Impressions of You (The Impressions Series Book 1)

by Christopher Harlan

  He looks at me puzzled, and appears to be slightly amused as he nods his head. “Right,” he answers, “isn’t that what we’re doing right now?” After I read his text last night I thought of all the times I’ve heard the girls at work—the ones barely out of their teenaged years—use that word when they’d tell me about all the random guys they were texting, and I realized they were using the word talking in a totally different way than I was used to.

  “No, we are,” I say. “I was using the word like the girls at work use it, I’m sorry.”

  “So, educate me, when you say you’re talking to a girl, is that like dating?” he asks, smiling.

  “Sort of,” I explain. “But you don’t have to actually go out with someone you’re talking to. In fact, usually it’s a lot of texting and it’s not exclusive at all.”

  “I see,” he says like he’s trying to understand this new definition.

  “So, are you talking to anyone?” I ask, trying to hint at whether or not he was seeing anyone else.

  “Only you, Mia. No matter what definition you’re using, there’s no girl I’m interested in but you.” It makes me happy to hear that, because I can’t imagine just being another girl; just being his afternoon park date before he heads home and gets ready to see the next girl he’s made plans with. Even the thought of that is nauseating, so I decide to just be blunt, and why not, it’s served me well so far with my mystery blue-eyed man.

  “So, is what we’re doing that kind of talking?” ’Cause, you know, it’s fine if . . .” I follow up to hide my insecurities, but he interrupts me with a single finger placed on my lips, as if to silence my doubts. The touch sends shockwaves through my body and I can tell that he feels it too. Normally I would find being interrupted mid-sentence rude, but in this case it’s a welcome rudeness.

  “No, Mia,” he begins in his deepest and most reassuring voice, “talking to you would be a waste.” A frown begins to form on my face; I can feel it but can’t stop it. I’m not sure what he means by that, but as he sees my expression sour he continues, speaking faster. “This is a date. We’re on a date. If you want to see me again after this and there are more dates, then I would say we’re dating. If I waste weeks or months talking to you instead of getting to sit across from you and look at your beautiful face, then I’d be a complete idiot, Mia.” My grin becomes a full blown smile, but he keeps the serious expression on his face as he finishes his thought, and its intensity draws me in even closer. “Any man who doesn’t know that you’re the girl he should date, marry, and have ten kids with isn’t worth a second of your time, not even the minutes spent texting his dumb ass.” There’s sarcasm in what he’s saying, but still no smile. He looks almost frustrated, like, how dare I question that we would be doing something so apparently frivolous and casual as talking (even though we were actually talking— this was confusing!).

  I haven’t known him long at all, but I believe that he sees something in me, in us. I want to know more about him and, more importantly, he seems to wantm to know more about me. This is so unusual.

  It’s a strange pairing, but he seems very comfortable and very nervous at the same time. When he’s looking at me everything’s fine; he’s confident and calm, but it’s in the moments of silence or pauses that I see him looking around nervously, quickly glancing over his shoulder or squirming a little too much on the bench, and I can see his breathing becoming more rapid. The way he’s behaving is familiar to me, I’ve seen it before, and that’s when I realize what it might be him. “Wesley, can I ask you a question?” I ask for permission first because it’s really personal, and the last thing I want is to make him more uncomfortable than he already seems.

  He nods, letting me know that it’s okay. “Of course—you can ask me anything.” I’m happy that he thinks so, but even with his permission I decide to choose my words carefully.

  “Um . . . okay. So, I noticed that . . . sometimes it seems like you . . .” I keep stopping short, stammering like I seem to do whenever we talk. The words are much clearer in my head, but when they travel from my brain to my mouth it’s like some of them get lost, and I say some stupid stuff that doesn’t make any sense or comes out completely wrong. I take a deep breath and tell myself to relax; ironic considering what I’m going to ask him. “Wesley,” I begin more confidently, “do you suffer from anxiety at all?” My question perks him up, as if he’s been waiting for me to ask it.

  “What makes you ask that?” he wants to know.

  “I’ve . . . I’ve been around it before. My job, remember?” That was sort of the truth. Yes, I had a lot of professional experience dealing with anxiety because it isn’t uncommon for autistic kids to have anxiety issues, but the truth was that most of my experience was personal. My sister, Jenna, suffered from anxiety and depression since middle school, and her entire life she bounced around from psychologist to psychologist and medication to medication. Even though she mostly has control over it now thanks to years of behavioral therapy, I witnessed firsthand how crippling it can be to every aspect of a person’s life. Employers couldn’t understand why she called out sick all the time; guys never got why she always wanted to stay in, and my parents, well they just never got it in general, which only made it worse on Jenna.

  As Wesley looks at me so calmly I realize that maybe I’m a source of comfort to him. “You’re nothing if not perceptive. And to answer your question, yes, I do.” He’s being so vulnerable with me, I’m sure this isn’t something he discusses with most people. I know from experience that most people don’t even know what chronic anxiety even feels like, let alone understand how it can impact your life, and it makes me feel good that he’s comfortable enough with me to talk about it. “It started when I was around thirteen.” He stops there, lost in thought. It’s such a specific point in his life, did something happen? Before I can ask he continues without giving any more details about the cause. “I’ve battled it on and off since then, but now it mostly manifests as a social thing.” I smile because I finally get why he seemed so uncomfortable at The Drip, and why he insisted on sitting here in a more remote part of the park.

  “Crowds?” I ask.

  “Crowds, for sure, but not only crowds, groups of people in general, especially where there’s a lot of movement, I get really overwhelmed and nervous.” His confession is sexy—a strange thought to have considering the topic, but he’s decided to be vulnerable about a sensitive topic, and the vulnerability makes him seem even hotter than he already is. His behavior the past two encounters finally makes sense to me.

  “Then why agree to meet me here?” I ask sincerely.

  “Two things,” he says, smiling. “First, when I look in your eyes and hear your voice, I literally forget there’s such a thing as anxiety, and that it’s ever been an issue in my life.” My heart starts to flutter. “And, secondly, Mia, I’d gladly suffer a debilitating panic attack every hour, on the hour, for the remainder of my natural life, if that was the price of getting to spend some time with you.” His words are music to me, a song I want to make my ringtone so I can hear it every time I get a text or phone call.

  “Thank you for sharing that with me, you didn’t have to,” I tell him, giving him my sexiest eyes. He doesn’t need to do the same back, his eyes are always sexy.

  Out of nowhere I hear a buzzing, like an alarm. When he reaches into his pocket I realize that it’s his phone going off. He hasn’t had his phone anywhere in sight, and it’s actually kind of weird to even see him holding a phone now, let alone answering it in the middle of a conversation. I mean, he’s relatively normal; he must have friends, and coworkers (still don’t know what he does, come to think of it), but the two times I’ve been with him there haven’t been any calls, or texts, or him nodding and mindlessly saying “yeah” to whatever I’m telling him, all the while checking his social media notifications.

  When he checks his screen his face changes immediately. There’s no more romance, or confidence, or even serious intensity. He look
s concerned, almost panicked, and I can see that he’s trying very hard to mask his real reaction. His eyes are as revealing as they are blue; I don’t care how hard he tries to hide it from me, something is worrying him. “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “Mia, I’m so sorry, but I have to go,” he answers, not even looking up from his screen at first. “I hope you understand that I love being with you and that if this wasn’t urgent, I’d never be so rude as to leave in the middle of our date.” A date? He meant what he said before about talking. We’re on a legit date. I’m dating Wesley Marsden, the mysterious man from the coffee place.

  “I know,” I answer, trying to sound reassuring. It’s in my nature to comfort, and he certainly brings it out in me, but for a minute I can’t stop my insecurities from rushing full force to the surface. There’s no emergency, is there? He saw you in the daylight and can’t get away fast enough. He’s off to be with a much younger, much hotter woman than you, maybe the “She” that gets to call him Wes. It’s been a nice little fantasy, but now it’s over, time to get back to normal men and regular life. No, stop it! He likes me, I can tell. There’s no other girl, something’s actually wrong, very wrong from the look of it. Once I talk myself down from the crazy ledge, everything in me wants to ask him what’s wrong and to comfort him. But I don’t want to pry if he doesn’t want to tell me.

  “Dammit,” he blurts out angrily. It frightens me a little because he seems genuinely upset.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, not knowing how I can help, or what I’m apologizing for. “I’m sure it’ll be okay, whatever it is.”

  “I hope so,” he answers in that deep, confident tone that I’m starting to get used to. “I’d like to believe so, anyhow. I’m sorry for this, I really wanted to enjoy our time together and I was hoping that . . . this wouldn’t pull me away from you. But I have to attend to it, Mia, I hope you understand.” He’s being so vague that it starts to worry and intrigue me at the same time. She . . . this . . . it; he’s too calculating to not be intentionally keeping what’s happening from me. Maybe he’s trying to protect me from something. Or maybe he’s a spy working for the CIA, doing some top-secret stuff I can’t know about.

  “If I haven’t been too rude, maybe you’ll let me take you on a proper date, tomorrow night.” He’s back to that intense stare that he does, but he’s clutching the phone in his hand in a way that tells me the second we’re done talking it’ll consume him. I’m still a little freaked out by how suddenly he has to leave, but I don’t want to make him feel worse than he clearly does already. And I do want to see him again.

  “Oh, wait,” I blurt out, remembering that I made plans to go out with Dacia. I didn’t want to cancel on her again, but I wanted to see Wesley.

  “If you can’t go, I understand.”

  “No, it isn’t that. I mean, yeah, I have plans with my best friend that I really can’t cancel, but, like, for real plans, I’m not blowing you off, I promise.” Even though he was being the weird one here, I didn’t want to give him the impression that I didn’t like him. I was still as attracted to him as I was when we met; even more so now that we were getting to know each other, but I’d be a bad friend to blow off Dacia for another date with Wesley. After all, he is the one running off, but I have an idea. “How about lunch tomorrow, instead?” I get an hour for lunch, and I usually only take about fifteen minutes to eat. I’m never without little tasks to do around the classroom. But I could make an exception for him, if he was willing to compromise a little bit. “You could come meet me at my job and we can go someplace by me.” He smiles, realizing that I’m really busy tomorrow night, and not just making up an excuse not to see him.

  “I’d love that, lunch sounds great. Just text me the school’s name and address and I’ll be there at?”

  “Noon,” I tell him.

  “Noon it is, then.”

  “Actually, why don’t you come by like eleven forty-five and text me when you’re in the parking lot. Maybe you could meet my kids.” His face lights up again when I extend the invitation. In fact, I’m noticing that every time I bring up the topic of my job it seems to please him.

  “That would be amazing, Mia, I’d love to meet them,” he says with a big smile on his face. “I hope they like me.”

  “Don’t worry, if there are no screams when you walk in the door then they like you. Just follow my lead, you’ll be fine.”

  “That’s sound advice. I really have to run. Text me the address, okay?”

  “You got it.” As soon as we’ve made our plans he turns and quickly walks away. My spell’s been broken, and whatever held his attention on his phone finally pulls him away from me. I don’t even have time to pick up my bag before I feel someone behind me, just over my shoulder. Suddenly I feel a hand press firmly into my shoulder, and I when I turn around to see who it is Wesley’s lips are already pressed firmly against mine. I close my eyes out of instinct, and I can’t believe this is happening. I’m kissing Wesley, and he feels better than I had even imagined. I can feel a throbbing between my legs as my body cries out for him; the intensity of his kiss setting my body on fire. And then it’s over. As surprising as the kiss was, it was gone in an instant, as was he. I sit there, still turned on as all hell and completely confused. What the hell just happened?

  OH MY GOD, we just kissed! That just happened.

  I’m driving home ten minutes after our date is cut short, and I can’t stop thinking about Wesley; not just that moment as he was leaving (God, his lips are amazing), but also the fact that he keeps leaving so suddenly. Both times he’s done the same thing: we talk, we flirt, I think he likes me, and then he bolts with no reason or follow up. Something’s clearly going on that he’s not telling me about, but I have no idea what. Why won’t he tell me? Maybe there’s someone else?

  Maybe I’ll find out tomorrow at lunch. Secrecy aside, he’s still the sexiest man to have ever shown interest in me. He listens, treats me like I’m the only person in the room, and based on that kiss he’s clearly attracted to me. I felt bad seeing how upset he looked when his phone went off, and I just hope everything’s okay. I’m done thinking about all of that for the moment, it’s way too beautiful of a day to waste worrying about things that are out of my control, and I did just get a great kiss.

  I love these early fall days; it’s mid-October right now which is easily my favorite time of the year. It’s that strange pocket of time where some of the warmth and sunshine from summer still lingers in the air, but the temperature drops just enough to let you know the leaves are going to turn those beautiful autumn shades of auburn, brown and yellow soon. The school year’s finally past that early stage where you’re getting to know the kids and you’re finally settled into a routine, and before you know it all of my favorite holidays will happen: Halloween, Thanksgiving (my favorite), and of course Christmas. And after that a much needed and deserved break from work. I love my kids more than anything, but a vacation is still a vacation.

  I roll my windows down as I drive, taking in all the crisp fall air that my lungs will allow in a single, deep breath. There’s such a short window where I can even do this. Winters in New York can be brutal, and right now is that great period of time where I don’t need the A/C or the heat in my car, and I can just drive and breathe in the cool, clean air. I try to keep my mind clear, but I’m still swooning from the kiss. When I stop at a red light I quickly pull my phone out of the cup-holder and blindly thumb hope everything’s okay, text later on—before I’m done the light turns green, and I hear an impatient honk from behind me as I hit send. I shouldn’t be texting and driving; my sister got rear-ended at a light once by some douche that was doing exactly what I was just doing. I’m so irresponsible, but I needed him to know I was thinking about him. I put my phone back in the cup holder and just drive, trying my best to just enjoy the scenery and relax.

  My relaxation is short-lived (isn’t it always), because when I pull into my driveway, I see that Kevin is already at my house, sitti
ng on my front steps and staring at his phone. I giggle out loud—he looks like a little boy sitting on the steps of a friend’s house waiting to play baseball or something. It’s a funny visual. As I pull in he raises his head and gives me one of those nods guys give to say hello. He’s all smiles.

  I’m wondering what I did to deserve this unannounced visit, but before I can even beep my car closed I hear, “Well now, that was a quick visit to Mom and Dad’s, wasn’t it? You really should spend more time with them, they won’t be around forever. Trust me, I know.” His tone is all sarcasm. He can be an asshole like this when he suspects he’s being lied to, almost as if once you broke the unspoken friendship rules by lying to him, he should be able to say or do whatever he wants in return. He knew I was lying to him at Sally’s earlier, and I knew that he knew, but I never thought he’d be stalking me at my own house to continue this little game of ours.

  “Oh, Kev,” I say with an equal mix of sarcasm and disdain in my voice. “Have you ever considered a hobby, like reading, or jogging? Maybe getting a puppy and going on long runs, it’s a beautiful time of year for that sort of thing, plus it’ll distract you from being so concerned with my life.” The last part is meant to sting a little. I love Kev, and we go way back, but I’m a little tired, and I’m still wondering what happened with Wesley today, so I just wasn’t in the mood for any bullshit.

  His face changes when I’m short with him. He doesn’t get angry; in fact, I’ve never see Kevin angry like that. I’ve witnessed him getting mad plenty of times, but he doesn’t show his anger like a typical guy. There’s no pissed off face, or threats of violence, and there’s never any yelling. Even in a full-blown rage Kevin always keeps his cool, no matter what he might be feeling inside, he fought with his words not his fists. He’s intelligent and extremely witty, and he knows just how to use those powers for evil if he needed to. His words could send you into a deep depression or sudden rage if he delivered them just right. But despite him being a dick at times, Kevin has always been one of my closest and most protective friends, and right now I could actually use one of our famous talks.