by Julia Kent
Yes to a date.
Yes to a kiss.
Yes to the idea that my two warring identities could somehow, inconceivably, co-exist inside me. I'm not planning to shave my head and go back to wearing Doc Martens just yet, but it's nice to smile when I think about Feisty.
When Fletch arrives to pick me up, he's driving his work truck. Two bikes are attached to a rack in the back.
Bikes.
In early November? I'm going to need a balaclava.
“Hey,” he says as I walk down to his truck, his hug like embracing a down comforter with a face. “I forgot to mention a balaclava, so here.” The thin fleece and nylon garment looks like he's offering me a chance to rob a bank.
It's also eerie that he read my mind.
“Thanks.” So much for my hair. “What kind of date is this?” I ask as I adjust my glasses around the balaclava, tucking my long hair in and under the neck of my coat.
“The fun kind.”
“That will be a distinct departure from my experience of dates.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying me, the Patriots knit hat on his head topped with a red, white, and blue pom pom that bounces. “The bar's that low?”
“I've had fun ones. But I’ve never had one that required a balaclava.”
“Then let me rock your world.”
How? You're not naked, I almost blurt out, laughing at the thought, bringing more scrutiny from him. He grins, my laughter infectious.
“What's so funny?”
“I'll tell you later.” Like, at our wedding.
What is going on in my mind? This is Fletch. Chris Fletcher.
Just like that, I'm imagining him as the one.
Jolene says when we break patterns, it's like shattering glass, not like eroding a rock. No steady drip when your consciousness shifts and frees yourself from old looping behaviors that calcified. The turning of a lens yields a completely different perspective, she says.
And it leaves you lighter. Freer. Untethered.
Unchained.
Could it really be this simple?
Moving to the back of his truck, he begins unloading the bikes.
“I thought we were going somewhere.”
“We are.” He points to a thin strip of woods behind my building. “You live on the rail trail. I almost rented an apartment in this complex, you know? Just because of that.”
“That?” I don't have it in me to confess that I have never, ever–in four years of living here–used the rail trail. Not even for a walk. I prefer dirt trails, not asphalt, for running and hiking.
“Yeah. One of the best resources here. If I lived this close, I'd use it twice a day.”
“We're going to bike on the rail trail? In November?”
“Best time. You don't overheat. The trail is sparsely populated. The leaves are gone but the snow hasn't hit. And the small businesses along the way are happy to see you when you break for coffee or ice cream.”
“Now you're talking my language. Coffee. Ice cream. Mmmm.”
Handing me a bike, he pauses, hand covering mine on one of the handlebars. “I assumed you'd be fine with this. You're in fantastic shape, and–”
“How would you know whether I'm in fantastic shape?”
“Uh, the mineral springs. Remember?”
I freeze, chest rising and falling as I keep my breath even, the rush of sexual longing almost unbearable. “Right,” I finally say. “I guess the mystery's gone?” I joke.
He takes that as an invitation to move closer, his breath a white cloud in the cold. “I don't need a mystery, Fiona. Remember? I'm a simple guy. I appreciate quality, hard work, and kindness. You're the whole package.” He kisses me slowly, sweetly, then grabs my ass. “And you've got a really nice package.”
Before I can smack him, he pulls back and jumps on his bike. “Climb on!” he urges.
Repressing a much dirtier image of what that means, I do as he says, straddling the bike seat. “It's too high!” I call out. Circling back, he pauses, rotates his hip so his leg comes over his bike, and reaches in his pocket, kicking his kickstand at the same time.
All of his motions seem synchronized.
“Here,” he says, removing his gloves, his hot palms on my jeans-covered leg enough to send electricity straight up my thigh and into my core. Head down, he pauses, the corners of his mouth turning up as he realizes the effect he's having on me.
“You need to spread your legs a little further if I'm going to make sure it fits just right,” he says, caressing my thigh.
Holy Mother Gaia, I think flames just shot out of my clitoris.
“Isn't that always the case?” I gasp as I slide back off the seat, breaking contact, smirking back.
“It's so tight,” he says as he uses a small wrench to loosen the seat's bolt.
“Flatterer,” I mutter.
He looks up with a wink. “If I don't screw this in just right, you won't be able to sit properly.”
“Make sure you don't strip the nut. I hear that can hurt.”
“Nuts serve a good purpose but are definitely a problem if they get in the way.”
“Not if you know how to handle them properly.”
Fletch stands, staring me down with a grin that makes dimples appear in his cheeks. “Is this how it's going to be?”
“What?”
Pulling lightly on his waistband, he inhales slowly, then sighs. “Until now, my bike seat was a perfectly fine fit. I need a few minutes for that to be true again.”
I climb back on the bike, the seat just right. Pressing the ball of my foot into the metal, I begin biking toward the trail. “Then have fun catching up!” I call out as I take off, laughing maniacally.
“HEY!” he shouts, moving a little slower than he should to his own bike.
This is fun.
For the next five minutes, I'm in the lead, until a blur passes me on the left.
Ah, well. I was ahead for a short time.
For the next ten miles, we bike next to each other, Fletch graciously slowing down to my pace. Our speedometers measure speed and distance, so I know how far we've gone, and as we hit ten miles, I realize nervously that I have to be able to make it back as far as we've come.
A flag on the path, with the logo of a local coffee chain, calls my name.
“Ready for a snack?” he asks, nodding toward an old factory building, the brick exterior still painted with flaking antique signs.
We stop, my legs a little wobbly as we walk in after racking our bikes. Inside, the coffee shop is cozy, a big blackboard behind the counter with the rainbow-chalk menu that’s a staple in every funky little place like this.
We approach the counter, and I reach for my wallet in my coat pocket.
“What's your drink?” Fletch asks me.
I look at the board. “I'd love a macchiato. Hazelnut.” I glance around, as if getting away with something. Perky hates that I love hazelnut coffee.
And then I change my mind.
“Actually – wait. A Golden milk latte, please.” Something about being here, with Fletch, makes me crave more warmth. More comfort.
And a little spice.
“Depth charge,” Fletch says to the clerk. He pulls out his card and swipes before I get a chance.
“Uh, thank you,” I stammer, the truth of this day sinking in. I'm on a date. With Fletch. He's being a grown-up, and we're flirting and kissing and...
I'm on a date.
With Fletch.
“You okay?” The level of attention he's giving me is swoony. “You suddenly went pale. What's up?”
“We're on a date.”
“You're just figuring that out now?”
“Shouldn't this be more awkward?”
“No.”
“That's it? Just... no?”
“Yes.”
“You don't think this should be more awkward?”
“I think this is perfect.” A kiss on the cheek punctuates his sentence, the server giving an awwww
as she slides my golden latte forward. His depth charge, a black coffee with a shot in it, is up next.
We migrate to a booth near a Jøtul wood stove. The scent of burning wood and the uneven heat radiating from the small hearth make it feel like we've rolled back time about seventy years.
“Does dating me bother you?” he asks.
“Millennials don't date.”
“But we are. Dating.”
“We're on a date, but we're not dating.”
“I don't understand.”
“If we're on a date, which is a noun, it doesn't mean we suddenly take it all the way to dating, which is a verb. We haven't made the leap to verbing. We're still in the noun stage.”
“You sound just like Mallory when you talk that way.”
I sip my latte. It's spicy and warm, the thick milk and the yellow turmeric blending with the ginger and a little cayenne to heat me up.
Fletch's look has the same effect.
“Mallory is right much of the time.”
“And here she is, verbing Will on a regular basis.”
In all my years of thinking about Chris Fletcher, the phrase dumb jock was the one that came to mind the most. I was wrong. Sharp and funny, he's a low-key guy who knows how to banter, but who doesn't have to be in the spotlight. His kindness with his sister and nephew, the patience he displayed with his client, Stephanie, and his overall way of making me feel like I matter are blending to replace some stilted, outdated view of him that I’m carrying around.
“I wouldn't know,” I say between sips. “We don't talk about their verb life.”
He laughs, drinking more coffee, stretching out on his side of the booth, the tip of one boot hitting my ankle. “How're your bones?”
“My bones?”
“Handling the ride all right?”
“Oh, sure. Ten miles is nothing.”
The grin spreads. “I knew you'd say that. Let's go for fifty.”
“FIFTY!!”
“Round trip. Not one way.”
“Forty more miles,” I say, nodding. “I can do that. Are we pausing every ten miles?”
“How about we do fifteen more after this and take a nice, long break at the midpoint. I brought food.”
“You did?”
“It's on my bike. No need for a cooler.”
“You thought of everything.”
He takes my hand. “I've been planning this date for a long time.”
“Since the attack?”
“Before then.” Swirling his cup, he stares into it. “Not for seventeen years, but Fiona, you're a damn fine woman. I couldn’t run into you and not notice you.”
“I'm sorry.”
He jerks his head up. “For what?”
“For not noticing you.”
“Why would you? I'm just a guy.”
“You're more than that.” I squeeze his hand. “I'm seeing it now.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“What do you see?”
“A guy who thinks fifty-mile bike rides are a great first date.”
“Weeds out the weak.” As his thumb strokes the back of my hand, my belly warms.
“Most guys just test women in bed. You test them on a bike trail,” I say, standing as I finish my golden milk latte.
“Wait. The bed thing was an option? Because I want a redo.”
Jokingly, I rush to the cup bin, leave my mug there, and race to my bike. I'm too slow, though, because he's behind me, arms around my waist, our playful fun turning quickly into an inspired heat as he kisses me against the brick building, my ponytail caught between my shoulder blades, the tugging sensation barely registering as our tongues tangle with each other, his body so warm, so powerful, so fine.
Pressing in and up against me, Fletch's body has an urgency in the way he kisses, as if this is his one chance and he needs to milk it for all it's worth. My legs part slightly and I feel his erection against my thigh, the undeniable recognition of his sexual maturity colliding with the part of my brain that’s stuck in seventh grade. A giggle starts in the back of my throat, quickly–and rightly–snuffed out by a moan as his hand slides to cup my breast.
Forehead against mine, he suddenly says, “Jesus, Fiona.” A quick breath, hot against my stinging nose. “How the hell am I supposed to make it fifteen more miles without touching you?”
“The same way you made it the first ten.”
“That was torture.”
I press my hips forward, the cold brick chilling my ass cheeks. “So is this.”
He groans. He pulls back, hands on his hips, looking down at the ground as he takes deep breaths. “You're right. This should be more awkward.” Searching eyes meet mine. “Why isn't it?”
“I don't know.”
We grin at each other like idiots.
And then I'm in his arms again, the kiss harder, more poignant, more intense.
“I want to make one thing clear,” I say, taking a pause.
“Hmm?”
“I'm not sleeping with you today.”
Every muscle in his body turns to stone, especially the giant part pressing against my hip. “Huh?”
“I'm managing expectations.”
“I never expected that on a first date.”
“Okay. Good. We're on the same page.”
“I only sleep with women after the thousandth mile.”
“The what?”
“Once we've biked a thousand miles together.”
“Ha ha.”
“I'm serious. How can I get naked with someone I haven't had saddle sores with?”
“You're a true romantic, Fletch.”
“See what you've been missing all these years?”
Bzzz.
I reach for my phone, my hand accidentally touching his erection through his jeans. He makes a frustrated sound. I pretend I didn't do it, and look at my phone.
It's a notification from the dating app.
Pressing the app icon, I wait until it jiggles, then I tap the X to delete it.
“What're you doing?”
“Oh,” I say, pocketing the phone, then kissing him. “Just making space.”
“That was the dating app.”
“You have really good eyes.”
“I'm slightly farsighted.”
I touch the stem of my glasses. “I'm not.”
“Your glasses make you look intriguing.”
“Intriguing?”
“You wear these big frames. Lots of color. It's so different from when we were in school together.” One hand reaches for my brow, a finger running along the line of my hair. “And you have hair. Purple and platinum now.”
“You don't like it?”
“I didn't say that. Just that it's different. When I look at you, I have these completely different images in my mind from memory. They have to merge. Takes some effort.”
“Effort?”
“You're worth the effort.” A long, slow kiss comes next, crowding out the questions on the tip of my tongue. When I look at him, I see the same guy, only better, than I knew when we were kids. How he views my younger self and my now self is, to use his word...
Intriguing.
“I'm both, you know,” I gasp as I pull out of the kiss.
“Both?”
“Old Fi and New Fi. I'm both. I went off to college and decided I didn't want to be a kickass kickboxing hard-edged chick. I wanted to be softer. To feel instead of think or kick. To slow down and appreciate all the ways kids can teach us. They have pure little hearts and their energy is like water to a parched man in the desert for me. Being around them means no hard edges.”
“Soft.” His hand rubs my shoulder. “I can see that.”
“But Fletch, when you look at me – who do you see? Because I'm a bunch of different versions of myself inside. And I think one of them really, really doesn't like you. That one was the part of me that came to the surface every time I saw you.”
“And now?” he asks, eyes searching m
y face. “What part of you is here, with me?” He kisses me gently. “What part of Fiona Gaskill just kissed me?”
Energy warms my blood, flowing like heat and light in every cell of me, the feeling radiant and real, so hopeful and happy I can taste it.
“Every single part,” I whisper.
“Good. Because that's the part I want.”
“Which one?”
“All of them. I see all of them when I look at you, Fiona.” He smiles, eyes narrowing, the brown depth of them too hard to describe. I can only feel them, the emotion behind what they say touching all the years of who I am.
“I'm sorry,” I tell him, the words like bricks I have to lift out of a thousand-mile deep well. But I do it. I lift them and offer their weight to him in the form of apology.
“For what?”
“For carrying around this crazy idea that because I couldn't get over something, it was your fault. You've been taking up a lot of energy inside me, Chris Fletcher. For someone I thought I couldn't stand, I thought about you a lot.”
“How about you keep thinking about me a lot, only in a different way?”
Our mouths meet, his lips soft and full, his arms hard and unyielding as we kiss into each other, burrowing with intensity, the cold wall no longer there, the freezing gust of wind a welcome intrusion to help sweep away the past. We're spinning and spinning, each other's center of gravity, and as I lose myself in him, I realize I've found myself, too.
Finally.
Energy doesn't lie. People do. People can fool themselves, use denial as a tool, create defense mechanisms that look like artwork.
But energy? It just is.
And when you fall for the right person, it's the same way.
It just... is.
Chapter 14
We've been on five dates in just a few weeks, logged 175 bike miles together (turns out he's serious about that whole 1,000 mile thing!), and now it's the ultimate dating test: eating at Taco Cubed together. The technical name for the restaurant is Taco Taco Taco, but Taco Cubed is easier. The best Mexican joint in the region, it was founded the year we graduated high school, and I've been a regular ever since.
Plus, flirting with the owner's son, Pedro Jr., is a fun pasttime.
My eyes cut over to Fletch.
Was. Was a fun pasttime.
“There's a parking spot right there.” Fletch points to a paid municipal lot as I navigate my little electric car through the streets of Anderhill. I'm fully charged, so it feels wrong to take one of the free charging station spots in town.
