Impressions of You (The Impressions Series Book 1)

by Christopher Harlan

  We grew apart after high school, mostly because he decided that the antidote for his suburban boredom and small town living was to go to college halfway across the country and pursue a law degree. There was never anything bad between us; no drama, no big blowout, we just drifted apart like high school friends do, each going on our own paths. Mine lead me to a career in special education and his lead him to a partnership in a small, successful personal injury law firm in Georgia. Even though Kevin and I had been the tightest pair in high school, Dacia was actually the one who stayed in close contact with him once school had ended, after he moved away. I’d get updates here and there as to what he was doing, or who he was dating, and we spoke directly from time to time. Now he had moved back to town after both his parents died in a car accident, and we were all doing our best to relive the 11th grade.

  “What’s going on, guys?” I say when I get in the car, doing my best to sound excited to see Kevin. It’s been hard for me to get into that old mindset of having him as a best friend, but I’m trying to fake it as much as I can. He’s sitting in the passenger side backseat, leaving shotgun open for me. “Aw, decided to be a chivalrous man today, Kev, and give me the front?” He smiles. Kevin is very good looking, and when he smiles sincerely it’s hard not to stare. Whenever we used to go out girls would come up to him left and right, and he always had his pick of the hottest girl in the room no matter where we were.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he says sarcastically, grinning that devious grin of his. “I am always a proper southern gentleman first, if nothing else.”

  “Fake southern.” I joke. He’s partly right, he is a gentleman. Kevin spent the first ten years of his life raised by his grandparents in Georgia, where his parents were from, and his grandmother instilled those southern male values into him at an early age. He always opened doors, never cursed in mixed company (unless he had been drinking a little too much), and was the epitome of what a chivalrous man should be. He could also be a total bitchy mess at times; it all depends on which Kevin shows up on a given day. Today, though, he seems like old Kev, the one who gave me advice about the boy I liked in math class, when we should have been taking notes. I wonder what Kevin would think of Wesley.

  “Shit!” I yell.

  “What’s wrong?” Dacia asks.

  “Nothing, I’m an idiot,” I say, remembering that I can’t take a ride with them because I need to meet up with Wesley, and I have a few things to do before that.

  “Well, we both knew that already,” Kevin says with that sarcasm he’s capable of. I ignore him and just turn to Dacia.

  “No, it’s nothing; I just forgot that I need to take my own car. I’m sorry; I could have just met you there.”

  “Not a problem,” she said, “we’ll meet at Sally’s.” I apologize again—I actually do feel bad, but Dacia doesn’t seem to care.

  Sally’s is our favorite place to eat in town, the kind of place you’d have if a diner and a fancy restaurant got together and had a baby. Mostly people go there for breakfast, but everything Sally makes there is amazing. It’s like Luke’s from the Gilmore Girls, our local hangout; a place where all the customers know each other and know the owner, Sally, who’s like our grandma. This area had been transforming into a bunch of up-and-coming neighborhoods; the kind of places that attracted younger families and middle class people in their twenties and thirties, most of whom had moved away from the city to get a more town-like environment. When the demographics started to shift a few years back a bunch of places like Sally’s started popping up, along with all of the typical stores and restaurants you’d expect: vegan fusion places, health conscious grocery stores, ramen noodle places, you name it.

  Sally’s is buzzing with people today, and even though we’re a little past normal breakfast hours Sally will still make us what we came here for. Dacia and I love her, she treats us like we’re her grandkids, always calling me hun and never making me wait for a seat, even when there’s a line out the door of starving hipsters waiting for her famous cranberry-pecan waffles. “You brought a whole crew, today, hun,” Sally says. It wasn’t supposed to be a crew, I want to tell her, but I just smile.

  “Yeah. Sally, this is my old friend, Kevin.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she says as Kevin extends a hand. I can see Sally’s taken with how handsome he is, and that she’s falling for that smile of his like everyone does. She takes us over to the best booth in the house right next to a window looking out onto the main road so we can people watch as we eat some yummy food.

  “I’m still wound up as hell from last night, I barely slept,” Dacia says as we look through our menus, even though we know exactly what we’re getting. We get the same thing every time we’re here: coffee and waffles. Never changes. Never will.

  “Of course you barely slept, D,” I say. “You had enough espresso to kill a small horse. How many shots did you have, anyway?”

  “I don’t know, like ten maybe, I lost count. I just remember the rapid heartbeat and happy feeling,” she says. “That’s all that matters, right?”

  “Well sleep can be overrated,” Kevin interjects, “but maybe go easy next time, that much coffee makes for a hell of a crash.”

  “Eh,” she says dismissively. “I’m still going strong, I’d do it again.”

  “Of course you would,” Kevin answers in his most pompous voice. “You’re as immune to good advice as you are to good men.”

  “Keep them above the belt, Kev,” I say, even though Dacia doesn’t seem bothered at all by his comment.

  “Well that’s no fun, is it?” he returns. I decide to change the conversation topic.

  “Speaking of guys, what happened with that spiky-haired goth kid?” I ask. “Last I saw you were working your special brand of magic on him, distracting him from making his complicated-ass drinks for the middle school kids.”

  “Oh no.” Kevin says judgmentally.

  “It wasn’t meant to be,” Dacia explains. “We’re just from different worlds Mia, the fates conspired against us.”

  “Different worlds, that’s an interesting way to say it.”

  “Well it’s true. Different worlds.”

  “Yeah, in your world you need to worry about things like rent and having a steady job. His biggest worry seemed to be keeping enough hair product and nail polish in his house to maintain his tragic grooming needs.”

  “Don’t hate, Mia, he was hot.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be prom king.”

  “All right, I get it, he was young.”

  “No. We all should have boyfriends whose dream is to finally make the varsity team.”

  “Wait,” Kevin interrupts, “just how young are we talking about here?”

  “Keep your mouth shut, Mia,” Dacia says before I can even make a good quality joke. Oh well. We both have a good laugh while Kevin looks at us like we’re crazy, which we kind of are.

  I didn’t even realize how hungry I was until the food came out. This place wasn’t just popular because it was convenient, the food was amazing, and you could literally smell it on the street. I swear they had some magical secret ingredient that wafted outside and just forced you to want to come inside. Sally walks out doing that amazing waitress thing where she has three plates balanced all the way up her arm in a way that seems to defy the laws of physics. “Two waffles, and three coffees,” she says, placing our food on the table.

  “What’s the matter, Kev, watching your girlish figure?” Dacia jokes.

  “It’s not easy to look this good,” Kevin says back to her, grinning.

  “Fair enough,” she says.

  “So, how young was this guy?” Kevin asks again. We all laugh again. As we eat, Kevin catches me up on how difficult his life has been over the past few months since his parents died. He does his best to hide his emotions but I can see past all that; deep down Kevin is a very emotional guy, but he’s never been comfortable showing that side of himself. We all make some more catching up chit chat, but be
fore long I realize that I have to get going. Normally I’d sit and talk through the lunch rush, but I can’t stay any longer. It’s already half past eleven, and I need to do a few things before meeting Wesley.

  As I get up and say my good-byes Kevin looks up at me from his chair. “Where you headed in such a rush?” he asks. I know that tone. That’s the tone Kevin uses when he wants to know something and is testing how honest I’ll be with him. I was hoping that he would be the polite Kevin and not give me the third degree, but no such luck. I’ve always had trouble lying to Kevin convincingly; he knows when I’m not being completely truthful with him. I decide to try anyway because it’s too soon for me to discuss Wesley with anyone. “Just meeting my parents for lunch,” I say, but he looks unconvinced, he knows I’m full of it right now.

  “Ah, I see. Well, tell Mary and Bill I say hello, it’s been too long.”

  “You got it, I will,” I say as I turn and start to walk away. Before I’m at the door I hear Kevin’s voice yell out.

  “Maybe next time I’ll come with, I’d love to see the folks again.” This is him taking a dig at me. He’s fine letting me lie, as long as he lets me know that he knows I’m lying. Try as I might, I could never get anything past him.

  “Absolutely, I’m sure they’d love to see you again,” I say in my fakest sweet tone. I turn around and walk out. I’ll deal with Kevin later, I have more important things to get to.

  I get to the park on Main Street a full fifteen minutes early, but I can see that Wesley is here already, waiting on a bench by the lake. It’s strange seeing him in the daytime; seeing how the natural light highlights his features that were obvious even in the dark mood lighting of The Drip. I don’t care that I’m early; all that means is an extra few minutes with him on a beautiful fall afternoon. I start towards him, the anticipation of our meeting starting to give me butterflies—giant ones. But enough anticipation, it’s time to go and meet my beautiful man.

  SEEING HIM SITTING there, the man makes me think of sex the minute I lay eyes on him. Hot sex. Me-pressed-up-against-the-wall-screaming-his-name sex. I can’t help it, it’s like an involuntary response my whole body has when I see him. He has this way of looking at me that makes me feel like fucking me sits squarely at the top of his daily to-do list.

  I can’t help but have the dirtiest thoughts when he gives me those eyes and says my name in his deep voice. Is he the dominant type, or would he let me take control? I can see him, holding me down, my face in the pillow and my hair bunched in his strong hands, pulling my whole neck backwards as he takes me hard from behind. Snap out of it, Mia, you’re here to talk, not to undress him with your eyes. But I can’t help it, he’s gorgeous, I can’t stop thinking about my naked body on top of his, riding his hard cock until his eyes roll back in his head.

  It’s not just me, either, I know the other women in the park are thinking the same thing I am, there’s no way they couldn’t be. There was something about him that has nothing to do with his words, something almost primal that I felt when I’m around him.

  “You look amazing,” he tells me as I approach him. He stands up like a true gentleman, and when he does, the contrast of our heights is way more obvious than it was at The Drip. He stands over me, and I have to angle my head up to look into those baby blues. His eyes don’t look at me, they penetrate me. It’s like he’s looking inside of me with such intensity that it’s hard to look back for too long without getting overwhelmed. He looks at me like he’s studying me, as though every word and every move I make is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen or heard. It makes me feel like maybe I’m not just Mia; I’m his Mia. What the hell are you doing, you don’t even know him yet! He must get beautiful women talking to him all the time. I mean, look at him! What woman in her right mind wouldn’t wanna jump all over him the second she saw him?

  He’s wearing another fitted shirt, and it grips his chest muscles underneath, hiding and showing them off simultaneously, and I want to rip his shirt off right then and there.

  “Wow. There’s that expression again, you’ve used it twice now.”

  “I wouldn’t waste your time counting, I’m certain it’s going to come out of my mouth a lot when it comes to you, I hope you don’t mind.” Did I mind? No, my sexy coffee-house man, tell me I look amazing as often as your heart desires.

  “I don’t mind at all, it doesn’t happen that much, so I’ll take what I can get.”

  “I can’t believe that. No way. I assumed I was being unoriginal.” He’s so sweet.

  I’ve never known how to react to compliments. Whenever a guy tries to be sweet with me like this my face contorts into this awkward smile I can’t seem to control, followed by my indifferent declarations of “oh, okay.” I’ve offended my share of suitors with my inability to just politely take a compliment and believe whatever nice thing they were trying to say to me. I guess I never really see what they see, but I believe it when Wesley says it, and I don’t feel awkward at all when he compliments me.

  “You’re doing just fine, don’t worry,” I assure him. “Your words are very flattering, trust me.”

  “Thank you,” he says, “but I can do better. I will do better.” He seems self-critical, but in a good way.

  “I’m sorry I’m a little early,” I explain.

  “Don’t apologize, I’m happy you’re here early,” he says as I stare at his chest. I don’t want to seem desperate, or to freak him out because he seems like he spooks easily based on how he was last night.

  “So, why did you want to meet at this park?”

  “It’s a beautiful park,” he says. He’s right; Argyle is one of the most scenic parks in the area. “And there aren’t a lot of people this time of day; we don’t need to be interrupted.” He wasn’t kidding about not liking crowds; this place is nearly empty right now.

  “So, do you want to go walk on the jogging path that goes around the lake?”

  “No, we’ll sit here and talk instead,” he says, kind of forcefully.

  “Okay, I guess we’ll sit,” I say. “Do you always like to be in control like that?” When I ask this he looks up, pondering my question with the sort of seriousness he would if I had asked him what the meaning of life was. He cares about my question, but I can tell that he cares even more about his answer, always methodical with his choice of words.

  “Control can be comforting. I always know how things will go if I’m in control of a situation, but that wasn’t what I was doing just now.”

  “So, telling me what we’re going to do isn’t controlling?” I ask.

  “I guess it sounds like that, I’m sorry,” he says apologetically. “But that’s not how I meant it. I just prefer to sit here where there are less people. Being in crowded places makes it hard for me to concentrate, and I want to be able to listen to everything you’re saying. That’s important to me.” It’s the perfect response. Cheesy lines aren’t cheesy if they’re sincere, and the seriousness on Wesley’s face tells me that he means every word he says to me. I thank him for listening and his face softens some. He always looks very serious, which I find intriguing. He never tries to trick me with a bunch of rehearsed pick-up lines, and he’s never once tried to impress me in any traditional way. Never some line about how much he makes, or how he spent his youth backpacking in Europe, nothing of the sort, he was just himself; painfully sincere, direct, confident when he spoke to me, and attentive to my every detail. He impresses by not trying to impress.

  There’s something vaguely dangerous about him also. Not like this guy may be a serial killer sort of danger, but the good kind: the kind of dangerous that would emerge only if I ever needed protection. Near Wesley I feel totally safe. He in no way gives off a macho, self-centered need to figuratively and literally flex the many muscles that sit on his large frame, and that kind of safe turns me on.

  “So, Wesley,” I start, not even knowing where the hell I’m going with the sentence, “does anyone ever call you Wes?” I have a bad habit of shorte
ning other people’s names, even when they don’t want or haven’t asked them to be shortened. No one does it to me because my name is short already. One guy tried it; the short, balding lawyer who kept referring to my students as “retarded” without even knowing what the word means. He tried during our first and only date to repeatedly call me “M,” as in “Are you getting the chicken, M?” Yeah, he didn’t last long past that ill-decided dinner, but somewhere in my life I picked up the habit of nick-naming people against their will. I should stop that, but I like the way Wes rolls off my tongue.

  “Only one person ever has,” he answers in a sad tone. “Only she calls me that, but I prefer Wesley.” She? She, who? I’m so nosy that I want to know more immediately, but his tone and face make me hold my questions in, he clearly doesn’t want to tell me who he’s talking about. But I want to know who she is. I decide to change the subject and be a little bolder. I like the mysterious side of him, but I need to get him talking.

  “So, Wesley,” I begin, emphasizing the sound of his name, “in your text you said that you wanted to meet in the park to talk, right?”