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Still facing my screen, they spin me around and are face-to-face with my truth.
“I knew it!” Sydney says. “She didn’t tell me the details either, but her pink ears are a dead giveaway.
Usually, I love my pixie cut black hair. I love how I don’t have to spend much time styling it. I love how washing it doesn’t start an hour-long cycle that ends with another chunk of time needed to blow-dry it all. I do not love how it exposes my ears and offers a clear view of my embarrassment by blushing whenever I am trying to keep something to myself. I don’t always get pink on my cheeks, but I always show it on my earlobes. No use lying about it now.
“We had a great time that night.” I nervously tuck hair that isn’t long enough to pull behind my ear and continue. “I really liked spending time with him. But it was just one night. We haven’t talked about it, or at all. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but I had a nice time.”
“Well maybe you’ll find out when he comes into volunteer with you today,” Sydney says, leaning back against her springy chair.
“The plot thickens,” Viv says, wide-eyed and slowly sipping her hot tea.
“He told you he’s coming in today?” I ask.
He signed up a while ago, so I wasn’t sure if he was starting today. The thought of him coming in is making me bead up with sweat. Will he want to talk about that night? Did it mean anything to him? Was it a fluke? It’s not like it was a date.
The last time we were together, it got steamy fast, and I’m not sure how to act around him now. Are we dating? Was it in the heat of the moment? Maybe it meant nothing to him.
Sydney rolls closer to me, and tones down her enthusiasm in front of my clear nerves. “Jules, relax. He’s a good guy. Trust me, he wouldn’t know how to lead someone on if he tried. He’s as earnest as they come, and I think he really likes you. Just trust your gut and let him get to know you. You’re irresistible, babe.”
I know she meant for that to be a pep talk. To lift my spirits. But it only makes me more nervous about seeing him again. How am I supposed to let him get to know me when I barely know myself. That’s why I moved out. I’m a thirty-year-old with one hobby, whose social life revolves around my family and work. I’m as boring as they come. With my track record of eagerly fitting the mold of whatever guy that was interested in me, I don’t know if I have much more to identify myself than my job.
It’s midday and he hasn’t come in for his volunteer shift yet in the used bookstore we have attached to the library. With each passing hour I become more and more of a jittery mess.
Last night I dreamt of him coming in and forcefully taking me against a low shelf of erotic books, scattering covers of bare-chested men with each thrust. With that fantasy on replay in my mind, how am I going to focus on his volunteering now?
The chime above the opening door rings, and my daydream vanishes. Time for the real thing.
Jeans and a snug black tee make up his daily outfit. Now that it’s getting cooler, he’s rotated in his collared flannels. Today he’s wearing rugged leather work boots.
Most days he covers up with a basic baseball cap, but some days he comes in with a wide Stetson. Those are the days he looks most in his element. Paired with an embellished buckle, the wide black brim dips over his brow but I don’t have to lean down to catch his dark eyes on mine because he’s at least five inches taller than me.
Strong brows frame his deep-set eyes and a tall bridge along his nose beckons me to touch it. I’d follow it down the front of his broad chest if I could have my way. His rolled-up sleeves are giving me all the forearm eye candy I need.
“They said I could find you back here. Hi Jules.”
“Adriel,” I say, while tucking back that errant imaginary hair again. “Umm, well, hi.”
It’s been a week, and suddenly I don’t know how to act.
This man has been in me, and now I don’t know if I should even kiss him on the cheek. This is ridiculous. The second hand on the old clock seem to tick in a mocking side eye. The pressure builds up on my shoulders and makes me awkwardly lurch towards him. Changing my mind in the last moment, I jut out my arm to shake his hand.
His callused grip dwarfs my hand and just holds mine.
How does such a simple move bring me back to that night? I want that hand in other places.
He smiles and simply says, “Hi. It’s been a while.”
He’s so cool. Steady and in control, to my daydreaming stutters. Maybe it was just a one-time thing. If we had talked while I was gone, if we had gone on a date, if we had time to get comfortable around each other, this could be so different. Instead, I’m a bumbling mess. I know I want more of him, but I have no clue what he wants.
“Sorry I didn’t reach out while I was gone. Things got a bit chaotic at home,” I say.
“I was worried about you.” He tightens his grip on my hand, which I just realize he’s still shaking. “I wanted to reach out, but I also wanted to give you your space. I didn’t want to scare you off.”
“You wouldn’t have scared me off.”
“I don’t know. If I called you as much as I thought about you, you might have blocked my number.” He tries to laugh that last sentiment off, but his brows furrow, and I get the impression that he’s not as unaffected as I think. Maybe I wasn’t alone in my pining after all.
Knowing that he’s as nervous as I am emboldens me.
