by Anthology
“How much do you remember about last night?” he questions.
“Dinner with my sister,” I reply, replacing the covering and taping it sturdily. “I don’t recall much after I sent her home. But I can put two and two together.”
“We didn’t fuck if that’s what you think.” He steps away, appearing offended that I’d even assume he would attempt taking advantage of me. The idea of him wanting me is ridiculous. Even with all those tattoos concealing his body, he’s made himself transparent. He wants little to nothing to do with me.
“After you came into my shop, you blacked out,” he clarifies the situation. “It wouldn’t have been very noble of me if I dropped you off at your place in that vulnerable condition. I figured you would be better off here with me and I’d drive you home on my way to the shop this morning.”
“Um,” I scratch the back of my head nervously, humiliated I jumped to conclusions, “thank you.”
With a slight nod of his head, a smile flashes over his lips, vanishing faster than it appeared. “Thanks for the bandage,” he says, pulling on a shirt.
“No problem,” I mumble, tucking a chunk of chestnut hair behind my ear. His lips part to suck in a rapid breath.
“You should probably get dressed,” he suggests, an afflicted expression hardening his face. He stares into my eyes for an erratic beat or two of my thumping heart before turning on his heels and walking toward the stairs. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
As he drives me back to my place, I think of a way to apologize for assuming the worst of him earlier.
“About this morning—”
“It’s fine, Abby,” he says, glancing at the rearview mirror. “Don’t worry about it.”
“It was wrong of me to think you’d take advantage of me. You’ve done nothing but help me ever since we met. You must let me make it up to you.”
“Abby,” he sighs.
“Jamison,” I sigh, mimicking him.
He silently chuckles, shaking his head. “Look, if this is some kind of conscience thing, you don’t owe me, really.”
“I owe you my life,” I correct him. “And I don’t like owing anyone anything, especially not a life. It would make me feel better if I could make a kind gesture to show my gratitude.”
“Then your reasons for thanking me are selfish,” he comments, his voice soft and playful.
“Purely,” I attest as we pull up in front of Delaney’s.
His resolve clearly breaking down, he groans in mock protest, rolling his incredibly unique eyes. “I’ll see you Friday. Be ready around one.”
“Friday,” I repeat, trying desperately to hide my bursting happiness before exiting the car. When he drives off, I can’t contain it another second, smiling from ear to ear.
After my night with Jamison, I returned to work, ready to forget about the attack. Sorry to say, it was harder than I’d thought it would be. I tried to stay out of the kitchen, but it was unfeasible with my job. I frequently assist Marcus in there when things get as busy as it was this week. The only thing that kept me going was knowing I’d see Jamison. I haven’t been able to stop thinking of him for a minute, which can be dangerous in a place full of sharp, hot metal objects.
Thankfully, Seamus didn’t come into the restaurant, which gave me a small sense of relief.
By the end of the week, I start to feel better, normal even. All except for this nagging ache in my chest, but with everything on my plate, I assume it’s stress related.
Friday morning, I receive a text, my breath hitching when I see Jamison’s name on the screen.
Wear something casual.
I sport a pair of jeans, a black sweater, and my army green parka. It’s my favorite. I’ll even wear it over my nicer clothes when the weather turns frosty.
At five past one, he picks me up in his midnight blue Charger. He doesn’t look at me or compliment me on how I look or even attempt a conversation during our drive. It makes me wonder if I’m barking up the wrong tree. Maybe he really isn’t attracted to me like I am to him. When the silence gets to be too much, I pick topics to talk about. “Were you born in Boston?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your last name?”
“O’Rourke.”
“Oh, like the crime boss?” He gives me a quick side-glance, seemingly uncomfortable. I’m starting to get annoyed by his lack of enthusiasm. He’s acting like he doesn’t want to be here. “You aren’t making this very easy on me.”
“Am I supposed to?” He smiles to himself. But when he sees I’m anything but amused, his mouth drops at the corners. “I grew up in Boston with my dad and brothers.”
“What about your mom?”
“What about you?” he asks, avoiding the question. “What’s your deal?”
“My sister and I were born in Boston, raised by our grandparents, Nana and Papa. When Meg and I were babies, we were sent to live with them after our parents died in a car accident.”
“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he says quietly.
“Nah,” I respond, crossing my arms over my chest. “I had a great childhood. They were wonderful parents, Nana and Papa.”
“Was Meghan the girl you dragged into my shop?”
Since he’s taking interest, I answer willingly, “Yes.” I won’t usually talk about my family or my past with a man. Unless, he’s been listed perpetually in the friend zone. But it’s easy to open up to him. Maybe it’s his quietly confident demeanor.
“She doesn’t look like you,” he remarks.
“She takes after my mother, red hair, freckles, green eyes. I take after my father, dark hair, fair skin, blue eyes.”
Before we get any deeper into our conversation, he says, “I hope you like baseball.”
Looking out the foggy passenger window, I see endless brick walls, tall green beams, and red, navy, and white everywhere. We’re at Fenway Park.
I smile at him politely.
I know I might get chased down the street by mobs of angry Bostonians, but I’ve never really followed sports, let alone attended a game. However, I’ll try anything once. The roses on my hip are a testament to that philosophy.
Miraculously, we find parking, and he shuts off the car, reaching into the backseat to recover two baseball caps. Plopping one on my head, he yanks the bill down until it obscures most of my face.
“You don’t seem like a baseball fan,” I comment, fixing my hat.
“My dad and brothers are huge Sox fans. I’ve followed them since I was born.” He tips the brim over his eyes, quickly checking it in the rearview mirror before getting out and opening my door for me. We walk toward our gate, weaving between fans decked out in red and blue, and stand in line to enter the park.
“So, when do we get the tickets?” I ask.
“I have them already,” he responds, pulling them out of his back pocket.
“This was supposed to be my treat,” I complain.
“My family has season tickets.”
“Then I get dinner and drinks later.” I stick my hand out to him. “Deal?”
He takes it with a skewed smile.
“Deal.”
When he escorts me to our seats, I’m surprised how level we are to the field. We’re so close I hear the team talking in the dugout. The game is only halfway through the first inning before I begin to understand why he enjoys it—not the game itself, but the electric atmosphere of a stadium teeming with boisterous, screaming fans. It’s heady.
There’s an outpouring of cheers when the opposing team makes an error. “You’re lucky,” Jamison says into my ear, muffled by the lively crowd around us.
“Why?”
“You’re here when we play the Yankees.”
I don’t know much about baseball, but I know how Boston feels about New York.
I sink back into my seat and enjoy the pleasantly tepid, late April day. Winter is melting away, and spring is beginning to bloom.
After a few innings, I’m total
ly sold. I love the energy here. I love the crack of the ball when it makes contact with the bat. I love the unique smells of ballpark food, beer, freshly cut grass, and damp dirt. Most of all, I love being here with Jamison.
I ask him questions along the way and he answers eagerly. He tells me about the Green Monster, the park’s history, and the players worth knowing. He goes through what play means what, patiently re-explaining everything I don’t understand. I like listening to him talk about the game. He lights up.
During the seventh inning stretch, he leans his lips into my ear. “Are you hungry?” he asks.
Turning my head to acknowledge him, I’m met by his amazingly distinctive brown and gray eyes, our lips scarcely meeting. “For what?” I inquire, my voice breathy.
“Um,” he mutters, holding his mouth so close to mine you couldn’t fit a sheet of folded paper between us. He pulls himself away from me. “What do you want from the concession?”
“I-I don’t know what they have.” Shaking the almost kiss off, I grab my bag, determined to buy lunch for us. I don’t like owing people and I already owe him everything. “I’ll come with you.”
We climb up the stairs and over to the nearest food stand. I look over the large menu on the back wall.
“What would you like?” Jamison asks.
“Surprise me. You know what’s good here.”
He smiles then turns to the girl at the counter. “We’ll take two Fenway franks and two beers, Sam Adams.”
She goes to work making our order and when she brings it over, I pull out my wallet and take out some cash. I begin to pass it to her, but Jamison blocks my hand, “Put your money away,” giving her cash instead. He walks over to the condiment table and begins piling our dogs up with all the fixings.
“Why won’t you let me pay for anything?” I ask. Whine, really.
“You’ve got dinner, remember?”
I roll my eyes and cross my arms, waiting for him to finish when I feel a pinch on my ass.
“Hey!” I shout, spinning around to confront the asshole. He looks like he’s three sheets to the wind. “What’s your problem, dickhead!” I shove him in the shoulder and he jerks back.
“What happened?” Jamison asks, taking his place beside me.
“This prick touched my damn ass!”
Rage reddens his face.
“Did you touch her?” he questions him.
The drunk responds with slurred words, “It’s such a sweet ass.”
In a haze of fists, the drunk is down on the floor, his bottom lip busted.
“Don’t put your fucking hands on her again, got it?” He grabs my hand into his, trembling with rage, and pulls me away, leaving our beers and franks behind.
“Where are we going?”
“Away from here.”
“Why?”
“Because if we don’t,” he growls, “I’ll kill him.”
As we drove back to my neighborhood in silence, he almost seemed upset with me.
We turn onto Hanover, and my stomach does the same. I’m absolutely starving. I haven’t eaten all day. “Where are we going to eat?” I ask.
Keeping his eyes on the road, he replies, “I’m taking you home.”
“Why?” I sit straight. “I don’t want you to take me home yet.”
He doesn’t respond this time, pulling up to the curb in front of my restaurant.
“Have a good night, Abby.”
He won’t look at me.
“No,” I refuse, crossing my arms. I won’t let him push me out before I understand what changed things between us. He was finally breaking down his defenses.
“Please, get out of my car.”
“Why won’t you talk to me?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he grumbles.
“You’re upset with me.” I place my hand on his arm. “What did I do wrong?”
He shuts his eyes and drops his face. “It’s who I am. We can’t be friends.”
“Good,” I blurt. “I don’t want to be friends. I like you.”
“You don’t know me,” he states, shooting me a look as if I’m insane.
“But—”
With both hands fisted about the steering wheel, his knuckles white from the strain, he bites out, “I don’t like you. Don’t you get it? I keep telling you to leave me the fuck alone, and you can’t seem to get the hint.”
His knife-like words, sharp and quick, slice into my foolish hopes like weak flesh. It’s been years since I’ve liked anyone, not since my final year at school before my grandmother became ill, and the first man I want more from than friendship, doesn’t want me.
Before he can see my hurt, I jump out and run to the entrance of my building without looking back. I run up the stairs and into my apartment, tossing my purse across the room.
What the hell was I thinking?
As I stand at my door, his car loudly speeds off down the street with a squeal of tires. When I can’t hear it anymore, I walk into my bedroom and flop on the bed face first, weeping silently until I drift to sleep.
Something wakes me. I sit up in bed, looking about my room and listening to silence. When nothing seems out of place, I lay my head back on my pillow and shut my eyes.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I spring back up and check my clock. Two-forty. Is someone really at my front door this late? Slipping out of bed, I groggily walk out of my room and towards the source of my disturbed sleep.
“Who is it?” I ask cautiously.
“Let me in,” Jamison growls from behind the barrier. I open it for him and he steps inside, snatching me into his arms. His forceful lips harshly meet mine, making me forget myself. I fling my limbs about his big body when he raises me up into his arms, smashing me against the wall. He kisses me long and hard, deep and slow. When we break apart, winded, I search his wild eyes, my hands cupped to the sides of his face.
“I thought you didn’t like me,” I pant through gasps of air.
He buries his mouth in my neck and softly draws on the tender flesh.
“I lied.”
CHAPTER 4
EVEN THOUGH I really wanted him to, he didn’t spend the night, but promised to come over the next evening after he closed up shop.
I head into the restaurant the following morning knowing it will be a long day. Luckily, it isn’t as slow as I thought it would be. Hustling to keep up with the mad flow of customers throughout the day, I seldom steal a moment to blink. It’s even busy during our slower times of day. By the time I actually have a chance to look up at a clock, it’s nearly closing time. Once the final customer leaves, I start getting the place cleaned up and ready for Jamison’s arrival. I left a note taped to my front door, telling him to come down to the restaurant when he found it. The front door opens as I’m putting the finishing touches on everything.
“Abby?” Jamison calls to me from the dining room. The double doors crack slightly, his head peeking through. He doesn’t see me at first glance, his eyes shifting about the room until they finally set on me, a warm grin cracking the seam of his lips to show off his deep-set dimples. On the counter behind me, I’ve set out a few tea candles and a small bouquet of three red roses. He walks over to me standing beside it and sets his hands on my cheeks, pressing my lips into his briefly. “What is all this?” he asks when he breaks away, looking over the table.
“Since things ended so abruptly yesterday,” I step back, “I didn’t get to buy you dinner.” He smiles affectionately at me again, pulling me back in for another kiss. “Sit,” I mumble into his mouth.
He sits on one of the bar stools I placed at the prepping counter. Walking over to the oven, I take out two plates and bring them back to him. The track lighting beams down around him like an island of light.
I spared no expense with this meal. Steak so tender it melts in your mouth, fresh scallops cooked to perfection, asparagus, and roasted red potatoes. And for dessert, cherry pie à la mode with handmade vanilla ice cream.
�
�I can’t believe you cooked this for me.”
“Well, I wanted to show you how much everything you’ve done for me means.”
“This is too much.”
“This isn’t nearly enough compared to my life,” I attempt to convey the immensity of what he’s done for me, “but it’s a good place to start.”
“You know, you keep trying to thank me for saving your life.” He takes my hand, interlocking our fingers. “My getting to you in time is all that matters. Your being alive is thanks enough, alright?”
I nod my head, smiling gently.
We eat and talk about our days, keeping the conversation cheery, nothing heavy. When we finish, he clears the plates while I prepare dessert. Opening the oven and taking out the warm pie, I cut two slices from the tin and place them on plates. I grab the ice cream from the freezer and scoop some out, plopping it atop each piece. As it begins to melt down the sides, I walk back to our makeshift table, slide a plate in front of him, the point directed at him, and watch.
Now, my grandmother always told me there are three types of pie-eaters. The first—and the majority—start at the narrowest point and work their way back to the crust. These are the most predictable people. The second, starts at the center, working from the sides, no rhyme or reason. These people are the hardest to pinpoint. Then, finally, the third, starting at the thick, flaky crust and working their way forward. These people don’t do things by the book. They take their own paths and walk at their own pace.
My grandmother used this test with my grandfather on their first date. She said she would only marry a man who started with the crust. When I was older, I asked why. She said that men who walk a different path are usually happier and better lovers. I don’t know if this is true. Honestly, it’s probably bullshit. Even so, I’ve always been curious.
Without hesitation, he picks up his fork, turns the plate around, and digs into the buttery crust, shoving it into his mouth with a groan. Satisfaction dominating his face, he slowly chews, savoring the taste of cherry, the flakey crust, and vanilla. He swallows and licks his lips, gazing at me from lidded eyes.
