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A loud burst of laughter from an approaching group of tourists pierces our bubble. He casts them an annoyed glance, presses one more hard kiss to my mouth and whispers, “later”.
We walk hand in hand, but I swear my feet never touch the ground and neither does my soul. The city is beautiful, the weather is amazing, and there’s contentment welling in my chest, tickling me, stretching my heart, healing it, too.
I glance over at Stone as we walk along and marvel that this man is that same little boy. From the chiseled, stubble covered jaw, to the sleek, bold lines of his high cheekbones, and the strong slope of his aquiline nose, he’s a walking work of art.
But the thing I’ve enjoyed most is seeing him interact with other people and watching all that intellect and charm converge. He doesn’t seem to realize how everyone falls in love with him. Because he’s too busy enjoying the moment
He turns his head and I wish I could see what’s behind the reflective lens of his aviator sunglasses, but the sensual smile on curving his lips is one of pure, male satisfaction.
“Let’s have lunch, I’m starving.” He says more than asks, and I find I don’t mind one bit. I’m like a kite being carried on the wind, without a care in the world because Stone Rivers - strong, kind, and daring - is my tether.
We pick a place called La Molina based on reviews on TripAdvisor… “This is even prettier than the pictures, right?” I remark as we’re shown to a table in their courtyard that looks like something out of a fairytale. Lush green plants bursting with huge colorful blooms fill the space. And rustic wooden tables canopied to shield us from the afternoon sun are arranged so that you can spread out. We order fresh shrimp ceviche, octopus carpaccio and pork ribs and settle on a pitcher of their house mojito.
“So, tell me Stone, what have you done for the last eighteen years,” I ask as soon as the waitress is done flirting with him and leaves.
“Gosh, how strange that I haven’t once mentioned what I consider the biggest part of my life. I’m a doctor. An obstetrician gynecologist, but lately, I’ve been focused almost solely on obstetrics. I’m finishing up my final year in fellowship in Global Maternal Health in Colombia.”
My eyes bug out of my head. “You’re a doctor, on top of everything else? How are you single?” I quip and he laughs. He leans back in his seat, letting the sunbathe his face, and links his hands behind his head.
“I’m actually only recently single. But it wasn’t serious. And I haven’t seen her in almost a year.”
It’s irrational to be jealous of someone who’s name I don’t know. Especially when this man isn’t ever going to be mine. But, I am. Fiercely.
“I was almost fifteen when I finished Blackwell. I enrolled at U of H for both undergrad – where I met Tyson, incidentally,” he winks. “And then Medical school. I was twenty – two when I graduated. And by then, my brothers were old enough to move with me to New York, where I was doing my residency. I was there for four years. I got this fellowship with Baylor and this is my last year.”
“And after that?” I am blown away by how casual he is about all of the incredible things he’s done.
“I have an offer for a position at Baylor College of Medicine as Associate Professor. I’m excited. It’s kind of my dream job, but you’d think I was applying for the secret service or something.”
“So, you’re moving to Houston?” I ask, as casually as I can. Our waitress brings a pitcher and two highballs already full of mojitos and I drink half of mine down in one gulp.
“Yeah, in Houston and so, when I’m done in Colombia in about six months, I’ll be back in good old H-town.”
“Wow.”
“So, what about you? I know you got married, but like I know nothing really more than that. What happened after I left that bakery? And that guy I stabbed? You ever seen him again?”
I choke on my drink.
I Remember Everything
Stone
I stand to whack her on the back, and she holds a hand up to stop me. She clears her throat and pulls her sunglasses off to wipe her tearing eyes.
“Are you okay?” I ask when she finally takes a deep breath.
“Yeah, something went down the wrong way,” she says, and I frown because she only sipped that mojito, but let it go. I rushed through my retelling of the last eighteen years. Left out details that I’d rather forget. But she looked like a deer who’d heard the cock a hunter’s rifle when I asked her the same question.
“So, tell me.”
“Not much to tell, really.” She rests her elbow on the table and leans forward to rest her chin on her linked hands. She turns her gaze skyward and presses her lips together in a thin pensive mien.
In the light of the late morning, with no make-up on, her mass of inky curls and coils piled on her head, I could be looking back in time. Time
hasn’t touched her. The spray of freckles on her cheek, the soft dusky pink center of her perfect cupid’s bow mouth, the way she sways while she’s thinking – it’s all the same. And yet also brand new and exhilarating.
She’s got on this little white camisole and tiny red shorts that I’ve been imagining pulling off with my teeth.
