by Leanne Davis
One I’m sure as shit going to take. Will Hendricks. I’ll be meeting Mr. Hendricks very soon.
Chapter Eight
~Emily~
Glancing up from my work, I see Ramiro Vasquez speaking to my dad. I blink rapidly as if his image will disappear. What the hell? My heart lifts at my glimpse of him. He’s wearing a gray t-shirt and black, heavy work pants with pockets on the sides and wide loops for tools. His head is covered by a hat over his too long, black hair. Brown work boots finish the ensemble. He dresses just like every other installer I’ve run into since working with my dad. I look just about the same as him, wearing jeans, brown leather boots and a t-shirt as well. There is nothing feminine about the look or the work, but I don’t mind. I was never a slave to fashion. My usual outfit for school was a pair of shorts and comfortable tops that were easy to work out in. Sports bras have always been a necessary foundation for me. I never dress stylishly like Christina or even Melissa, who always manages to look amazing.
After only five days since Saturday, I don’t expect to see Ramiro here. Not this soon. I texted him the next day and we had several long conversations. Our last exchange lasted well into the night. Silly stuff. Nothing of any consequence. The polar opposite of Harrison’s continued text messages. However, Harrison’s are on the borderline of threatening and well beyond insulting, while Ramiro’s are lighthearted and easygoing. His only intention is making me smile. Which he does. Continuously.
His texts always starts with what are you up to? then follow with the friendly facts of the day. They happen at randomly odd times and mean nothing. But each one makes me smile every time and a bubble of laughter inevitably escapes me. He asks things like did you know a sneeze flies out of your mouth at over 100 mph? or tourists should know that tipping in Iceland restaurants is considered rude or alektorophobia is the fear of chickens. And oddly enough, but true, a mole can dig a tunnel at a rate of 300 feet per night in soil.
What the hell does any of that have to do with anything? When I ask him why, he never answers but texts about other subject matters, managing to swiftly engage me in something else. Icebreaker? Perhaps, but it works. He’s funny and so full of trivia that he either searches on the internet or simply remembers. He’s rarely serious, which makes him even more funny in an oddball way. The obstacles he has faced in his life have not made him bitter. He’s always upbeat, silly, and fun to be around. He’s like a breath of fresh air and he invigorates me.
Seeing how he took me up on my offer, my dad’s, I mean, and replied to him without my help or inclusion actually surprises me. I wonder why he didn’t ask me to introduce him to my dad first or even mention to me that he planned to pursue the option. It increases my respect for him. I see him nodding and shaking my dad’s hand as he steps back, and he says something more. My dad returns to his office. Ramiro notices me when he turns around. A huge smile fills my face. Ramiro’s gaze stays riveted on mine and the enormous grin on his face is his response. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming by? I could have introduced you to Dad.”
“I called him up a few days ago and arranged for an interview. Right thing to do. He had to make his decision on his own, not because you recommended me.”
Definitely not using me. Earning more respect too. “How’d it go? He question you’re…?”
“Nothing. I told him I got his name from you, and that I was interested in seasonal work, nothing permanent. I said I just wanted to make some extra cash if he had any work. He said yes and gave me the terms and I said it sounded great. He said to expect a call so…”
“You should expect one. He’d have told you if it were otherwise. He doesn’t worry about hurting anyone’s feelings.”
“Well, then, co-worker…”
I grin. I can’t help it. “I hope so. I’m off right now. Want to go grab a movie or something? That is, if you’re free…”
“Sure,” he shrugs.
He waits for me to wash up. I glance in the mirror, pulling my hair back, and wash my hands and face, trying to straighten out my clothes, but the grubby work clothes speak for themselves. I stick my tongue out in the mirror. Not exactly ideal date material which only reminds me, thankfully, that this is not a date.
He smiles when I emerge from the warehouse. He’s leaning against his old truck. He straightens up and something stirs in my heart. A rush of emotion jolts through my body. Good feelings. Excited feelings. Surprised feelings. I reassure myself it’s because I’m so glad to see a friend. He is new and different and he makes me smile. For some reason, it’s particularly easy for me to smile whenever I’m around him.
“So, who’s driving?”
“You. Dad can give me a ride in tomorrow.” He nods as I duck into his truck after grabbing my small purse from my car. I parked my car in the secure lot behind Dad’s office.
We enter the movie theater, and the cool, air-conditioned environment steals my breath. Goose bumps rise on my bare arms and I rub them. “Air conditioning works,” Ramiro smiles, quirking his eyebrows. “But maybe your dad could convince them not to try and replicate the Arctic.”
My eyes adjust when the daylight is shut out as we give our tickets to the usher and prepare to watch the newest sci-fi release. He’s amazed when I agree to watch it. I roll my eyes. “Girls like good movies, too.”
“Action? Aliens? Spaceships?” His eyebrows rise and fall in rapid succession. “What about the kissing? And sappy lame jokes?”
“Why would I need to watch those, when I have your lame jokes to amuse me?” I shove him good naturedly and he laughs when he misses a step.
“Okay, okay. Sci-fi it is.”
We sit together and I’m super aware of him. Like every time he shifts or moves his elbow. For a while, our arms rest against each other when we share the armrest. It’s so juvenile, and I feel like I’m fifteen again, and so excited that a guy said hi to me as he passed me in the school hallway. But the pressure of his bare arm against mine makes me freeze. He doesn’t glance my way, or seem affected, so I try to remain cool. Friends. We are rapidly becoming friends. We click for some odd reason. It’s almost like we’ve been around each other for years and not weeks. The casual ease I feel when I’m around him is more like I'd feel hanging around a guy I’ve known since middle school, not a recent acquaintance. But that comfort has an edge. An exciting edge. I’m always aware of him. I never fail to notice him. There’s a flicker of chemistry, attraction, humor, and something more between us, or at least, there is on my end. That’s part of the thrill too… I have no idea what Ramiro feels. I only ever dated Harrison. We were friends in elementary school and started to flirt and pair off during our sophomore year. By the time we began to date, it seemed like an inevitable conclusion. Emily and Harrison. We were considered so perfectly suited for each other. So companionable. So unified.
With Ramiro? I don’t know. I’m usually confident, but I’m not with him. I don’t have enough experience to describe how I feel.
It is freezing in the theater. I can’t warm up in the frigid building. I curl my arms over my chest and rub my bare biceps. He leans over to me halfway through the movie. “Still cold?”
“Yeah.”
A panic almost incapacitates my body. I’m not ready for anything beyond friends. Why is he asking me that? He has no sweatshirt to give me and I don’t want to start touching or hugging or doing anything along those lines. My affair with Harrison is still way too raw. But he whispers, “We can go now. This movie’s kind of lame anyway.”
“I like it,” I whisper back. “I’ll be fine.”
He shrugs and sighs dramatically. “I tried.”
I punch his shoulder again in mock teasing. “You tried for your sake, not mine.”
He ducks his face down in a shit-eating grin. “Sure. But if you can suffer with the cold, I can suffer the ham and cheese. The acting is so bad it’s almost believable.”
We finish the movie and I honestly do like it. Exiting the theater, I’m relieved it’s warme
r outside and I revel in the balmy air. “This feels amazing.” We walk towards his truck.
“Wanna go get a drink or something?”
“Actually, how do you feel about some pizza?”
He flashes a nod of approval. “Even better.”
We eat pizza and share a pitcher of beer, filling up my growling stomach. We watch the bar’s TV and give each other crap about the opposing baseball teams. He’s knowledgeable, but I have him beat in more than one category.
“How do you know so much about this stuff?”
“Oh, gee, we little ol’ women know all kinds of grown-up facts nowadays,” I reply in a saccharine, belabored Southern accent.
He rolls his eyes. “Okay, you got me. I’m a sexist pig. It happens. But, come on, I’ve dated enough girls to know most of them don’t know or care about sports.”
“Well, duh. Only goes to prove you’ve been dating the wrong girls.”
His gaze meets mine. I’m about to take a bite of pizza but his strangely intense stare halts me and I stare back at him over the steaming slice of juicy pizza. “Maybe I have been,” he says in a deep, soft tone. No teasing. No usual banter. Frowning, my eyebrows drop. He sounds… odd. I press my lips together. Then I take a bite. Chewing, I look away to ignore his sudden, seriously intense expression. Not ready. No. No. No.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “My dad taught me about it. We always watched games together. I know how to play every sport you can imagine. So I was always a big fan of the professionals.”
He leans over, breaking the spell and grabbing another slice before biting it. “You were good?”
“The best.” No kidding around. No flinching. Years ago, I learned to embrace my natural athleticism and spent my teens polishing my skills and natural aptitudes. I worked out, ran, lifted light weights and did yoga and cardio, but mostly, I played all types of sports. Any kind of ball you can name, I played it. So I am not very modest about that. It can turn people off, or surprise them by how confident I am. I try very hard not to appear obnoxious or cocky, but I would be lying if I hid behind false modesty.
“Any favorite?”
“No. Not really. I miss that the most since graduating. I no longer can play on a team. I miss the competition, the comradery, and the sense of belonging to a team, something greater than myself.”
He shudders and takes a long gulp of beer. “Not me. I avoid memberships on purpose. Not once have I had any desire to join anything. I can’t think of one team I ever belonged to, except perhaps the Mexican team. But that’s not by choice.”
I shake my head. “You shouldn’t say stuff like that.”
“Why?”
“Celebrating your own culture is a positive thing.”
He tips his drink back and takes another long sip. His throat vibrates before he smirks and asks. “Is that what you do?”
“No. Duh. White greatness is pretty much exploited in every major aspect of American life.”
He rubs his chin. “Interesting you see it that way.”
“Isn’t it true?”
“Well, yeah, I guess it is. Just not many people see it.”
“By people… you mean, white people?”
His smile is quick. “Yeah, most don’t.”
“My dad had his own company. He gave me a job as well as free room and board. My rich aunt paid for my college degree and therefore, I might have gotten more opportunity than someone else.”
“Someone colored.”
“Someone with less financial influence than me.”
“Someone colored,” he presses.
I finally nod. “Yes, perhaps more so than many of color.”
He sighs and tosses a napkin down. “Well, you’re freaking hard to resent.”
My face scrunches up. “Do you want to resent me?”
His face loses all his usual kidding and he shakes his head. “Yes, I kind of do. It would be easier,” he mutters.
“Easier? For what?” I ask, growing curious.
His smile suddenly returns. “Easier to get you going. I was just kidding you, snowflake. You rile up quickly.”
“You like to see me upset?”
“I like to know your attitude.”
I glare at him but shrug it off. He often does that. “I don’t rile up quickly. Kind of sexist of you to assume I’ll get emotional,” I mumble.
“You do, too. But it’s not being sexist. You think carefully about things and maybe that’s what I like to see, how your mind works.”
“Wow, first guy your age to admire a girl’s brain.”
“Now who’s stereotyping? I can think with something other than my—”
“Yes,” I interrupt him and his grin stretches even wider. “Yes, I’ll bet you can.” He snickers and I add, “Sometimes.”
Back to our bickering, flirting, and general ease together. After we eat, he pulls into the driveway of my parents’ house. “So your dad seemed pretty decent. Stern, but fair.”
“He is.”
“You look a lot like him.”
“Yes. I act the most like him too.”
“Stern and fair? Not exactly how I’d describe you.”
“How would you describe me?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.
He taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “Well, nice. To the point that you forget to ask yourself what you want. You follow the rules obediently, again, to the point you might forget how to be a person. Athletic too, I can see by how you ran from your wedding, quite the sprint, despite the extra fifty pounds of dress—”
He lets out an oomph! when I smack him on the arm for the nth time with my fist. He moves away from me, laughing some more, but his other hand grabs my fist just as I retract it from his side. His grip is surprisingly tight. His fingers hold my hand. Somehow, the laughing stops, along with the conversation and our gazes meld together. My head is buzzing and all I can feel is the heat of his palm and fingers cradling mine. I feel his index finger move, rubbing mine. He keeps hold of it and I make no effort to withdraw it. A peculiar quiet fills the truck and I grow breathless.
“And you’re tough,” he says.
“How would you know?”
“You’re always beating me up.” He flashes a smile. My hand is still in his but he isn’t holding it with such a tight grasp any longer. I could pull it free quite easily, but I don’t. His teasing tone and matching smile are in stark contrast to his eyes. They gleam with a different message. There is a distinct shift. He’s noticing me and not just as his friend. “But you’re also pretty.”
The mild compliment makes me blush like crazy. “I should… go,” I finally say. Something scares me back into my shell. Gun shy? Unsure? I’m so unclear about who I am, where I’m going, and what I’m doing since my foiled wedding that this alarms me.
He releases my hand and the new gleam in his eye vanishes as he faces forward and nods. “Sure thing, snowflake. See you later then?”
I open the truck door and exit. Before I slam it shut, I dip my head back in so he can see me. I say, “Did you know that a zarf is the thing that goes around a coffee cup when it doesn’t have a handle?”
“Um… no. What is that? Girl trivia?”
“Sexist! I looked it up after I drank my morning coffee. I couldn’t figure out what the cardboard holder around it is called. I assumed it was a sleeve or something else.” I roll my eyes and he responds in kind. Finally, we’re back on familiar ground. “And your stupid facts of the day are so much more scintillating?”
“You know it, baby girl,” he replies with a salacious grin. He winks at me and adds, “Try again tomorrow. We’ll work on it.” He pulls away, still grinning and I feel good. I can’t wait to hear from him tomorrow. And feeling relaxed and having fun for the sake of fun is strangely freeing and exhilarating.
Since this happened, well, actually, before that, as school was winding down, I was crazy busy. I became so stressed to get my work done and the wedding planned and deciding that I wasn’t in love w
ith Harrison anymore, I felt hollow. I didn’t look forward to each day, I just tried to get through them.
It feels good right now to actually look forward to something new. And that something is Ramiro Vasquez.
I receive his random, worthless fact of the day first thing in the morning, and get another one in the afternoon. It leads to dozens of texts between us. Sometimes, I make fun of him and on others, I describe innocuous stuff like what we’re doing. Days pass with us doing that. It makes it almost exciting to carry my phone around again. After all the nasty remarks I received from Harrison and his friends, along with my own former friends, I glow with anticipation when I hear the ping of a new text message and my heart speeds up. I wonder if it’s from Harrison, in which case my heart drops in disappointment. Or is it from Ramiro? In that case, my heart swells with joy. It’s simply fun, and I haven’t had much fun in a very long time. What I share with Ramiro is not life changing, and that feels good, too.
After a few weeks, I report to the office and find out where I’m scheduled to work that day. Ramiro is standing there when I walk in. The wide smile that reaches my cheeks is perhaps a bit inappropriate for a girl who is simply greeting her fellow coworker.
The grin I receive in return, however, is even bigger than mine.
~Ramiro~
I finally meet Will Hendricks. He takes my call with a polite, brisk tone. Yes, he keeps a list of people on file to call with overflow work. Come in two days from now and we’ll talk. No lengthy interview, but at least he took a moment to meet me. I make no mention of Emily. I have no idea if he already connected the dots, but he doesn’t ask about or even refer to her. I tell him I’m willing to work “just between us” and Will nods.
He replies, “That’s fine with me either way. You make the same amount of money.”
I shake his hand. All the while I want to spit on my hand and wipe away any imprint of him. Something poisonous flows through my blood.
