by Meg Maguire
Her building was an old industrial number, not as swankily redone as some others in the neighborhood, but fairly modern, to judge by the state of the lobby. He saw business names in addition to individuals posted on a tenants’ list beside the elevator.
“Mix of residential and commercial?”
“A bunch of the units are sanctioned as subsidized artists’ lofts,” she said as the doors swallowed them and she hit the button for the fifth floor. “So those are people’s studios and home offices. It’s a Fort Point thing.”
“Ah.”
“All I know is, on any given night, there are at least two opportunities for free wine and cheese on my block, if you’re willing to stand around saying nice things about somebody’s paintings or photos or whatever. See?” She tapped an artfully handwritten flier taped beside the button bank, advertising an open studio that night. Free eats! Free boxed wine! BYO stemware.
They reached Steph’s floor and Patrick tailed her, watching her limping gait. “Does it hurt bad?” he asked as she unlocked her door.
“No worse than what I’m used to. I’m just babying it.” She pushed in the door and reached around for a light switch.
Patrick took in her small apartment, and the street view out its one huge window. It was hip—exposed brick with funky modern fixtures, a stainless-steel kitchenette at one end, lofted bed on the other. A sofa and TV-less TV stand were all that filled a small lounging area in the middle. Though it offended Patrick’s sensibilities as a restoration carpenter, he could understand the appeal...even if it saddened him to see yet another chunk of New England history sullied with modern conveniences, insulated windows with faux muntins sandwiched between the panes. He had a soft spot for drafty old houses with crooked stairways and broad, creaking floorboards. Homes with stories echoing through their arthritic old bones.
“It’s cool,” he offered.
“I like it. And I’ve been living out of motels for so long, I don’t even care how tiny it is. I’m just stoked to have a kitchen.”
There were cardboard boxes stacked along the wall. “Not quite moved in yet, huh?”
“No, and I’m hesitant to get comfortable—it’s just a sublet. I have to clear out by March. Though I should unpack, just to feel like I live someplace nice, if only for a month. Maybe this weekend.”
“Nah, this weekend you’ll be busy eloping with a doctor.”
She shot him a smirk over her shoulder and unzipped her sporty winter jacket. He followed suit, hanging his old canvas one beside it by the door.
“So I really only have coffee,” Steph said, taking two mugs out of a cabinet and setting them on the granite counter. “I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Works for me.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Both, thanks.”
She got a pot burbling. Locking her arms over her narrow torso, she leaned back against the counter. “So.”
“So?”
“I want to hear all your dating war stories.”
He smiled at that, tucking his hands in his pockets. “They haven’t been too bloody...mainly just confusing.”
She hopped her butt onto the countertop, and for a split second Patrick imagined being allowed to take liberties with this woman again. Imagined striding over and standing between her legs, grasping her waist and tugging her thighs tightly around his hips. He’d loved the way she felt. So different, with interesting, firm contours, a body that flexed like it was extra...alive. But with suppler bits, too, if you knew where to find them. Womanly bits only a very lucky man got invited to enjoy.
“Confusing how?” she prompted, and he scrambled to find the thread of their conversation.
“Well...and actually, this makes you really refreshing. But I kept having these dates, maybe three of them in a row, where I thought we’d had such a great, easy, fun time. Then I call the woman the next day to ask her out again, and...crickets.”
“Straight to voicemail?”
“Yeah. I think once I got a call back a day or two later, saying thanks but no thanks, one text, and one never got back to me at all. It was just torture, waiting to hear, getting my hopes up, then getting the brush-off. Or not even that.”
“Ouch. That’s why I’m relieved I went with such an old-school approach. On the road, amongst my peers, dating etiquette is all digital. And completely vague.”
He nodded. “I think that’s the way of the world now.”
“It’s frustrating. You get a text that’s like, ‘Hey, you wanna hang out?’ What’s that even mean? Am I supposed to shave my legs, or are we just going to watch TV with six of your buddies?”
“Right.” Patrick tried not to imagine Steph lounging around in hotel rooms with a small harem of muscular fighter guys.
“At least with Spark, there are rules in place,” she said.
“Like?”
“Well, everyone’s vetted, of course. And you’re allowed to email and text the people you’re set up with, but only to confirm details like where you’re meeting, and when. For anything else, you’re supposed to phone.”
“If a guy ignores the rules, do you report him to Jenna?”
She smiled—that sweet, rare smile devoid of all her usual guarded skepticism. “I guess I could. But I can see the temptation of chickening out and texting, too. It’s so scary, calling a stranger with the hope you might wind up kissing them. I can’t fault anybody for wanting to soften the blow by making it less...personal, I guess.”
“I’m awful at texting. My big numb fingers hit like four keys at once, and I don’t even know how to capitalize stuff or add the right punctuation. I must look illiterate. I always call, unless it’s really late.”
“You have numb fingers?”
“Yeah, all my fingertips.” He flexed his hands. “From rasps and sanding blocks and all that.”
“Oh, of course.” The coffee pot bleeped. Steph hopped down to fill their mugs, then set the cream carton and a sugar box on the counter. “I have nerve damage in my right hand from fighting,” she said as they stirred. “My writing’s atrocious. And my shins are basically made of wood now.”
He smiled, adding more sugar to his coffee. “You’re so frigging interesting.”
Another blush, one that made Patrick feel warm in return, like she’d snuck some Irish into their coffees. The whiskey of sexual attraction.
“What’s it like, fighting people?”
She waved toward the couch and they settled at either end, with the TV stand wheeled over to serve as coffee table.
“It’s like fighting, I guess.” Steph pushed off her shoes and stretched her legs out between them. He followed suit, liking how their socked feet sat side by side, hers looking tiny next to his. Damn, he missed women.
“Have you ever been in a fight?” she asked.
“Not since grade school. I was always the kid being like, ‘Come on guys, everybody chill out.’ But I did get in a couple, just schoolyard stuff. Never lasted longer than a couple shoves.”
“Well, it’s great,” she said, smiling. “I love it. Obviously.”
“What about it?”
“Just...when else do you get a chance to be that way with someone? Your body and your skills against theirs, your mind versus their mind. You strip everything away that passes for status in modern society. It doesn’t matter if you make better money, or where you come from—all that matters is how hard you try. Everyone goes in equal, and you get judged on your effort and heart, I guess. Even if you lose, as long as you fight like you mean it and give it everything, people will respect that. It’s really pure that way.”
“Huh.”
“Plus the rush is amazing. You and this other person, in shorts and bare feet and gloves, wanting to see who’s got it. I think there’s something in our animal nature that craves that. We want to clash antlers and prove ourselves superior.”
He made a thoughtful face. “Go on.”
“That’s why politics and lawsuits and sports rivalries get
so heated. We aren’t allowed to test ourselves physically in polite society. You fight your enemies through lawyers and like, mean Facebook comments, right? Except in sports. When we fight an opponent or tackle him on the football field, we get to connect to that need. And the audience gets to do the same, vicariously.”
“Like a war with no casualties. That’s how I feel when my team’s playing a really crucial game.”
She nodded vigorously. “I love it. Being the one actually in there, battling. It switches me into this animal mode, and all the bullshit of the day disappears for a few minutes at a time. Just like, Me. Her. Let’s see who’s better.” Color was rising along her neck to stain the tips of her ears pink, and her greenish eyes were bright and gleaming. What was that color called? Sage?
Patrick’s clothes felt all tight. Her enthusiasm was turning him on as much as if she were talking about sex. “Sounds...primal.” He wondered what she was like in bed, if she’d want to pull his hair or something. He wouldn’t complain. “Do you hate losing?”
“Who doesn’t? But I’m a good sport, if that’s what you mean. I’m a decent fighter, but I’m not the best. Physically I could never be the best—I’ve got a small frame and I injure easily. Competing’s more important to me than winning. And the anticipation and training and fantasizing about winning is nearly as good.” She grinned. “But winning is awesome.”
“I get pretty heated playing Scattergories,” he offered.
“When I was a kid, my parents banned me from playing mini-golf. I’d get so wound up I’d have, like, a psychotic break if one of my brothers was beating me.”
He laughed. “Redheads.”
She rolled her eyes. “My dad and older brother are redheads, and they’re impossible to rattle...well, these days. My brother was a hothead when he was younger.”
Patrick glanced at the mug in his hands and realized he hadn’t even sipped his coffee yet. He didn’t think Steph had tasted hers, either. It wasn’t caffeine that had them both lit up this way. Was it attraction for her, too, or did she really get that excited just talking about fighting? Was she remembering everything he was? The needy physicality of their encounter in that TV room at the gym, and the way it had made him feel like a man again, in the simplest, most affirming way.
If there was anything he hadn’t felt in the past year, it was wanted. But this woman had wanted him—in her body, if not her rational, good-decision-making brain. And that was an addictive sensation. It made him crave her, lust all mixed up with gratitude and relief. She had the power to make him feel something he’d begun to worry he’d lost, or dreamed.
He studied her as she rehashed her last match, pretty face animated, breath short as she recounted the tension. A tension rose in Patrick, too, a sharp ache. He wanted those gesturing hands on his body, those lips on his skin, her legs hugged to his waist. A hundred things he knew he wasn’t likely to get, not with Steph.
She smiled after a time. “I’m boring you to tears, aren’t I?”
He worked hard to banish whatever glaze had come to his eyes. “What? No. Not at all. I could listen to you talk for hours about this stuff.”
There were lots of things he’d happily spend hours doing with her. Tasting her mouth, exploring her body, watching her explore his in return.
She finally seemed to notice her coffee and took a sip, then stretched her neck from side to side.
“What’s it like,” he asked, “being so physical all day? As a job?”
“You should know. You’re a carpenter.”
“That’s labor, with tools. Your body’s your tool, I bet. Like a dancer. Like a dancer who can kick people’s asses.”
She shrugged. “I dunno what it’s like. I’ve been doing it for so long, it’s all I know. I can only tell you that I loved it way more than sitting through high-school algebra, wishing it was four already so I could go to judo. Everything else I do usually feels like a chore, especially if I have to just sit in one place and concentrate. I’m kind of restless.”
He smiled. “I give your so-called retirement a month, tops.”
“We’ll see. But I know I can’t take the road anymore. I’m restless, but I’m sick of living out of suitcases, too.” She bit her lip.
“What?”
She laughed softly, turning the mug around in her hands. “Don’t tell my younger self this, but my clock’s ticking.”
“For a family?”
“I think so, yeah. Or just to be settled in one place, fall in love... All that grown-up stuff.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “Have you been in love before?”
“I thought I was, when I was twenty. Close enough, for that age. But nothing that made me think, this guy is the one.” She met his eyes with her green-gray ones. “You have, though.”
“Yeah...turned out I wasn’t the one, in the end.”
“But at least you’ve felt that.”
“I know. And maybe in another year I’ll feel grateful for it.”
“Was she your first love?”
“No. I fall in love a lot, actually,” he admitted with a guilty laugh. “I’m one of those serial-monogamist types.”
She looked curious. “Really?”
“This is the longest I’ve been single since I started dating at like, fifteen.”
“You think you’re better, in a relationship?”
“No question. I need someone to do stuff for.” He smiled. “After I split with my ex, I left town for a couple weeks so she could get her stuff organized and move out. I went to visit my folks, and after maybe two days, my mom threatened to send me to a motel if I couldn’t quit nagging her for projects.”
“You’re close with your family?”
“Oh yeah. I haven’t seen my sister in over a year—she’s out in Arizona—but we talk every week. We’re all close. I want what my parents have, that happy marriage, the house everyone comes to for Thanksgiving. Actually, I thought I did have it, until two Christmases ago.”
She pursed her lips, then reached out and rubbed his forearm. He blushed—partly from the pleasure of the touch, partly because he knew his pain was clear. Not caring if it was off the mark, he linked his fingers with hers. Steph went still, but didn’t pull away.
“Your folks still married?” he asked.
She nodded. “Thirty-five years this summer.”
“That’s great. I really thought that’d be me, too. One marriage, in it for the long haul.”
“I’m sure most people do.”
He smirked. “Now I’m damaged goods.”
She thumped their hands against the back of the couch. “No you’re not. You’re just... You’re a certified, pre-owned model. Which is good. You come with some experience. And great letters of reference, I’m sure.”
“What are you, then?”
“Oh God, I’m probably a banged up old rental with all the cities I’ve crashed in. Now I’ve put myself out for scrap.” She began to pull her fingers from his, but Patrick squeezed them tight, not letting her go. She met his eyes uneasily.
“I want to kiss you,” he murmured.
She looked down at their legs. “I can’t give you what you’re looking for. The long haul.”
“I know that.” Just give me something. Anything that’ll make me feel like a man again, just for a night, an hour, this minute.
She gently twisted her fingers free and scooted back, hugging her knees to her chest. “I don’t think I have to tell you, I’m attracted to you. But I’m sick of...encounters. Of ships passing in the night and all that.”
He wanted to feel hurt, knowing things would be different if he wasn’t broke. But he couldn’t, not when she’d laid it all out in black and white. Not when he knew how miserable it felt, struggling as he was now. Maybe one woman in ten would come out and tell him straight-up that was why she wasn’t into him. He supposed he ought to appreciate Steph’s honesty, but after this year from hell, he nearly wished for an “It’s not you, it’s me.” At least that wou
ld let him lie to himself to save his ego, and imagine it really wasn’t him. But it always was, wasn’t it?
Slapping his thighs, he got to his feet, registering the day’s work and the cruelty of winter in his achy back. He felt disappointment settling into his bones. A familiar presence, these days.
“I guess I better head home.”
She nodded.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he added, though he still hadn’t drunk a drop of it.
“Thanks for the ride.” She rose. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, around the building.”
“Maybe. If not, good luck with your doctor.”
Her smile tightened and she stood by as Patrick bundled up at the door. “Stay warm.”
“See ya, Steph.”
6
STEPH CLOSED THE DOOR behind Patrick and leaned into the wood with a heavy sigh.
Close call.
She’d seen it in his eyes long before he’d come out and asked—an invitation. A question. A hopeful longing, wanting them to revisit that connection they’d found in the gym.
And she’d felt every bit of it, yet somehow summoned the will to not take the bait. You have a date tomorrow night, she’d kept chanting in her head. You didn’t give up your pro career to start planning for a future family, only to go ahead and repeat all the same mistakes from back home and on the road. You’re going to do this right, the Spark way. Do everything Jenna says.
And surely Jenna would not advise her to make out with a man so very like all the ones she was determined to leave in her rearview.
Was Patrick so very like those lovable guys? Working-class, check. Hot and fun and easy-going bordering on doltish, check. Financially dubious, check.
She could guess where life with those other guys she’d gone out with would have led—to a weekly date night at the bar and grill, to a pokey house and two kids and creeping middle age, to credit-card debt. To watching the UFC on Pay-per-view and thinking, That used to be me. How did I end up here? I wanted so much more.
But she couldn’t say exactly how she knew that Patrick would prove different. The way he spoke about houses told her he’d found his passion, not simply a trade. She’d never articulated that distinction to herself before, but it was attractive—a person who understood the difference between a job and a craft. Who cared more about doing the thing that lit them up than the thing that paid the most. It was Steph’s path, after all.
