by M. L. Ryan
It was my week to replenish the coffee accoutrements at work, so I had to stop at the store on my way in. By the time I pulled into the parking lot at the farm, Rachel’s car was already there.
The nice thing about not arriving first is that upon opening the door, you are greeted with the heavenly scent of brewing java. I took a deep breath of the heady bouquet as I walked past the pot and deposited the half-and-half in the fridge.
“Wow, that smells great,” I remarked to Rachel, who had just come in from the playroom. “What is that?”
“Some free sample I got at that new shop on Campbell. Some proprietary blend. It tastes good, too.”
I poured myself a cup and proceeded to get the morning chinchilla report from Rachel. She was describing how the weekend crew hadn’t properly secured one of the barriers and the chinchilla had free reign in the playroom all night. I was about to tell her that I would help clean up the resultant mess when I noticed she was looking at me with a puzzled expression on her face.
“What?”
“Since when do you drink your coffee anything but black?” she said curiously.
I looked down at my coffee and was surprised that it was a light toffee color and that the half-and-half container was opened and sitting on top of the table.
“Huh. I didn’t even realize I had put that in,” I shrugged as I put the carton back in the refrigerator.
“You put in two teaspoons of sugar too,” she continued, her eyebrows arched as if to say, “what gives?”
“Really?” I sniffed the contents of the cup before I took a tentative sip. I fully expected to be appalled by the concoction, but I figured I should try it rather than just dumping it down the sink.
Amazingly, the creamy, sweet mix was… satisfying. I could have said that it was actually kind of delicious, but after years of poking fun at Rachel’s habit of “tainting” her coffee, I held my tongue. Of course, when I quickly downed the whole thing, my perfidy was pretty much exposed anyway.
“Maybe you’re pregnant,” Rachel joked.
“Who’s pregnant?” two voices called out simultaneously from the front entrance.
“Hailey,” Rachel explained to Chelsea and Daniel, who managed to catch only the last part of our conversation.
Chelsea and Daniel seemed unfazed by the pronouncement. “Don’t you have to have sex to get pregnant?” Daniel queried.
“So I’ve been told,” I snapped back.
“Hailey just knowingly drank coffee with cream and sugar,” Rachel proclaimed with mock horror.
Smiling, Chelsea pointed out that the other likely explanation was that it could be a sign of the impending apocalypse.
“I thought the Cubs winning the pennant is the sign of the impending apocalypse,” Daniel piped up.
“Very funny. You think my beverage choice is weird,” I chuckled, “yesterday I spent three hours watching Rugby on ESPN2.”
This was, indeed, odd. I liked watching all kinds of sports on TV, but rugby was definitely not one of them. Even after the previous afternoon’s rugby-athon, I still wasn’t sure about the rules, but for some reason I found it enjoyable. I had even searched for more matches to watch after the Wigan Warriors beat the Leeds Rhinos.
Rachel shook her head and laughed. “It could have been worse,” she reasoned. “It could have been NASCAR.”
~4~
The rest of the week was pretty standard, but I still wasn’t quite myself. Maybe I was still getting over my twenty-four hour bug from the weekend, or maybe all the added sugar I was now downing in my coffee was affecting my insulin levels.
On Friday morning, I got ready for a much-needed run. I’m not one of those people that leap out of bed in the morning ready to roll, but somehow, getting in a little jog first thing kind of gets me going. Besides, the way I had been feeling lately, maybe this would help shake off the cobwebs.
No need to assess the weather—I could see the sun was out and at this time of year in the Old Pueblo, I knew it would be chilly. I secured my hair into a ponytail atop my head, pulled on my running gear, and added a sweatshirt to counter the bite of the morning air. A few perfunctory stretches later, I began a slow but steady pace out of my neighborhood and down to the nearby River Park jogging trail.
I’m always amused that what the local powers-that-be call a river park is actually a paved pathway along the side of a bone-dry gulley. Occasionally, after a heavy rain (or three), the wash, as we call it, actually has a lot of water in it for a few hours and people flock to its edges to gawk at the flowing torrent as if they’ve never seen water before.
I was about halfway through my route when I noticed a man jogging toward me. I was accustomed to seeing the usual suspects during my runs. I guess most people have a routine that they like to stick to. There was the woman with long hair past her butt, who rode a bicycle while her Afghan hound lumbered alongside. The shirtless old dude who—regardless of the weather—never wore anything but running shorts and those weird, slipper-like shoes with space for each toe. Then there was the couple that walked a spotted dog, whose right ear was floppy, but the left one stood up straight. But this guy was someone I had never noticed before.
He was still at least a hundred feet in front of me, but even at that distance, I could tell he was tall and incredibly fit. He ran like he could go forever without breaking a good sweat. Bastard.
It wasn’t long before our paths crossed and as they did, we gave each other the obligatory small nod that joggers give in greeting. I was right about the general lack of perspiration. All he had was the slightest glow of moisture on his forehead.
About ten feet further down the path, I tripped. I’m not sure on what, but then again, I wasn’t really paying attention to where my feet were landing while I mentally dissed No Sweat Bastard. I tried to prevent the inevitable fall, but only managed to look even clumsier as I ended up wind- milling my flailing arms before landing on my knees. My now skinned flesh was encrusted with bits of gravel and hurt like hell.
“Son of a bitch,” I groaned, as I rolled onto my side.
“Are you okay?” someone asked as they jogged up from behind. “You took quite a tumble.”
I looked up into the bluest eyes I had ever seen. Who the hell has cornflower blue eyes? Great. He doesn’t sweat while exercising and he has freakishly gorgeous eyes. And he just got to witness me take a header into the macadam.
“I’m fine. Just skinned up and massively embarrassed. I must have looked ridiculous.”
“Not at all,” he countered as he offered me a hand up. “Well, actually, I didn’t really see anything as you were behind me. I heard you, but by the time I turned around, you were already down.”
I declined the help, stood up, and dusted myself off. Close up, I now realized how tall he really was. He had to be at least six-five and I had to step back a bit to be able to look him in the face without craning my neck. His golden blonde hair was medium length, styled back from his face, and was sun streaked with almost silvery highlights. Not perfect features by any means; his nose looked like it might have been broken at some point—not exactly crooked, but a bit flattened toward the bridge and he had a thin, barely visible scar from bottom of his left nostril down to the top of his upper lip. All in all, he looked… nice.
“Are you sure you’re alright? You’re kind of oozing,” he mused as he surveyed the damage to my knees.
Looking up from my tattered skin, he smiled broadly. Don’t get me wrong, he was a good-looking guy. When he smiled, his whole face lit up and was transformed into something glorious.
“Uh, yeah, I guess I’d better get home and clean these off. Thanks for stopping.”
“No problem. Do you run here a lot?”
“I live nearby, so this is one of my go-to morning jogs. Do you live around here?”
Oh god, could I be more lame? Do you live around here? Shit. I sounded like I’m in junior high.
“No, I’m here temporarily. I’m staying at a hotel about three m
iles from here. I figured I would go up to the bridge ahead and turn around,” he said, gesturing toward the bridge about a quarter mile further along the path. “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”
He gave me another one of those dazzling smiles and jogged off. I watched him for a few seconds as he continued on his way. He had a nice body too—lean, but well-muscled. For an instant, I contemplated following him or waiting where I was until he came back this way.
“You really are pathetic,” I said out loud.
I managed to hobble home without incident. Once I washed the crud off, the damage wasn’t too bad. I showered and slapped a couple of giant, adhesive bandages on the worst parts and got ready for work.
Vinnie watched me dry my hair while sitting on the edge of the bathtub. He still wouldn’t sleep in the bed with me, but for the most part his personality disorder from earlier in the week had abated. He padded over and weaved around my ankles as I grabbed my purse. I patted his furry head before I headed out.
By the time I got to the farm, I had only thought about No Sweat Bastard five or six times. Jeez. I really needed to get laid. It had been… a long time. A long, long time, in fact. Come to think of it, I hadn’t come, to think of it, since an ill-advised one night stand with a co-worker at my last job right after my divorce was final. Damn. Had it really been almost three years? As I got out of my car, I vowed that I needed to at least attempt to get back in the game.
“Rachel, you know lots of people,” I began while we were standing side by side in front of the coolers recording the day’s milk production. It’s always less difficult to have an uncomfortable conversation with someone when you are engaged in some other activity. “You don’t happen to know any nice, single, uncomplicated guys, do you?”
An initial flash of surprise gave way to a relieved grin. “Thank god! Are you actually ready to date again?”
I paused, contemplating the implications of actually going out on a date after all this time. “Well, maybe I’m ready to think about dating anyway.”
“Okay, not really the breakthrough we’ve all been waiting for, but it’s a step in the right direction,” she noted with a slight air of resignation.
“What do you mean ‘we’ve all been waiting for’?” I asked suspiciously. “Is this something you all discuss a lot?” I frowned at the thought of people I knew and liked ruminating over my apparently gossip-worthy lack of a love life.
“Hey, we just worry about you. We want you to be happy.”
“I’d be happier if you all weren’t obsessing over my dating habits,” I explained.
Rachel placed the final container of milk into the rack in the cooler before turning to face me.
“We aren’t obsessing over your dating habits. We are obsessing over your lack of dating habits.” With that comment, she moved past me and into the office.
“Sure, easy for you to say, she who makes men stop and stare when she walks by,” I called out to her back. Now I was just getting snippy. I followed her, sulking, and plunked myself into my chair.
Rachel narrowed her eyes and pointed an accusatory finger in my direction. “Look, you are beautiful, but you might as well have a sign on you that says ‘Back off!’ If men aren’t falling all over you, it’s only because at some level, you don’t want them to.”
I knew she was right. Well, at least about the sign thing.
“I said I would think about dating,” I uttered sheepishly. “I was thinking we should all try and meet at O’Reilly’s tonight,” I began as a means to change the topic. O’Reilly’s was a pub far enough from the university campus to discourage the college crowd and centrally located enough for me, Rachel, Harrison, Chelsea, and Daniel not to have to drive all night to get there. The drinks were generous, they had tasty food specials, and a live band on Friday nights.
“Only if you let me scope out some potential man flesh for you while we’re there,” Rachel teased.
“Perfect,” I replied. “But make sure he’s rich, handsome, and intelligent.”
“I thought you just wanted single, nice, and uncomplicated?” she countered.
“Well, since I’m so freaking hot, I decided to raise my standards.”
It turned out that Chelsea and Daniel had already made other plans so it was just going to be Rachel, Harrison, and me. We planned to meet up around nine, but for some reason I was feeling antsy and I got there about a half hour early. I generally don’t like sitting at the bar by myself, but it was already crowded and there weren’t any empty tables. It looked like the band was getting ready to start a set, so I took a seat as far away from the stage as possible.
The bartender, Wyatt, a muscular, dreadlocked, redhead with colorful tattoos covering almost every inch of visible flesh, gave me a small wave as both greeting and indication that he was busy and would be with me shortly. Wyatt had been the regular bartender at O’Reilly’s for as long as I had been going there. He mixed fine drinks, was usually pleasant, and didn’t like to make small talk. If not for the fact that he was married and a rabid Arizona State fan, he might have been the perfect guy for me.
While I waited for Wyatt to take my order, I swung around on the stool and glanced about the room, searching for anyone I might know so I could hang with them instead of at the bar. No such luck. Someone slipped into the empty seat next to me and, from over my right shoulder, I heard “Hey, how’s the knees?”
I turned back and was caught in the cornflower blue gaze of No Sweat Bastard. And he looked even better in the tight black t-shirt and black jeans he was wearing than he did this morning. The outfit accentuated his sinewy, athletic physique, while giving him a look of confident masculinity. Yum.
“I almost didn’t recognize you with your hair down,” NSB remarked. “It looks good this way.”
As my bad luck would have it, Wyatt picked that moment to come by and ask what we wanted.
“You having your usual?” Wyatt drawled as he started to grab a bottle of Patron.
Wyatt knew me well. The only alcohol I ever drank was tequila—in either a margarita or straight. I heard someone say “No. Glen Fiddich, rocks,” and realized that it was me.
I wanted to immediately right the obvious wrong that was my drink order, but I was too embarrassed to admit I had ordered misordered in front of NSB. I thought I noticed a flash of unease on his face when I asked for the scotch, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. He probably thought I was trying to seem exotic or something, ordering single-malt. Great, I fretted—now I was doubly self-conscious.
“I’ll have the same,” he directed toward Wyatt. To me, he said, “I never introduced myself this morning. I’m Alex. Alex Sunderland.”
“Hailey Parrish,” I replied. Not wanting the conversation to stall, the only thing I could come up with next was, “Wow. What are the odds that we would run into each other twice in one day?”
He unleashed one of those spectacular smiles my way and said, laughing, “Astronomical, I would think.”
Just then, my purse started to vibrate. When I went out some place crowded, I liked to use one of those little cross-body bags instead of the behemoth I usually carried. That way, I was forced to limit myself to the essentials—phone, driver’s license, lip-gloss, some cash, and a credit card—and I never had to worry about misplacing it in the throng. I excused myself, and turned away slightly as I grabbed the phone. It was Rachel.
“Hailey, I’m really sorry, but Harrison has some sort of stomach bug and he’s currently curled in the fetal position on the bathroom floor moaning, ‘kill me’, over and over.”
Ew. “That sounds awful. Does he need to go to urgent care?”
“No,” she continued, “but you know men; they’re such babies when they are sick. Obviously, we are going to have to beg off tonight. Are you already at the bar?”
“Yeah, I got here early,” I yelled. Even with my finger pressed into my other ear, I could barely make out what she was saying with all the raucous bar noise. “Too bad Harrison’s s
ick. Tell him I hope he feels better.”
“I’m sure he will be by tomorrow. But I feel terrible that you are there by yourself.”
“No problem,” I assured her. No problem, indeed, I thought as I glanced at Alex, who was paying for both the drinks that Wyatt had just delivered. “Hey, it’s really noisy in here, so I’m having a hard time hearing you. I’m fine, though. I’ll just talk to you tomorrow.”
I ended the call and set the phone on the bar. I wasn’t particularly unhappy that they weren’t coming. After all, Alex was easy on the eyes and Rachel would be so proud of me for talking to him instead of making an excuse to hide in the ladies’ room. Besides, there was something about him that felt very familiar, like I had known him for a long time. Astounding as it seemed, I actually felt comfortable sitting with him.
As I turned to face him, he raised his glass towards me and I did the same with mine. We saluted each other with scotch and I took a sip. God, this stuff really is wretched, I thought, but somehow I felt compelled to keep drinking. And not just to keep up the pretense of having ordered something I actually liked. It was the weirdest feeling—wanting to both spit it out yet, at the same time, longing for the next mouthful. It occurred to me that maybe that’s how all scotch drinkers feel. Because truly, the stuff tasted like turpentine.
Throughout the evening, the conversation encompassed the usual get-to-know you banter. I got the important information without too much digging; he was single and an insurance adjuster from Portland, Oregon in town for two weeks for some specialized training. He seemed sincere, but really, he could be from Salt Lake City and unemployed with ten kids for all I really knew. Not wanting to get into a complicated dialogue about my unusual career path, I just said I worked at a local dairy. That was my go-to angle when I wasn’t in the mood to get into the specifics.
