Heart Stronger

by Rachel Blaufeld

  Abbie’s hand shot up. “Well, let’s say you have unprotected sex with a bunch of people and find out you’re pregnant. Then you go and say you were manic or whatever. This wasn’t your fault, then…but manic has become so commonplace in being used to describe behavior. It can’t be that so many people are manic. It takes away from the true diagnosis, which is a nature thing.”

  I moved in front of the lectern and down into the aisle, constant motion helped to keep my feelings at bay. Sweet, little Abbie basically just described my life, except for the multiple-partners part. It was only David, anywhere and everywhere, with or without condoms, until I realized I was preggo. Then, I told my mom, it had been a lapse in my judgment. The urge to have unprotected sex must’ve been the result of a mood swing or something. After all, my dad was in and out of the funny farm.

  It wasn’t a mood swing. It was stupid lust.

  “Good example,” I complimented Abbie. “If someone is truly manic, they don’t know enough to blame poor choices or actions on that episode. Either they’re in the moment or out of the state.”

  The class went on to debate the topic, and I felt myself pull together. This was where I belonged, teaching, explaining, sharing my opinions on what I knew.

  There was nature, but nurture was always everything.

  Why else would someone blow up a stadium full of young people? Yeah, he or she could’ve had a screw loose, but someone had enabled that person to do something as grotesque as what happened to Abby.

  Anyway, that was my only theory, and I needed to hold on tight to it.

  On my way home, I stopped off-campus for a sugared latte something or other, comfort in a cup, and found myself on my back steps, guzzling the last dregs of it while Smitty relieved himself on a bush.

  “Hey there, tough guy.”

  Without turning, I asked, “You talking to me?”

  “Nope, talking to your dog. He’s nicer.”

  “Oh.” My shoulders fell a bit. I tried to resurrect my stance, unsure why I sought Aiken’s good graces or attention at all.

  “Tough day?”

  “Are you talking to my dog still?” Still resisting eye contact, I stared at my empty cup as if it held all the answers in life.

  “Not this go-round. How you doing, Claire?”

  Finally, my gaze met his. He stood there, hip cocked against the fence, mesh running shorts outlining his muscular legs, a plain white T-shirt tight across his chest.

  “Actually, a good day. My students are happy to have me back.” My feet brought me closer to him. There was the faintest hint of stubble over his jaw. I stilled my hand from reaching or stroking.

  “One student in particular. Abbie with an ie…” The last bit lodged in my throat, making its way out on a croak.

  “Hey, I’m about to go for a run. Want to come?” He said it as if he asked that all the time, his tone easy, his eyes warm and inviting.

  Trying to prevent my brow from furrowing, confused at his casual interruption, I felt my lips form, “Okay. Let me change,” before I could think about it.

  “Smitty and I’ll wait right here.”

  Leaving my clothes in a pile at the edge of my bathroom, I slipped into running shorts and a tank, shoved my hair up, swiped off my makeup, and grabbed my shoes and Smitty’s leash. The breath rushed out of my lungs. This was the most spontaneous I’d been in years.

  “Here.” Aiken grabbed the leash as I laced my shoes on the back stoop.

  “Hope you can keep up with me,” I said as we neared the end of the driveway.

  “You better set the pace, then. Right or left?”

  “Left.” And off we set on a run.

  “Are you a talker or not?”

  I eyed him up, once, twice.

  “When you’re running. Lord, what were you thinking? Get your thoughts out of the gutter.” He emphasized the word Lord, drawing it out with his tongue, making my belly swirl with warm fuzzies. It had been a while, but they felt invigorating.

  “I haven’t run with a partner since grad school when Mary and I would go for miles, burning off steam and trying to work off all the coffee and pastries.”

  “I could take or leave the talking, so it’s your call. You want to talk? Then I’m cool. If not, I’ll just run.”

  “Um, was it a good day for you?”

  I hadn’t made small talk in a decade. I might as well have asked about the weather.

  “Yeah, picked up a new client. Dairy farmer close-by. Needs a website revamp, custom email, interactive kind of stuff for their site. Bright lights, big city, babe.”

  “So that’s what you do?”

  He nodded. “Always had a knack for computers and programming. Was pretty much the outcast on the farm growing up. When I wasn’t doing my chores or playing football.”

  “Football, of course,” I mumbled.

  “I’m ignoring that comment,” he said with a smile, barely breathless from our pace.

  “A lot of times, my pops would find me in my room, taking apart some piece of used electronic equipment, making YouTube videos, or some shit like that. My dad didn’t know what to do with me. Then, for my senior project, I created a website and all the social media stuff for our farm.”

  He ran and kept talking, while my legs were on fire, my lungs working overtime.

  No way I’d give in, though.

  “And?”

  “And my teacher called my dad in and said he knew he wanted me to work the farm, but there was an associate program nearby, and I should do it. Showed him some of the intricacies of my work. Said I was too good to let this go.”

  “Look at you now. Your dad must be proud.”

  He shook his head but didn’t answer. “He’d be happier if I came home. I make good money, but at home, I can still come around the farm. He says it’s my legacy.”

  “Parents,” I joked, but I’d sure as hell be happier if Abby came home too.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  “Sorry, I thought of Abby for a second,” I wheezed. “Sometimes, I push myself too hard when my mind won’t settle.” The admission was out of my mouth as quickly as I wanted to shove it back in.

  “Shit.” He stopped dead in his tracks, Smitty pulling me to a stop next to him.

  “I meant for this run to take your mind off crap, not make it bubble up. Now I feel like a fool.” A small crinkle of concern formed to the side of his left eye, and I couldn’t help but get lost in it. That was there for me. At least, I thought so.

  “You know what? It helped. It’s been fun and easy, except I don’t think I can do that pace on the way home. That was my bad.”

  “Sure, you can.” He smacked my butt and said, “Let’s go.”

  Just like that, the tension was forgotten, and I ran that pace all the way home.

  Claire

  By Friday, I was the best kind of tired. My legs ached from standing all day, and my mind was mostly settled from analyzing students and their thoughts.

  Grateful, I dialed Mary on my Bluetooth while pulling out of the staff lot.

  “What’s up?” Mary answered on the first ring.

  “I wanted to say thanks…honestly, this week has been a game changer. I needed this.”

  “Eh, cut the emotional BS, Claire. I needed a teacher, and you did it. I still wish you hadn’t.”

  I pulled my car into the lot of the local coffee shop—a blessing and a vice. My plan was to forgo dinner, get a giant vanilla-ish whatever and an even larger icing-covered pastry, and spend my Friday night reading on my back porch with Smitty.

  “For whatever it’s worth, Mar, I appreciate it. I like working. It’s good for me.”

  I didn’t mention my student—Abbie with an ie—or my time with Aiken. Under no circumstances did I utter a word about my plans to stay in by myself on Friday night.

  “Well, for whatever it’s worth, I’d rather you pick your sorry ass up and go to Tahiti. Get the hell out of here, fast and furious, without a glance back. But that’s me.” />
  My car was dinging, reminding me to check the backseat, as I turned the engine off, yet Mary’s words were clear as always—go live.

  “I think I hear one of your kids yelling for you…probably needs something important like help flushing the toilet.”

  “You don’t have to make an excuse. I love you. I’m glad you’re happy to be back. But what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t speak my mind?”

  “A good one?”

  She cackled. “You’re funny. Go do your thing. Talk later.”

  She hung up before I could say bye. As I swung my sandaled feet out of my car to go get coffee, I came toe-to-toe with a pair of heavy boots. Startled, I threw my head back to see who was there and ended up smacking the top of it into the doorframe. “Ouch.” My hand met my scalp, trying to massage away the sudden soreness. A sea of blue filled my vision, and the pain was instantly forgotten.

  “Claire, you okay?”

  I nodded, still rubbing the back of my head. “What are you doing here, Aiken? And what kind of shoes are you wearing in the middle of the summer? It’s hot as hell.”

  He leaned down, on his haunches, and I couldn’t help but notice he wasn’t one bit strained or pained or anything. His forearms rested on his quads, and he stared right at me.

  “You mean my shitkickers?”

  Both our gazes fell down.

  “Yeah, your shit…kickers.” I nodded toward the obscenities in question.

  “I don’t know. I kind of missed them, so I stuck ’em on to go see the dairy farm and left them on to hit the store. Felt like home.”

  God, he’s so cute.

  “And you decided to get coffee in them?”

  He stuck his hand out, presumably to help me out of the car. Surprisingly, I didn’t resist, and my fingers tangled with his.

  At first, I hoped he didn’t let go. Then, I wished for other parts of ours to tangle.

  Or not.

  “Promise not to get mad?” His fingers squeezed mine. One pump, two, a third.

  I felt my eyebrows lift. “Do I have to?”

  “I saw you pull in. Don’t get mad. I wasn’t following you. I was getting gas, and when you pulled in…I couldn’t resist.”

  “Oh.”

  “You getting a coffee? Come on, my treat.”

  Our hands still together in front of us, I tried to pull away, but he held tighter. I took all of him in. From his messy hair to his blue eyes to his loose white tee and khaki cargo shorts. Muscular legs, gorgeous forearms, the dusting of hair along his skin, and, of course, his shitkickers, he was irresistible.

  We were like a standardized test question.

  Question: What item doesn’t belong?

  Answer: Me.

  “You don’t have to do that. Get me a coffee, I mean.”

  “Let’s go, Claire. I have a truck full of groceries, and I want to butter you up with coffee in hopes you’ll let me make you dinner.” He kept my hand close as he led me toward the coffee shop.

  My hand felt empty when he let go to get the door. Cold air blasted me in the face, his other hand finding my lower back, heating me once again, and ushering me inside.

  “Hi! What can I get you today?” A chipper blonde in braids stared at us from behind the register. She looked like she belonged with Aiken, while I didn’t.

  Aiken took the initiative. “A large coffee for me, room for cream, and whatever she’s having.”

  I suspected he was a ladies-first kind of guy, but he also realized we’d be here all day if he waited for me to order.

  “I’ll have an extra-large vanilla latte, three pumps, two percent milk, no whip.” I rattled off my order minus the pastry.

  “Name for the cup?”

  “Claire.”

  “Sounds delish.” He pinched my side lightly, teasing me, his eyes crinkled and his mouth turned up.

  “It is, I’ll have you know.”

  “Come on.” He led me to the coffee bar and doused his coffee in cream and sugar.

  “Is that even coffee anymore?”

  Just then, the barista called my name and handed me my drink.

  “I hardly think you can talk.” He clinked his coffee cup into mine. “Cheers. Now, let’s talk about dinner. I was thinking I’d grill, and you could let Smitty run around my yard while you lounge in one of my chairs with some wine.”

  He tugged open the door, and we were back out in the heat.

  “Aiken, you don’t have to feel bad for me. I don’t want pity.” I stopped in my tracks and sucked down a gulp of vanilla and coffee.

  “Good thing, I don’t do pity. So, how does that sound?”

  “Aik—”

  “No excuses, Claire. We’re doing it. You deserve it, and frankly, so do I. Last week, I tried to go out in this godforsaken college town, and let me tell you…it sucked. I need a woman, a real woman, not a placeholder.”

  He didn’t give me a chance to respond or even finish saying his name. His hand found my lower back and guided me toward my car. “I’ll follow you back. Enjoy your coffee, and take care of Smitty. See you over at my place soon.”

  “Can I get a word in?”

  He leaned onto my doorjamb, his bicep protruding from his shirt, distracting me from my entire train of thought.

  The only thing distracting me more was his kindness.

  His gentleness.

  His boldness.

  A lot of things, I guessed, were distracting me.

  “Not if it’s negative,” he interrupted my inner monologue.

  I shook my head.

  “Thank you. That’s it.”

  This received a quick chin dip and a wink, before he slammed the door and saluted me. I don’t know what rattled more—the car door or my heart.

  I was in a huge heap of a mess, and I was too old for that kind of shit.

  Or a guy who wore shitkickers.

  Aiken

  Luck had been in my corner when I decided to pump some gas into my truck. I’d been out to the dairy farm, where I’d hit pay dirt with my web design. They were ass-over-tits for my work, and I got a tiny niggle in my spine that they may have some other answers for me. Mentally celebrating, I’d decided to stop and get food and then march next door and tell Claire she was coming over for dinner.

  What that damn woman needed was someone to take charge. Lead her back to living again.

  That was when I saw her.

  Bingo.

  There she was, running around solo, acting all proud and stoic, when she was a little bird, injured and lonely.

  No doubt, with a little care, she’d be an eagle ready to rule the world.

  Of course, I had to go and scare the fuck out of her, but then we shared laughs over my shoes.

  My fucking boots—saving the day as always.

  Tried and true.

  Every man needs a good pair of boots.

  With my coffee in the center console, I headed home, Claire’s brake lights in front of me.

  I’d never wanted someone in my bed as much as I wanted this woman.

  Not only my bed. Everywhere.

  I’d get her. Save her. Breathe air back into her lungs.

  Don’t misconstrue my bravado for self-confidence.

  I didn’t hold a single clue as to what to do with a woman like Claire.

  I could take it slow, but I didn’t want to.

  I could allow her to think she was in control, but that wasn’t in me.

  I could let her mother me—hell, I sure as fuck wasn’t allowing that.

  I wanted her body, mind, and freaking soul.

  A few simple interactions, and I knew she’d be mine.

  My thoughts were interrupted by my phone ringing. “Yo, Pops.”

  “Hey, Son. How ya doing?”

  “All good, I swear, all good. Got a nice place, a smart investment, and lined up a few decent jobs…”

  “I don’t like that you’re out there looking for her. She’s gone wherever she’s gone, and it’s not with us.”
He cleared his throat.

  “I know, but we should know. She should know what she gave up. Ya know?”

  “I just don’t want you to stay gone forever. Already lost so much. I’m good with you not working the farm, but this…come back, Aiken. I like having you near.”

  “I will, Pops. Soon. I can always rent the house I bought.”

  “You having some fun? Meeting some people? College is nearby…I don’t know how old those kids are.”

  I smiled to myself. I’d met someone, and her age was definitely a factor, but not because she was younger.

  “I met some people. I’m good. Going home to grill some beef, settle in with a cigar. Take care, Pops.”

  Disconnecting the call, I watched Claire pull onto our street. I’d have to leave eventually—I couldn’t leave my pops forever. Could I?

  Somehow, my heart was already entrenched with my next-door neighbor. It pained me to think about hurting her.

  I pushed those thoughts away. I had to cook her dinner and woo her to my side of the fence.

  The grill burned hot, and the steaks sizzled when I tossed them on. I placed a few ears of corn in husks around the edge.

  “So, you cook too?” Claire entered my yard, Smitty in tow, a half-smile on her face.

  “Yeah, survival skills. My dad would have to go check the gates before dusk, and I was usually the one who would get shit ready. I even remembered the butter,” I said, referencing our earlier neighborly exchange.

  “In your shitkickers?” she shot back, inserting her own brand of sass.

  She’d changed. Wearing jean shorts and a white V-neck T-shirt, she could easily be mistaken for a grad student. Her body was trim and toned from running and probably not always eating well or taking care of herself or not. Could go either way.

  “Of course,” I ribbed her back. I’d changed too. Still in my cargos, but I’d put on a fresh shirt and flip-flops. As I worked the grill, I called Smitty over for a pet.

  “I left some wine on the table.”

  “Found it,” she called back, pouring herself a glass.

  “I’d planned on drinking my coffee and eating something sweet tonight.” She stood next to me, confessing her sins, eyeing me up, looking for a reaction.