Authors: Nicole Williams
Before his eyes could go regretful or she could volunteer some other schmuck to sit vigil for the poor handicap recluse girl, I looked up at him. I immediately wished I hadn’t.
“Just go,” I mouthed at him.
His face twisted, as if I’d hurt him. Only another tool in his arsenal, giving the other woman the pained face before he rode off with someone else . . . just in case this one didn’t work out and he needed a back-up plan. I certainly wasn’t one of those used goods girls, damaged goods for sure, but I wasn’t going to be anyone’s back-up plan.
For the second time that night, he listened to me. I wanted to take back the words as soon as he took the first step towards her and away from me. I wanted to shout,
choose me, pick me.
How pathetic was that?
I couldn’t resist the urge to gaze through my window, despite knowing it would only bludgeon an already bruised heart. I watched them walk into the parking lot side-by-side, drifting away in the darkness together. I told myself I didn’t care; I didn’t want that kind of man, anyways.
My mom had always said the heart wants what the heart wants. For the first time, I understood what she meant.
CHAPTER FIVE
SURFING
I was dreaming, it this is what you can call a
dream.
I knew that, but the harder I tried to wake up, the deeper I fell into the dream, the more vivid the images and sensory stimulus came. I finally gave up trying to wake up and let the dream be the driver.
A liquid white nightgown skimmed my ankles (it was out-of-place since I lived in tanks and boxer bottoms) as I padded through a cavernous room that was the kind you’d expect to be filled with millions of bats. A burst of fire erupted from the ground around me, trapping me in a ring of flames. The flames reached at me like long, boney, fingers, scorching and burning their way through me. The only word I screamed was his name—William—before the flames engulfed me and my body exploded into a confetti of ash.
When I finally woke up, it was with a jerk, like I couldn’t get out of that nightmare fast enough. I took a census of my room, making sure I was back in real life.
The alarm said it was way too early for me to be up on a Sunday morning, but since the thought of what would be waiting for me if I did manage to fall back to sleep scared the snot out of me, I popped out of bed.
I pulled out my running shoes that had long ago expired the five-hundred mile maximum suggested usage, and fretted over tying them like they were old friends. Developed as an outlet for stress back in high school, I looked forward to the peace and quiet my daily runs invoked; if only for a handful of minutes. I wasn’t picky these days.
My dad hadn’t been thrilled about my solo outings (which normally took place when most were tucked away for the night), but in comparison to what I could have been doing during these hours, I suppose you could say he succumbed to the lesser of two evils.
His worries had been needless anyway. I’d never once been in a stitch of danger back home in Santa Cruz, and now residing in rural Oregon, the danger was laughable in comparison.
I threw on a clean hoodie and headed out the door, reciting lines of Shakespeare to keep me from thinking about the man who’d inundated my waking and sleeping hours since last Friday.
The Oregon morning was more damp than cold, but it was still convincing enough to skip my ritual quad stretches. I was eager to get the blood pumping to get my thermostat turned up.
I broke into a jog as soon as I stepped outside, knowing this was going to be a long one. The rule of thumb was, the more issues I needed to work out, the longer the run. I’d clocked a twenty-miler once, after my parents had died and I’d finally been allowed physical activity, and something told me this one could contend with the record.
Six strides in, I came to a screaming halt. Standing in front of me, leaning against his Bronco as if he’d been waiting for me all night, was the man I was trying not to think about at the moment. So much for that.
“All set?” he asked, smiling as if everything was just peachy-keen.
“All set for what?”
“Our date,” he answered matter-of-factly.
Heat burnt in me, without the need of pounding legs. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
His face ironed out. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
He didn’t, actually. He looked amazing. The way his t-shirt pulled at his arms, the boardshorts slung just low enough to make someone blush.
When I looked up, I knew my inadvertent look hadn’t gone undetected. “I don’t care if you’re serious or not,” I said, looking off to the side. “You can’t go out with one girl, and 24 hours later go out with another. She might be alright with that, you’re obviously alright with that,” I said, thrusting my arms at him. “But I am not alright with it.”
He approached me with arms raised. “I’ve upset you. I apologize for that.” He continued forward. “But I didn’t go anywhere with her. Besides to her car in the parking lot.”
“What a lucky girl,” I said, crossing my arms. “Not even a dinner out before a roll in the backseat of her car. Wow, you really are a gentleman.”
His eyes narrowed before they opened with recognition. “Let me clarify,” he said slowly. “I
escorted
her to her car, never entering it, before sending her on her merry way.”
“So,”—I narrowed my eyes at him, wishing I could erase my feelings for him—“did you meet up with her later then?”
His head shook.
“Then you have plans for another time.”
His head rotated back before it shook again.
“Plans with someone else?” I asked, trying to cover every loophole.
His chest heaved.
“Why?” Did I sound as dumbfounded as I felt? Why hadn’t he chosen her over me, every other warm-blooded male would? None of this made sense—none of
him
made sense.
“Why would I?”
“Let’s see,” I said, tapping my index finger on my chin, “she’s beautiful, charming, sex-on-a-stick—”
“I wasn’t referring to her when I asked why would I,” he interrupted, working at concealing a grin. “I was referring to you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” he said, coming for me. I didn’t back away; I was sick of backing away, even though I knew I should. I was all for sprinting forward, even if it sent me straight off the edge of a cliff.
“I don’t want her. I don’t want anyone else.” His eyes were intense, unheeding, but I kept his stare. “I want you.”
Something warm burst inside, it flowed through my body, spreading like an infection. “Why?” I whispered, perfecting the art of one-word responses this morning.
He knotted his fingers through mine. “I was born to like you.”
I knew I was smiling like an idiot. “And so we’re back to the cheesy one-liner’s . . .”
He laughed. “Not a line, just the truth.”
“Sure, sure,” I said, rolling my fingers through his. “I don’t care if it is a line. That one was actually top-notch.”
He rolled his eyes, before looking at me with an expectant expression. “So?”
“
So
what?”
“So I just put my heart on the chopping block,” he said. “Is there anything you’d like to say, perhaps
admit
to me?” He paused, his eyebrows peaking. “Regarding the way you feel for me.”
So I was ready to sprint, but I wasn’t quite ready to spill the way I felt about him. The magnitude and intensity of it scared me, and would certainly quarantine me to psycho-chic status if I admitted it to him.
Improvisation was a god-send. “You confound me.”
He tilted his head. “And?”
“You irritate me.”
He didn’t look amused. “And?”
“You’re nice to look at.”
“Bryn,” he said, as a teacher would to a truant student.
“Alright, alright,” I said, swallowing hard. “I like you, too.” An understatement of ungodly proportions.
“Like pulling teeth,” he said, brushing my hair behind my ear. “But I already knew that.”
“Oh did you, Mr. Sure-of-yourself,” I tried glaring into his smug face—a futile effort—“Then why were you so adamant I confess myself to you.”
“It’s nice to hear, don’t you think?”
Yet another understatement.
“So what’s the plan for today?” I asked, side-stepping around the moment for lack of know-how. I wasn’t exactly used to a man staring into my eyes with his body pressed so close to mine I could feel the heat coming from it, waiting expectantly.
He purposefully eyed his Bronco. “I thought I’d bring a little Santa Cruz to you.”
“Surfing, huh?” I said, eyeing the two boards on the roof.
“Surfing indeed. Sound good to you?”
“Absolutely,” I said, focusing harder on the boards in hopes he wouldn’t detect the nervousness I was chewing out on my lip. I was Santa Cruz born and bred, and had surfed a total of . . . never. I rested my hand against the Bronco to steady myself—it didn’t help. Watching
Jaws
at the age of five at my cousin’s house had done a number on my fearlessness when it came to the ocean from there on.
“Can’t wait.” I eyed the boards nervously as I made my way to where he was holding the passenger door open for me.
His eyebrows danced. “Can’t wait to see you in a swimsuit,” he said, offering his hand to me.
“If you think I’m getting into that water without being bubble-wrapped in six inches of insulation, you’re delusional.” I said, taking his hand as I hoisted up into the cab.
He blew through his mouth. “It’s not that bad.”
“Not bad if you’re immune to temperature,” I hollered through the window after he shut the door behind me. He’d left the car running and had the heat turned on high.
Coming around the driver’s side, he climbed into his seat and positioned the driver’s side vents in my direction. “Are you warm enough?”
“Barely,” I admitted, glancing down at my bare legs.
He chuckled and cranked the heater as high as it would go. “If this doesn’t work, I can think of a few other ways to warm you up.” I heard the sly smile in his voice even though I couldn’t make myself look at him.
“Wow, you don’t have anything better than that?” I said, trying to sound unimpressed. “I expected more from you than one of the oldest, most worn-out male innuendos in the book.”
He reached for something in the backseat, dropping what he’d retrieved into my lap. He shrugged. “A blanket might help. I’ve got an extra pair of jeans if you’d like.” He smiled at me with exaggerated innocence.
I tucked the blanket around my legs. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m not even finished yet,” he said, grabbing a cardboard cup resting on the dashboard and handed it to me. “A steaming cup of coffee should aid in warming you up. What was it again you were suggesting about innuendos?”
I sighed with exaggeration. “I forfeit this one to you, only because I don’t want to spend the whole morning in some battle of the wits with you. Although I still reserve the right to believe you’re impossible,” I said, reaching for the cup.
“Impossibly charming, you mean?”
I rolled my eyes and changed the subject, knowing we could go another twelve rounds if I didn’t. “This is exactly what I needed,” I said, taking a long sip and feeling it’s warmth spread through me. “You’re completely forgiven for everything now.”
I noticed the print-out label on the side of the cup; Triple Americano, plain. I was surprised, yet again, by how well he seemed to know me. Most people ordered lattes, mochas, or drip coffees; it was only the hard-core, caffeine junkie that drank a triple Americano straight-up.
“A cup of coffee?” he mocked. “If I would have known it’s the fix-all with you, I would have rented a latte stand to follow us around from the first night we met.”
“That would have made things too easy,” I said lightly.
“Heaven forbid.”
“I’ve got something for you,” I said, taking another sip.
“You do?”
“Don’t get too excited. I made it,” I warned, reaching into my pocket.
“You made me something?” he asked, turning in his seat to face me. “Was this before or after you were planning on hating me for all time because you jumped to conclusions?”
“After,” I said matter-of-factly. “But if you call a girl Don Juan would raise from the grave for, showing up at my door after midnight looking for you a jump, so be it. I call it a logical sequence of assumptions.”
“So we agree to disagree,” he said, waving his hand. “Back to important things. What did you make me?”
“I help out a few times a week at a disadvantaged youth program in town,” I explained, pulling the braided leather bracelet from my pocket. “The project we worked on yesterday was making a protector bracelet.”
He smiled when he reviewed the dark leather object. “And what is a protector bracelet?”
I fumbled with it in my hands. “We asked the kids to think of one person in their life they feel safe around—someone who protects them.” I shrugged, trying to look casual. “Since there was a short list of people that have protected me from something pretty big this week . . .” I felt silly admitting I’d made this juvenile gift for him, and was now asking him to wear it.