Dan walks up as I’m pulling on a t-shirt and grabbing my water bottle.
“Can I buy you a beer?” he asks, simply.
Daniel Moore has his own lengthy history with competitive sports. Having participated in athletics all through his primary education and played Division I basketball on a full scholarship for The University of Virginia, he seems to understand that side of me that hates to lose even more than it likes to win. I’d bet he’s exactly the same way. He doesn’t try to congratulate me for great play, or to try to make me feel better for missing that shot. He just tosses my gym bag over his shoulder, throws his bent elbow out a bit from his body, and motions with his head for me to take hold of his arm.
While the crowds head towards the parking lot, Dan steers us back towards the main building of the Ritz-Carlton hotel, which sits on an incredibly scenic piece of property on the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I sneak a sidelong peek at him while we walk along in companionable silence. He’s in a navy sweatshirt and beige shorts that show off his tanned, muscular legs. His hair is a little ruffled from the ocean breeze, and his aviators are hanging from the front of his crew neck collar. We look like an Abercrombie ad–or at least he does. At present, I look more like the girl who accidentally stumbled into the frame.
When he catches me glancing at him, he smiles warmly and presses his elbow gently into his side, effectively trapping my arm between his torso and his bicep. The motion feels intimate, and I realize that this is the first time we’ve actually touched each other with any real intention.
I’ve thought about touching him a million times, but in the occasions we’ve met up–Starbucks, our hike, breakfast–we’ve always kept a professional distance. Something about tonight feels different, though. He seems slightly less careful around me, slightly more…resigned? It’s hard to know if I’m reading him right, but the dynamic seems to be shifting between us–as if we’re entering into unchartered territory.
The thought is both exciting and terrifying.
§
The Cliffs bar at the Ritz is a small, cozy place. It’s surprisingly casual with dark wood tables and comfortable padded chairs. The real draw is the view, with windows that showcase the jagged coastline and rolling whitecaps below. It’s simply stunning.
When we get inside and find a small table, I head to the restroom to freshen up. I brush the sand out of my hair, wash my face, and change into jeans and a top I had thrown into my bag. My face is flushed, probably because I can’t seem to control my nerves tonight; my heart is pounding, and I swear my stomach has climbed up into my throat.
At the table, Dan looks casual and relaxed–the exact opposite of how I feel. As I approach, his eyes travel the length of my body and he stands, pulling the chair out for me with a triumphant flourish. This is the difference between being with a guy and being with a man.
“You look really pretty,” he says in a slightly awkward way that seems totally out of character for such an elegant, confident man.
It’s actually the very first time he’s ever commented on my appearance. The fact is, I had hoped we might go out after the match, and I chose an outfit to change into that I thought would be flattering. But until this very moment, I couldn’t have said whether or not the effort would be wasted on him.
“Thank you,” I respond in a way that feels equally awkward.
As I sit in the chair he offers, the scrape on the side of my abdomen from that fruitless dive rubs against my denim waistband, and I wince slightly. It hadn’t really bothered me until this point, but it’s screaming now.
He notices, and his expression quickly turns to concern. “Let me see.”
“It’s fine,” I tell him, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention to it. But Dan is nothing if not persistent.
He leaves his chair to kneel down in front of me. “Let me see,” he says more forcefully, taking the hem of my shirt in his hand, and waiting for my okay to lift it.
The acquiescent look on my face seems to be all of the consent he needs, and he moves my shirt gently away from my body to reveal a nasty scrape where my bare flesh skidded across the sand.
“Jesus, Sarah.”
Rising gracefully from his crouched position, he approaches the bar, and speaks briefly to the bartender. He returns to the table with a small first aid kit and, again, kneels in front of me. Opening the box, he removes several items.
“Hold this up,” he says, motioning to my shirt.
He takes a cleansing wipe from its foil packet, and brings his hand close to my skin. “This may sting.”
He gently wipes the area clean, constantly checking my face to make sure the discomfort is manageable. He looks so intent as he dabs the scrape repeatedly with the wet cloth. When he seems satisfied with the result, he blows lightly on my skin to cool the antiseptic. The gesture is sweet, but also wildly sexy. I am nearly overcome with the impulse to bury my hands in that decadent hair, and pull his sculpted lips to my body.
Softly and without warning, his fingertips brush down my bare skin, just to the side of the abrasion. His hand is warm, compared to the cool of the wipe, and I watch him study the drag of his fingers over my ribs. The contact between us is just a whisper, but it’s enough to incite an almost desperate ache low in my belly.
Maybe it’s my accelerated breathing or the goose bumps on my skin, but he glances up at me through thick lashes, taking in what I’m sure is a look of pure desire on my face.
His breath catches, and his lips part fractionally.
I’m powerless to control the riotous reaction of my body, and I have to close my eyes to contain the utter craving that is seeping out of them.
I feel him reach up, and run the back of his knuckles down my cheek. My mouth opens slightly, and I lean into his touch. There are so many things I want in this moment, but I’m frozen, unable to move.
When I open my eyes again, his expression is intense and full of desire. We stare at each other for what feels like forever.
Then he shakes his head and blinks, as if he is clearing his thoughts, and he takes a deep breath. His hand drops from my face and he bends to pick up the antibiotic ointment, carefully applying a thin layer. He finishes by gently pressing on an adhesive bandage, and slowly lowering my shirt.
“That’s better,” he says, his voice rasping and rough. He rises from his position, and sits back in the chair beside me.
As though on cue, our waiter arrives at the table with two mugs of pale ale. I swallow hard, trying to regain my composure. We order a salad and few appetizers to share, and our conversation turns safely to his recent offsite meeting. By the time our food arrives, all awkwardness is gone, and our comfortable dynamic is back.
§
“Okay, favorite Star Trek episode. And please don’t say ‘The Trouble With Tribbles,’” he adds with a laugh, continuing a game we’ve been playing.
“No, I call a nerd foul. You’re probably the only one under the age of 50 who has seen all those episodes.”
“Probably true. My uncle loved Star Trek. I used to watch it with him when I was a kid.”
“How old are you, anyway?”
It’s just a curiosity–I realize that we’ve never discussed our ages.
“Thirty-three,” he answers, and I see all of the humor drain from his face. His eyes search mine intently. “Does our age difference bother you?” And then he adds quietly, “Or the fact that you were in my class?”
To me, this isn’t a big deal. He obviously knows my age, (no need to relive that moment) and I assumed that he was in his early to mid 30s. If anything, I thought that maybe he would find me too young or uninteresting because I’m still in school and he’s so established. But the look on his face shows a genuine concern that I’m not sure he meant for me to see.
I shake my head in negation. “I never think about our age difference.” It’s absolutely the truth.
“Is that a nice way of telling me I’m immature?” he asks, breaking some of the tension
that has suddenly gripped our conversation.
“No,” I smile at him. “And when I think about you, and about my eleventh grade biology teacher, it’s like you’re two different people. I never really knew you before.”
He doesn’t respond, just looks at me silently for several beats.
“Does it bother you?” I ask him, realizing suddenly that maybe this is, in fact, the bigger question.
Taking a deep breath he says, “I think about it sometimes.” And I can see in his eyes that he does, maybe more than he’s saying. “But for me, it’s a little late for second-guessing.”
I don’t know what that means or how to respond. And I don’t really want to dig further into this subject if it means stirring up something that is clearly an issue for him. I never intended to develop feelings. But the truth is, I thought about him constantly over the course of this past week. I hated that we had left things a little uncomfortable at breakfast. I’m quickly finding that Dan is a mass of contradictions: sometimes so open and easy-going, and sometimes so closed off.
It’s hard to say exactly what’s happening between us, but I know the look in his eyes earlier tonight wasn’t just my imagination. It was real. And regardless of what anyone may think about our spending time together, I don’t want to give him up.
In an abrupt change of subject, probably as welcome to him as it is to me, Danny asks, “Okay, favorite candy bar?”
“Butterfinger.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “Does anyone actually know what’s inside one of those things?”
“It’s sweet and crunchy, and it’s dipped in chocolate. Who cares what it is?”
“Uck!” he says with obvious disgust. “You are a dream come true for the food industry, Sarah. Completely indiscriminate.”
“Well, I guess that’s why I’m here with you.” I smile at him sweetly.
He throws his head back and laughs heartily. “Clearly!”
§
After we finish eating, Danny pulls my chair right next to his so that he can show me a picture on his phone of the homeliest dog I have ever seen. Or maybe he’s so homely that he’s the cutest dog I’ve ever seen. It’s a very fine line.
“That’s Ralphie,” he says fondly. “My bulldog.” I can’t help but laugh; Ralphie has the funniest squished up face, and huge, smiling eyes.
Dan’s arm is around the back of my chair and I lean in against the side of his chest as we look together at the small screen. He’s so close that I can smell his detergent, and the faint, masculine scent of his soap. I have this urge to press my face into his neck, and feel the warmth of his skin against my cheek.
“What other pictures do you have?”
My voice cracks a bit, and I wonder if he notices the effect that my errant brain is having on my helpless body. He looks at me curiously for a moment, before gently taking the phone back with his free hand. Our fingers graze, and I am once again overwhelmed by his proximity. His presence feels magnetic.
Scrolling through, he shows me a picture of what is obviously a family. The two young boys have dark auburn hair like their father, and the mother is a beautiful brunette, almost angelic-looking.
I stare at the photo long and hard. There’s something very familiar about the man, tall and muscular with a sizeable tattoo visible on his right forearm. I can’t place it, though.
“I feel like I know that guy. Would I have seen him at Stanford?”
“Definitely not,” he chuckles. “That’s my best friend, Jamie Callahan, and his wife, Mel.”
Then it clicks.
“As in Cadence?” I ask in complete shock.
“As in.”
This is so bizarre; I study his face to see if he’s bullshitting me. But as I do, he begins to scroll through other pictures of he and Jamie together, and of him with the kids, or the rest of the band.
“He moved to here from Dublin when we were nine, and he was the coolest kid I had ever met. He played the guitar, and was from somewhere exotic. We’d spend hours shooting hoops in my driveway.”
“I have fifteen of their songs on my playlist.” I’m still in dismay.
He laughs. “He always claims he has a fan, but I just assumed it was his mother.”
It’s unreal. He tells me how they grew up together, and how he used to haul the equipment for the band when they were first starting out. He talks about how gratifying it is to see them finally getting their due recognition.
“You’ll love Jamie and Mel.”
His assertion suggests he’s already decided that we’ll meet, and my heart squeezes tightly in my chest. I realize how much I want to meet them, want to meet all of the significant people in his life–and to have some sort of a place with him beyond just the duration of our work on my scholarship essay.
§
The Cliffs bar closes early, so at about 9:45, Dan settles the check before I can even protest.
“Let’s take a walk.”
This time, he takes my hand in his, and leads me from the building. He checks my bag with a valet, and we walk along the cliff next to the golf course.
It’s a beautiful, clear night; a bit cold, but I barely feel it. His hand is enormous and warm, and my heart is racing. He looks up at the sky as we walk.
“This is a perfect night for stargazing; you can see everything from here.”
I remember how into astronomy he was. We did a major unit on it my junior year, including an evening seminar where he set up telescopes on the roof of the gym, and we took turns identifying various stars and planets.
“That’s right. I forgot you were into all that astrology stuff.”
He turns to me looking seriously offended, and a little appalled.
“Astronomy,” he corrects. “Astrology is not science.” But then he notices my expression, and struggles to contain a giant smile. “You’re just messing with me, aren’t you?”
I am. I can’t help it. It’s one of my favorite things.
“A little,” I tell him, holding in my own chuckle, though not very well.
“You’re evil.” His expression makes me laugh out loud.
Then suddenly, he turns towards the ocean with a gasp of disbelief. Following his gaze, it takes me a minute to understand what I am looking at. The waves crashing on the rocks below are glowing blue. It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.
“What is that?”
“It’s bioluminescence. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s likely dinoflagellates–a type of marine plankton.”
“Marine plankton can do that?” I admit my knowledge on the subject doesn’t extend much beyond SpongeBob SquarePants.
“Well, it’s extremely rare to see an algal bloom like this in Northern California, but I did hear about one a few years back in Tomales Bay.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Damn, I wish I had my camera.”
“What causes this?”
“Dinoflagellates produce light in response to mechanical stress,” he explains. “Most likely, it’s being caused by the presence of a predator or something swimming in the area. The light is a defense mechanism.”
As I listen to him speak, I have a momentary flashback, and am once again reminded of the odd circumstances in which I find myself. He’s the same person I knew, but he isn’t. And I can’t quite shake the sense of disbelief that I’m standing here in this rather romantic setting with a man who, years ago, couldn’t have been more out of reach if he’d been a Hollywood actor I was admiring.
“There are certain species of dinoflagellates that cause what is referred to as red tide, where the water looks brown or reddish. In that case, the algal bloom is toxic to its environment. But in this case, I suspect it’s a planktonic species that you often see in marine mortality events.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning something big died out there, and a crowd has gathered at the mess hall.”
“Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful.” It’s astounding.
“Yeah, well
, that’s the science behind it, in any respect.”
I turn to him, studying his strong profile as he looks out to the breathtaking sight below. “The rest is art?”
He laughs subtly and nods. “And maybe a bit of mystery, too. In equal parts, I think. That’s what I like about it.” He shrugs. “Biology, I mean. Living things are so ingeniously designed for their environments. But they’re not just functional; they’re beautiful, too, even when that’s not strictly required for their survival. And beyond that, there’s the whole X-factor–those things that science will never be able to explain. Why dinoflagellates glow blue, for example,” he says gesturing to the water. “And did you know that monarch butterflies can migrate up to five thousand miles to Mexico? But the lifespan of a monarch is less than six months, which means that the ones that make the return journey can be many generations removed from the ones that began the initial migration. So how do they know where to go?” He shakes his head at the wonder of it, his face so full of life’s secrets. “We can understand a lot of things, but some biological imperatives may always be a mystery.”
I treasure this bit of insight into his view of the world; a world that, to me, grows all the more colorful the more time we spend together.
As we stare silently out at the glowing blue ocean, he moves fractionally to stand behind me. He wraps his arms around my waist, and I feel enveloped in warmth. I lean back into his embrace and relish the feel of his breath on my hair. Resting my hands over his arms and feeling their strength, I hold on to him, trying to calm my pounding heartbeat.
Softly, he kisses my hair, and I close my eyes and squeeze him gently. The moment is so surreal; it’s hard to imagine it’s really happening. If anyone had told me that I’d be standing here tonight with this man, in his arms, I’d have said they were crazy.
Life can turn on a dime, surely. But it’s not just tragedy that can do it; serendipity can do that, too.
Slipping his hands down to my hips, Dan turns me so that I’m facing him. His expression is serious. His green eyes are intense. For a moment, we just stare at each other. He’s breathtaking, and I swallow hard in response to the ardent expression on his face. His eyes are drawn to the movement of my throat, and then to my lips. He lifts his hand to my jaw, threading his fingers into my hair, and he pulls me forward, pressing his mouth to mine. His lips are soft but firm, that one small contact sending my entire body into a heated frenzy.
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