“O.M.G.? Are you serious? We can speak in acronyms now?”
He laughs even harder, gripping his side like he’s getting a cramp from running laps. My face falls and I close my eyes. Feels like I’m getting punked by life right now. “Lauren, you are seriously too much.”
“Okay, then...tell me, Lennon, what do you do?”
“I’m 27 and I’m getting ready to start grad school, after taking time off to explore my options. I think it’s criminal that we should have to choose one career path and only study that one thing, you know? Life is just too beautiful to have to limit ourselves by the boxes we check on an aptitude test.”
Translation: I’m a perennial student living in my parents’ basement, spending more time in virtual reality than anywhere else.
I decide to play nice, though, thinking the universe might really go nutballs on me if I try to mess with him like I did the last guy.
“I hear you,” I say, trying to be polite. “What interests you right now?”
“Seriously? Everything. I want to study it all. My undergrad was in women’s studies and I started a master’s program in Russian literature, but I didn’t want to pigeon hole myself so young. I took a few classes in human factors, but that didn’t feel like the right fit either. I’m thinking I might try a class in social psychology this fall.”
I nod in approval. “We have a great program here. I just graduated with my master’s.”
He leans forward eagerly. “Really? That’s so interesting. Brains and beauty—I love it! What do you plan to do with it? Are you considering a PhD?”
I shake my head and laugh. “No, I think I’m sick of school. I’d like to work with at-risk kids in shelters, maybe counsel foster kids. They’re the ones we tend to forget as a society.”
“So true, so true,” he murmurs. His head is tipped down but his eyes stay fixed on me, and he’s really starting to creep me out with that ‘come hither’ expression he’s wearing. It works on the cover of a romance novel, maybe, if you’re a shirtless Viking, but in a scrawny dude with tight plaid buttoned up to the neck? Not so much. I look away and take a deep breath, trying not to shudder as something uncomfortable races down my spine.
I really have nothing to say to him anymore. I glance at the pastry Jeremy gave me, and I look down as a smile plays across my lips when I remember his kindness. I reach out and play with the tissue paper absent mindedly, hoping Lennon will take up the rest of the time because I got nothing. It occurs to me that he might mistake my smile for encouragement. My brow furrows and I frown, but when my eyes meet his I know it’s too late. The wrong signal has been sent.
I’m guessing this won’t end well, considering my track record so far this evening.
“What is this?” he asks, reaching forward to take my hand. He’s a little awkward and smashes the scone into the paper, smearing white chocolate and raspberry glaze on both our hands as he does. I sigh and look sadly at my squashed scone. I think it’s symbolic of my life at the moment. I reach for a napkin to wipe up the mess.
“Lennon, I need to run to the ladies room to wash my hands. I’ll be right—”
“No, Lauren, don’t leave! I can take care of it.” He reaches into the man purse and pulls out a package of wet wipes, and I have just a moment to ask myself if that’s a man bag or a diaper bag before he grasps my hand. He caresses it lightly while trying to wipe up the mess, but instead of the romantic moment I guess he’s trying to create, he accidentally smears the raspberry sauce even more all over the back of my hand.
“Sorry!”
I get up and clutch my purse before he can grab my hand again. “Really. It’ll just take me a minute.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ll get you another while you’re in the ladies room.”
“Not necessary.”
“I insist!”
I walk back to the bathroom as quickly as I can. I pray for a long line to delay me, but there’s just one girl who looks as frazzled as I feel standing in front of one the sinks. She’s average height with curly brown hair and pretty brown eyes, and wears a great pair of skinny jeans, a blazer with rolled up sleeves, and some seriously wicked high-heeled boots. She’s slowly and very thoroughly working bubbles over her hands, bangle bracelets jangling with every move she makes. The soap makes a sickening, squishing noise as it runs through her fingers. She stands there, like she’s mesmerized, staring blankly as I squirt some foam soap into my own hands and mirror her gestures.
After a moment she looks over. She takes a deep breath and starts to rinse off her hands. “So...what brings you in here?”
“A hipster guy with a pre-pubescent beard, lisp, a man purse, and attitude glasses thinking he’s the next Don Juan DeMarco. He tried to hold my hand, and my scone got squashed, taking one for the team. I’m just washing off the mess. You?”
She laughs. “A guy with the nastiest looking eyeball I have ever seen spilled some coffee on the table. I didn’t get any on me but I didn’t tell him that. I just wanted an excuse to hide for a bit.”
“Oh, yes. Kevin.” I laugh. “He was my first date tonight. He’s harmless, I think...just completely whackadoodle. Are you a his new friend, too? Has he hinted that you just might be the one yet?”
She rolled her eyes. “Uh, yeah. My sister dragged me here and is finding seriously fab guys while I keep getting the weirdos.”
“Amen, girl. Good luck.” I grab a few paper towels to dry my hands. Crumpling them into a ball, I toss the wad into the trash can and back up toward the door. “You going out there again?”
She shakes her head with pursed lips. “No. My hands are way too dirty for that. Good luck with your...uh...”
“My little Casanova wannabe,” I finish as I bump the bathroom door open with my booty and gird my loins for the rest of the round. I don’t actually know what that means, but it sounds like suffering is involved in what happens next, and that sounds right to me. Maybe I can ponder the origins of such an odd saying to pass the time.
When I return, Lennon has replaced my scone and placed a cup at my seat. I grasp the steaming mug covered with whipped cream and take a sip, surprised when I taste steamed milk with a hint of nutmeg and cinnamon. “This is thoughtful. Thank you.”
“I thought you might like this,” he murmurs, looking deep into my eyes. Oh no...I think I should have stayed in the bathroom. He looks awfully amorous. I sit down and lean forward, with my elbows on the table to grasp my mug with both hands. I set it down and realize my mistake a split second later. He lunges forward, grabs my hand, and pulls me close as he leans in. Using his free hand, he breaks off the corner of the pastry and bites into it, making moaning noises as he does.
May I please gouge out my eardrums? I close my eyes, pinch my lips, and turn away. I can’t even watch it and my ears want to bleed at the bizarre noises he’s making to demonstrate how delicious it is.
“This is so amazing,” he whispers gruffly. “You need to try this.”
I shake my head vigorously. “No, really, I’m good. You enjoy it.” I open my eyes to look at him, trying to convey how much I really don’t need to share the scone. Tactical error. He lifts another bite of scone to my lips and shoves it in while I’m protesting. I frown and try to swallow, and as I do he pulls his fingers back and licks them with that same disturbing moan of pleasure.
I yank my hand back and take my mug again, holding it close to my lips and blowing on it. If he tries that again he’ll spill scalding liquid on me, and I hope he’s smart enough to know spilling hot milk on his date won’t earn him any points later. I pull my elbows close and hunch my shoulders, hoping my time is almost up.
“Was that scone everything you hoped it would be?” He raises his eyebrows and puckers his lips, throwing me his best attempt at bedroom eyes.
“I couldn’t even begin to describe that,” I say honestly. I close my eyes and shake my head in disgust. “Thanks again for the steamer, Lennon. I appreciate it, but—”
“Did you know cinnamon
oil has been used for centuries in ancient mating rituals?” He leans forward, head down again, his eyes shooting what he probably thinks are love darts at me. “I took a class on it for my major. So fascinating! Cinnamon was used in some cultures as part of fertility rituals. The male would take just a drop of oil and dab it on his—”
The bell rings, drowning out what he whispers in my ear. I throw up in my mouth a little and swallow hard. He stands and moves forward to kiss my cheek. “I hope we’ll see each other again soon, Lauren. You and I have some unfinished business.”
My nostrils flare. I am so tempted to tell him off, but that won’t do any good. Instead, I grab my purse and my little card, making sure he sees me mark ‘no’ next to his name and stalk away.
It’s official: I can never eat cinnamon again. I pull my phone out of my purse and rattle off a quick text to Harlow: You’re dead to me.
The One
I’m close to tears. Why does pushing myself out of my comfort zone have to be so hard? It’s physically painful. My chest hurts and my head pounds, and it’s hard to breathe. I’m feeling close to where I was at the end of round one, with another panic attack knocking at the back door.
It’s not worth it. Finding someone just isn’t worth the effort and sacrifices we make to find each other. Why am I even here looking? I don’t need someone just for the sake of being with someone....anyone! Dating is like dumpster diving—there may be something good somewhere, but you have to sift through a ridiculous amount of disgusting things to get there. The payback doesn’t seem worth getting covered in figurative coffee grounds, half-eaten donuts, and banana peels.
I look at the card in my hand and look at my table number for Round 4. If the next one gives off anything like a creeper vibe, I’m out of here. I don’t care if I spend the rest of my life living alone on my smelly sofa. I will find personal fulfillment in becoming one with the furniture.
A guy walks up to the table I’m watching and sits down. His back is to me, and I can’t get a good look at his face. It’s up by the front window and he’s looking out at the street, away from me, while others in the shop work their way to their own tables to get started. They’re blocking my view so I can’t get a good read on him. From the back he looks a lot like Grant, and my heart does that crazy, irrational thud it always does when I think of him.
And then he turns around to scan the crowd. My heart starts beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to pound its way out of my rib cage.
It is Grant!
As the eyeball guy would say, he was the one. I spent three years of my life believing that with all my soul. Grant and I were so alike, so perfectly complementary, that no one else would ever come close. Even great guys like Jeremy will never compare. When we were together, I believed in soul mates. I believed in forever.
I stare hard at the table number, staying hidden in the shadows at the back of the shop while he turns back around and waits. I take a closer look at my card just to make sure he’s my next date. Yes, he’s sitting there at my table, waiting patiently for me to show up.
He looks amazing. I haven’t seen him in five years now, not since the night he took me to the emergency room, dropped me off, and walked away. As I think back to what I put him through those last few months we were together, I guess I can’t blame him for not coming back.
His hair is shorter now, cut close to the back of his head, with some crazy sexy sideburns and a little lift on top. I loved running my fingers through those brown curls back in the day. My mind flashes to another time and I can feel those curls in my fingers, feel his soft lips against mine, feel our hearts beating in time with each other. He turns again to look around, those green eyes flashing. His impish grin is the same, although I see the start of a smile line on one side of his face, and little crinkles starting at the corners of his eyes. He’s tan, wearing a pair of loose jeans and a burgundy dress shirt, collar open. He’s never looked so good.
Seeing him soothes my panic, even though it also makes it practically impossible to breathe. He was always the balm my soul needed, especially right before my emotional implosion. I take a deep breath and emerge from the shadows. He looks out the window again, probably thinking he just got stood up now that everyone else has settled down. The dim buzz of hushed conversation fills the air as I reach for the chair and lean forward. My hands rest on the chair back as I look down.
“Grant Fierro, you’re never going to believe who your date is this round.”
Surprise, confusion, and a little terror register on his face. He’s speechless. I’m suddenly thankful I spotted him and had a moment to prepare myself to see him after so much time. He’s completely blindsided. No matter how justified he was to drop me off and never look back, I’m not the one who walked out on us. I’m not the one who abandoned all the promises we made without anything close to a goodbye. I owe him nothing. He’s the one who has explaining to do, and no time to really think what he might say when we saw each other.
It takes him a moment to collect his thoughts. I sit down before he has the chance to stand up and hug me in greeting, because I know his dad raised him to be a gentleman and that’s his first move.
“Lauren Brooks, I can’t believe it. It’s been a really long time.”
“No kidding.” I glance casually at my watch. “Only five years or so. What have you been up to?”
Specifically, what happened after you dumped me at the hospital without telling me I just got dumped?
“You’re the last person I expected to see here.” He’s at a loss for words, something that never happens.
“Thought I’d still be locked up in the wacky shack? I guess I can’t blame you there. I was pretty crazy last time I saw you.”
He shakes his head with a smile. “I forgot how direct you can be. It’s great to see you. It’s been a really long time.”
“You already said that, but it’s okay. I know I’m intimidating.”
Grant’s eyes shine at me, just like they used to, and I bite my lip. I expected this to be much more awkward. Why does he still have to be so incredibly handsome?
I lean forward, elbows on the table as I move closer. Despite what happened, he’s always been one of my favorite people and I want to hear how he’s doing, make sure life’s been kind to him. He’s one of the few in this world who deserves a happily ever after.
“Tell me what you’ve been up to for the last few years. Last time we saw each other, you were getting ready to graduate with a double major in political science and economics. You planned to reform all the corrupt politicians. Every last one of them.” He leans back and laughs, his head tipped back, and I’m surprised at the sheer abandon of it. “Your grand ideas and fierce ambition were going to transform D.C. and make the world a better place. What are you doing back here?”
“I lasted a year on Capitol Hill,” he admits ruefully. He runs his fingers through his hair and shakes his head as he leans back. He tilts his head thoughtfully to one side to look at me, giving me a sidelong glance. “I came back to law school and finished up a few weeks ago. When I’m not studying for the bar, I spend my time having coffee with psychos and miscreants here for a little Friday night adventure. Do I know how to party or what?”
“So you make this 5 in 5 thing a habit?” I ask with raised eyebrows. A man this hot and this spectacular should have no trouble finding dates.
Grant laughs. I miss that laugh. “No. This is actually my first time.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Your roommate dragged you here under threat of death because you spend way too much time studying and not enough time doing the mating dance.”
“You haven’t changed one bit, Lauren.”
I tilt my head and give him a sidelong look. “Considering the last time I saw you, I was being strapped to a gurney and drugged into oblivion, I hope I’ve changed just a little.” My words make him uncomfortable, but he knows me well enough to know I’m honest. Sure, I live in denial a good portion of the time, but I hav
e always believed in full frontal honesty with others.
“Lauren, I...”
I hold up a hand to stop him. “It’s okay, Grant, really. You saved me. I was death spiraling and you were the one who helped me when I needed it most. Thank you.” It must be emotional resolution night, with Jeremy and now Grant, but it feels liberating to tell him how much it means to me that he made the hard choice to have me committed. “I’m in a much better place now, you know? I’m finally healthy. You got me the help I needed. No one knew how sick I was until I snapped.”
“You look different,” he says, changing the subject and appraising me from across the table. “This is the Lauren I remember.” He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a bent and faded picture, black and white, from those cheap photo booths at the mall. We were best friends all through high school, and this was one of those blissful days where we had cash in our pockets and time to kill.
In this picture, he’s kissing my cheek and my eyes are wide open, mouth forming a perfect circle as I pretend to be surprised. Long, frizzy, ash blonde hair spills down my shoulders and out of the picture, and my hazel eyes are coated in more black eye liner than anyone should wear in a month. His trademark backwards ball cap is pushed up on his head as he kisses me, and his eyes turn sideways, gleaming for the camera, while his brows slant playfully up.
“It’s the new Lauren,” I say with a shrug as I gingerly take the photo from him and stare. This was just before high school graduation, right around the time we decided we were much more than friends.
“You look fantastic,” he says.
“Well, I’m healthy. I really am. Much healthier than I was when we...well, I had to make up some classes after my emotional train wreck, but I got a degree in psychology and just finished up a master’s in counseling.”
He looks taken aback. “Wow, I didn’t see that one coming!”
I hand back the image, that carefree moment in time frozen on film. His hand brushes mine for just a moment as he takes it back, and a jolt, hot like wildfire, rushes through my veins. “After you dropped me like a hot—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
Arms Wide Open: a Novella Page 4
