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“I’ll give him another twenty minutes, and if he doesn’t show up, then I’ll forget I ever met Dr. Dixon,” I state, very unconvincingly.
“Ah-ha,” Mary retorts, totally not buying my pledge. “Again, I believe that’s your hormones talking.”
I playfully flip her off while she pokes her tongue out at me before heading off to serve table twelve.
I, however, continue wiping down a spotless table eight with my eyes peeled to the door because I know he’ll arrive any minute now.
He has to.
Twenty minutes came and went with no sign of Dixon. It’s now 2 a.m., and I’m locking up. I can’t wait to go home and forget today ever existed.
I still can’t believe he stood me up. I know we didn’t have a date per se, but we did kind of have plans. I really thought hewasdifferent, as there is definitely something there between us. I know he felt it too, and by the not-so-covert glances, I also know he’s somewhat attracted to me.
But on the flipside, he did look like he was sneaking out of someone’s apartment this morning, and then he wanted me to fist bump him. Maybe I’m just reading into things ’cause God knows, I have limited experience with this kind of stuff.
I’ve never really had a boyfriend, and Tim doesn’t count. We were seeing one another for a month, and after two dates, I knew we wouldn’t work. But Tim thought otherwise, and that’s the reason he got so mad at me the night Dixon and I met. He pretty much demanded I give him another chance. When I said hell to the fuck no, he suggested I “give it up,” as apparently, that’s what our nonexistent relationship was missing. When I not so politely declined, he got a little physical, and that’s when Dixon saved the day.
Apart from the fact I am in no way attracted to Tim, I don’t actually know if I’ll ever be ready to “give it up.”
I’m good at hiding my emotions and feelings, I always have been. But when Dixon told me he was a psychiatrist, I thought my ruse was up. I almost got up and left, but walking away from the first male I was remotely interested in felt wrong. And besides, I promised myself I would no longer allow my past to weigh me down.
I’m so glad I stayed because for the first time in a long time, I actually enjoyed myself and wasn’t constantly looking at my watch, or looking over my shoulder. With Dixon, I felt safe, and I also felt alive.
I switch off the lights and lock up. Living in New York, you just get used to dealing with a trillion locks, and it takes me about two minutes to figure out which key goes into which lock. I’m halfway done when someone taps me on the shoulder, which has me screaming in absolute terror.
“Madison, it’s me! Shit, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” says a familiar voice. I turn around so fast, I nearly fall flat on my ass.
“Dixon?” I wheeze, my hand poised over my beating heart. “What are you doing here?”
I watch as he averts his beautiful blue eyes and shame-facedly replies, “I said I would drop by. I’m sorry I’m late,” he adds.
“Did you run here?” I stupidly ask.
“Well, I would call it a brisk walk,” he confesses with a lopsided smirk as he rolls a stone under his sneaker.
The damp hair at his temples reveals he more than just walked, and I try not to bask in the fact that he ran all the way here just to see me. Mentally giving Mary an “I told you so,” I turn my back and finish locking up, needing a minute to center my raging nerves.
I can’t help but wonder where Dixon has been, as he doesn’t appear to be dressed up, and I dare say, he ran here from his house. So what was he doing till 2 a.m.? And more importantly, who was he doing it with? That thought has me envisioning distasteful scenarios andpositions, but I tell my distrustful mind to quit it with the conspiracy theories for one night.
“Well, I hope you didn’t give yourself a stitch,” I taunt, wanting to lighten the mood.
Dixon scoffs. “I’ll have you know I was a track athlete in high school.”
“The operative word being ‘was,’” I say as I turn around to face him. “And high school was a lonnng time ago for you.”
“Want to put a wager on that?” He smirks, and my God, he is handsome.
“Sure,” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest in hopes my beating heart doesn’t explode from my rib cage.
“You said you run every morning, well, I challenge you to a race,” he smugly declares, raising an eyebrow.
“Name your time and place, Dr. Dixon,” I boldly reply.
“Tomorrow. 6 a.m. Central Park. First person to run a mile in the shortest amount of time is the winner.”
“Let’s make it two miles,” I cockily say, but quickly curse my confidence.
Dixon looks impressed. “Very well, two it is. Meet at North Meadow?”
