously though, you look beautiful." Louis frowned for a second, then touched her hand softly. "I was beginning to wonder if you were maybe just a dream."

Annabelle smiled. "I was starting to think you weren't coming."

"The train was a bit late." He shrugged. "I said I'd come. I wouldn't stand you up."

"You took the train? The train station's a good half an hour away. Did someone pick you up?"

"I walked from the station."

"Why?"

"I told you before, I don't drive." Louis' breath hitched, and Annabelle studied him carefully.

"Is it about your sister?"

"I killed her," he said quietly, looking at the table as though it were the most interesting thing in the world.

"How?"

"I--I was fourteen. I came home one day and . . . and I found her in our kitchen." Louis started hesitantly, glancing up to make sure she was listening. "She was bleeding a lot, really sick. Her boyfriend had been leaving the house when I got there. He had hit her in the face, and I guess when she fell she hit her head. I didn't know what happened for awhile, but they'd been arguing about some stuff and he snapped."

"So . . . What did you do?" Annabelle asked, not quite seeing how he was responsible for his sister's death.

"See, I--it wasn't legal for me drive, yeah? But she couldn't and she had to get to the hospital. So I . . . I drove her, and she told me I could do it. Like . . . She really believed in me, you know?" Louis fell quiet again for a minute, picking at a small crack in the table. "Well . . . a car flew past, and . . . and my hands were all slippery, so they slipped on the wheel, and . . . well we hit another car, and Lisa. Um . . . Well Lisa wasn't strapped in, and . . . well her head sort of went through the window. I could barely stay awake but I knew she was dead. I was . . . I was screaming, until I passed out in the ambulance."

"I'm sorry."

"When I woke up my mom was there, crying. I'd broken two ribs and my wrist, and needed stitches on my face. Here, here and here." He pointed out the marks on his face; one from his left to the center of his forehead, a small one under his left eye, and one thst traced the right side of his jaw.

"And. . .?"

"I'd been in a coma for almost a week, severe concussion. I could hardly do anything at all without being sick or getting dizzy. I found out pretty quick that the lasy we hit wasn't pressing charges, and the cops left us alone. They knew it was an emergency, and I guess they thought it wasn't my fault, you know?"

"But it isn't your fault," Annabelle shook her head.

"Mom told me Lisa died upon impact. I already knew that, but hearing it come from her . . . It took away any of the denial that had formed in my head. The doctors said Lisa was in trouble before then." Louis' tried to bite back some tears. "They told us that Lisa had a severe concussion and that her skull was nearly fractured. She had lost a lot of blood, but it wasn't all from the car crash. She'd given herself an abortion the night before, at a friend's house, and she lost a lot of blood. It wasn't fixed up properly and it reopened the day I found her. That's why she was arguing with her boyfriend."

Annabelle reached out instinctively to brush his tears off with her thumb. Louis flinched, but stayed put, and to her surprise he seemed visibly calmer afterwards.

"I'm really sorry, Lou."

"I like the way you say that." He smiled weakly, almost bravely. "My name, I mean."

"It really isn't your fault, Louis. Honest." Annabelle said softly.

"How would you know that?" He whispered.

A stray tear slid down his face and her hand leapt out to wipe it away just as it slipped to the corner of his lips. Her hand rested in his cheek, her thumb at his lips.

Louis swallowed, not making a move to pull her hand away. Annabelle hadn't really noticed how bright his eyes were. At first they seemed shallow, then deep. They sparkled as though the sun was reflecting off of them, like they were prisons. They were a green the color of grass between spring and summer, right after the April showers and before the May flowers.

His lips were almost a healthy pink, and though his face was a little pale he still looked very handsome. His hair was thick, and she wondered what it would feel like to run her hands through it. He smelled of cologne, not quite thowe Calvin Klein signature scents or the ones with the commercials full of race cars. It was more . . . natural, maybe? It smelled sort of like a forest--outdoorsy, but not overpowering. It was . . . refreshing, like the way the air smelled after a rainstorm.

Louis chuckled nervously. "Are you okay?"

"I should be asking you that," Annabelle swallowed hard and pulled her hand back. Something flickered in Louis' eyes, maybe regret.

"That's an easy answer," he smiled sadly, and it reached his eyes. It pained her. "By the way, you never answered my question. How would you know that, that it wasn't my fault? How can you say that, not seeing it?"

"Because I know," she whispered. "Trust me. You were only trying to help her."

"I got her killed."

"It wasn't your fault. It was a freak accident."

"It don't understand why I lived and she didn't!"

"I don't know." She said softly. "But I'm glad you did live."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I am. I wish she could have lived too, but. . ." Annabelle hesitated, then placed her hand over his, feeling her skin tingle as the feeling of electricity jolted up her spine. "Trust me. It isn't your fault. You wanted her here, I know that. I know you feel guilty--but it's just that, a feeling. It wasn't something you intended to happen. It was a horrible thing, but it wasn't because of you."

"I should have just called an ambulance."

"Did she ask you to?"

"No, she told me to drive, but--"

"Then you did what you thought best. You trusted her, and she thought it was be better to drive. She mustn't have thought an ambulance would get there fast enough. I can't explain her reasons or what went through anyone else's mind. But I can understand your feelings--at least a little bit. You were scared and felt lonely. You wanted it to be a nightmare you could wake up from and find her beside you, alive, laughing, there to help comfort you. I get it."

"It . . . It really wasn't my fault?" he stammered slowly.

"No, Lou, it wasn't."

"It might take some more time to actually let that sink in, babe."

"It understand that, too." Annabelle smiled softly, then knit her eyebrows. "Babe?"

Louis blinked. "Is that not okay?"

"No, it's . . . fine. It's fine." She smiled again, and Louis' face relaxed.

"I'm decidedly really, really glad I decided to come see you." Louis smiled.

"Yeah," Annabelle smiled softly, feeling heat come to her cheeks as she blushed and ducked her head. "Me too."