I chuckle but don't try to argue. Instead, I take a look around his small one-bedroom apartment. It's like a mini museum of his lifetime in here, with photos and trinkets covering the walls and shelf spaces. He's surrounded by his memories no matter where he goes, and I love that.
“This is cute,” I tell him turning in one spot and taking it all in.
“It does the job.”
I face him again, listening to him hum the same song he always does and watching as he pours hot water into two mugs. I'm unable to refrain from scanning him over and studying his face for anything that might stand out as being abnormal.
He catches me watching and raises an eyebrow. I take the not-so-subtle hint that if I don't stop staring, he might just go and buy a walking stick simply to whoop me with it, and go stand by the living room window, looking out at the view of the park across the street.
“That park looks nice,” I comment, leaning against the window frame. “Do you ever go there?”
“I usually take a walk over there every day. It's nice, but there are always so many damn birds. Milk?”
I look over my shoulder at him, holding the milk up in question. “Yes, please.” Then, after he pours some in and brings me my mug, I add, “You never told me why you dislike birds so much.”
He gets his own mug and then takes a seat in a recliner in the corner, settling in with an exhale. “Ever been to Australia?”
“Nope.”
He nods as if expecting as much. “Went in my early twenties.” Then leaning back in his recliner, he sets his mug on the table next to him and gets comfortable. “Magpie season, they call it.”
“Magpie season?” I question, intrigued.
“Yeah. That's when they attack. You can be walking along, minding your own business like I was, and then they swoop at you. They're protecting their nests, apparently. Left me with my ear barely intact and gouges in my head, along with a healthy fear of birds.”
“Oh, my goodness,” I gasp, moving to sit on the loveseat opposite him. I remember seeing his ear and wondering what had happened to it. He fingers it now, tracing over the scars.
“They're different from the magpies here. More vicious. And I know other birds are harmless, but my brain and body are just as afraid as ever.”
I shake my head in amazement. This whole time I thought he simply hated birds, but really, he's just scared of them. Fear makes people act weirdly, I decide.
“I'm sorry,” I offer.
He picks up his mug again and drinks. “Never mind. It is what it is. Now tell me, how are things going with Cam?”
I sigh, a smile touching my lips as my thoughts once again recap the last couple of weeks. Things have been . . . great. He's attentive and kind to me and always tries to make me happy. When I saw the orchid he bought for me, I almost cried. In fact, I did cry when he wasn't around, and I actually got a good look at it. It wasn't just any old one that you could buy at the store either. He did research and found a beautiful and somewhat rare type that my dad would have absolutely loved. He had crawled right into my heart at that moment.
And it didn't stop there. He has brought me a new one every time he's come over since. Orchids of varying sizes and colors line my windows, and I absolutely love it.
I don't know why he was so adamant that he wasn't any good for me. Besides the racing with the questionable people there, there's nothing bad about him at all. At least, not from what I can see. And you wouldn't be able to tell that he's never had a girlfriend before either.
There's only one issue with him that I can think of, and that's him never talking about his past, his family, or anything to do with the things he said while he was drunk that night. But I'm sure he will when he's eventually ready.
“Going by the goofy look on your face, I'm guessing good?”
I realize I was just staring off into space and then chuckle. “Sorry, yes, they're good. Great, even.”
“Knew it,” he replies, looking smug. “Didn't I tell you that?”
“Um, no. You said I loved him when I first met him,” I counter.
“No, I said love can be born out of any situation. And I think it has.”
I laugh softly, realizing he's probably right, but instead of admitting it, I change the subject to one of the many pictures of his grandchildren on the wall.
After a snicker of his own at my change in subject, he's more than happy to entertain me with stories of the grandkids, his son, Weston, and even his late wife, Marla.
We probably chat for a good hour, finishing off two cups of tea before my phone dings with a message. Knowing that it's most likely Cam has me pulling it out to check right away. But the fluttery feelings I get every time he texts me are dashed away when I read what he sent.
