by K. P. Haigh
"Did I do something wrong?" I ask. My throat is dry, but swallowing doesn't seem to help.
Olive leans her cheek on her fist, as if her head has suddenly gotten too heavy to keep carrying around. "No, nothing like that. We're just trying to trim the budget, so we need our freelancers to take a week off sometime over the next couple months. You're one of the, um, few who doesn't have vacation on the books."
Her words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. I kind of wished Donna had reported me and I was getting in trouble. This somehow feels worse. I don't have any travel plans, and I'm one of the only ones who doesn't, but here I am daydreaming about taking my photography act on the road and living out of a suitcase.
I keep talking up a big game, but outside of sending one email to what could very well be a total long shot, I haven't taken a single step toward making my dreams happen.
I look up and realize Olive is still talking. "…some big changes coming. I would strongly advise you, as a freelancer, to pursue whatever other routes you can."
"Big changes?" I repeat the words while my brain spins through conclusions. My job's on the line? Is that what she's telling me?
"I can't say a lot right now, but I'm happy to be a reference."
Okay, I guess that's it. I get to sit on a ticking time bomb and hope Collins Aid United plucks me off my perch in time.
Or I could come up with plan B.
Olive's phone rings, and I take that as my cue. I have my marching orders: go to these events, find a new job.
No pressure.
By the end of the week, I am sick of being in my own head. It's an endless loop of oh-my-god-I'm-going-to-lose-my-job and please-let-me-get-this-new-job. The universe is conspiring to keep the employment issue front and center; every time I try watching a show or movie on Netflix, I get five minutes in and realize one of the characters has their own work-life drama.
I can't handle it. I did my part. I sent an email to Irene, and after my meeting with Olive, I finally received a reply from her assistant. Irene is out of the country this week but will pass along my email at her earliest convenience.
What do I do with that? I can't exactly say Hey, I know you're busy saving lives and helping eradicate massive global issues, but my job might be disappearing, so can you make your 'earliest convenience' happen sooner versus later?
I don't even know for sure if my job is going away, let alone when. It could be tomorrow. It could be a year from now. Olive's warning wasn't very specific.
My head is buzzing with questions. Do I look for other jobs? How long do I wait to hear from Irene? If I take another job, what happens if I get a call from Collins Aid United?
Fortunately, it's the summer. I don't want to sit still in my apartment anyway. The lack of A/C turns my top floor into a glorified sauna. I could charge people for a hot yoga class if I actually knew any other poses besides downward-facing dog.
But, I'm a runner. Give me earbuds and a pair of sneakers, and I'm all set. It's exactly what I need right now—some Beyoncé and a sidewalk.
I need to get lost in my breath and step off this well-worn path of thoughts. I'd rather get lost in the wilderness of my subconscious than keep circling the same familiar terrain over and over.
I head out the front door of my building and head in the direction of the arboretum. I warm up with a little “XO,” then catch my stride with “Run the World.”
I'm just past the entrance to the park when the music fades temporarily for a little ding—my calendar notification. I slow to a stop, unable to recall what I'm missing. I have something booked tonight? There weren't any events I needed to photograph until Sunday afternoon. Andie is busy as usual, and I'm going home to visit my parents tomorrow.
So, what's tonight? It feels as if I'm fumbling around in a dark room to find the light switch.
And then something in my brain flips the switch on and my eyes go wide. I fumble quickly to get my phone out from my armband, and I nearly drop it.
I press the home button, even though I already know what I'm going to see.
When it lights up, I feel nauseous. There it is. Date I need to cancel. In one hour.
I don't know why it didn't remind me earlier—although I barely remember setting it, so it shouldn't really be a surprise I screwed it up.
I contemplate pretending I never got the reminder and just continuing my run with Queen B on full blast to avoid my inner cricket shouting, I am a horrible person.
But I can't ignore the problem forever. I have a feeling Baron isn't the type of guy who doesn't follow up when he gets blown off. It takes a certain kind of person to approach a woman in a bar and start a conversation. It also takes a certain kind of person to willingly run out on a field knowing he's going to get tackled to the ground by some of the largest men in the American population.
Yeah, I'm pretty sure Baron would call me. Repeatedly.
Ugh. I need to go get my own game face on and handle this. I need to meet up with him and then explain that we're really not a good match for each other.
Even though I know what I need to do, I have a hard time moving my feet in the direction they need to go.
Deep breath. We got this, feet. I mean, hey, I've got Beyoncé to pump me up all the way home.
I know if I ask WWBD, the answer is getting my butt over to Halftime and putting my sexy stilettoed foot down.
Maybe I'll save the stilettos for Beyoncé. I'm more of a Converse girl myself.
By the time I get home, I don't have time to look Beyoncé levels of sexy. All I have time for is a quick shower and a half-wet side braid.
I open up my bathroom drawer and laugh. There's a tube of mascara, a few lipsticks in varying states of dried out, and some eyeliner. I'm not exactly stocked for looking like sex on wheels. I have a camera up to my face half the time, so any makeup I put on just gets smudged on the black plastic anyway.
YouTube tutorials may have taken the world by storm since I was a hopeless high schooler, but my makeup drawer doesn't look any more grown up. I guess some things never change.
I've always been more of an awkward "Shake It Off" than a red-lipped "Wildest Dreams" Taylor Swift.
I quickly slip on my sneakers, shorts, and a tank then race out the door.
I make it to Halftime a minute past eight, and I see Baron sitting at one of the patio tables in a short-sleeved t-shirt and dark jeans. Just looking at his tanned arms flexing while he leans on the table sends shivers down my spine, and I secretly wish I could stop time to trace the lines with my fingers. Whoa, come on, I'm here to let the guy down gently, not molest him. Geez.
He sees me and smiles. You'd think for a professional sportsballer, his smile wouldn't be so goddamned perfect. Wait, is it football players that lose their teeth or hockey players? Whatever, either he won the genetic lottery or he has a really good dentist.
I give him a close-lipped smile back and make my way over to the patio. My hands are clammy. I try rubbing them off on the back pockets of my denim cutoffs, which takes away some of the moisture but none of the stickiness. Eww.
I'm regretting my decision to do this in person. Staring at the stubble that grazes the strong angles of Baron's jaw all the way up to his cheekbones makes me whimper. I'm turning down a man that hits a ten out of ten on my I'd-stare-at-that-all-day scale.
We're just not compatible, I remind myself.
Baron throws down a twenty and then steps over the railing that encloses the outdoor seating area.
"Hi." His smile is warm and inviting, and I almost forget I'm here to say kthanksbye. He walks up next to me with his hands stuck into his front pockets. He looks more like a nervous freshman than a professional beast. "I thought we could walk to Pinball Dave's."
I hear the words "Yeah sure" come out of my mouth. Did I really just say yes when I came here to say no?
I don't know why I'm prolonging this. I want to say I'm walking to the arcade just a few blocks down the street because the patio at Halftime is fairl
y crowded and I'd rather not have an audience, but I know there's more to it than that. I'm intrigued by the man who spotted the nerd in the sports bar and thought, I have to talk to her.
I'll get to the letdown, but maybe a little teaser of the ride up wouldn't be so bad.
We walk along, and I find my steps matching Baron's almost exactly. His legs are long and pushed to their athletic max. His jeans strain against the muscles of his quads as we make our way down the street.
We hit the end of the block, and the crossing sign is a steady red hand. We're still silent, and I realize I have no idea what to talk about. Do I tell Baron I know he's a professional football player? Do I apologize for my rant the other night? Even if the man is intriguing, I'm not going to suddenly change my mind about the sport.
The crossing sign changes, and I swear I hear Baron let out a sigh of relief. I try to covertly steal a glance over at him, and I see him biting the corner of his bottom lip, his eyebrows pulled together in concentration.
I can't take it anymore. "So, how about that weather?" I joke.
Baron releases his lip and looks down at me—down…I still can't get over that—and laughs under his breath. "I'm sorry. I'm really nervous, and I don't remember the last time that's happened on a date."
I don't know what I was expecting him to say, but his honesty chips away at my resolve. He may be a bona fide celebrity, but he's still a human on a first date.
"Well, I'm not exactly Miss Confidence over here." Clearly. I haven't worked up the nerve to explain that I came here to let him down, but I feel an overwhelming desire to put him at ease. "When was the last time you were really nervous?"
Baron thinks for a second and then gets a big, lopsided grin on his face. "When my brother handed me my nephew for the very first time. He was only a couple days old at the time, and all I could think was ‘don't drop him.’"
"Older brother?"
"Yeah. There are four of us, two older brothers and one younger sister." Baron's shoulders roll back down, but his hands are still wedged into his pockets.
"Are you from the Midwest?" I feel like I should have Googled him before meeting up with him tonight, but I already know that the millions of search results hold information I don't want to see. Considering I forgot this date was even on the calendar, my decision was made for me. I'm flying blind here, and I'm kind of okay with that.
"I'm from just across the state line, the one we don't mention here in Michigan."
Ah, he's from Ohio. I don't follow sports, but even I know that our two states have major beef that spills over into life off the field. "I promise I won't hold it against you."
He slips his hands out of his pockets. They just barely brush mine as he drops them down by his sides, and my body goes completely still for a split second.
We keep walking side by side, and I am aware of every single inch of him.
"Where'd you grow up?" he asks.
"Not too far from here, actually. My parents live about twenty minutes away in a house that's been in my mom's family for generations. I went to school here, and I just sort of stuck around." I hate admitting that. I am my own worst enemy—I say I want to travel, to live abroad, to photograph places most people won't see in their lifetime, but here I am, one short car ride away from where I was born and raised.
"I envy you. I hate that my schedule makes it hard to see my family a lot. It's been that way for a while, but it never gets easier." He lifts his hand and rubs the center of his chest, as if he's trying to make sure his heart is still safely contained inside.
I want to put my hand over his. The desire feels foreign; I haven't felt this comfortable this early with a guy in a long time—maybe ever. I cross my arms over my chest and keep walking. "Did you move away for college?" I shouldn't want to get to know this man I'm just going to turn around and walk away from, but I do.
"Yeah, I got a scholarship to a school down south. I couldn't pass it up."
A scholarship for football—it's a giant bathtub filled with ice water, and neither one of us wants to be the first one to dunk our heads into the freezing water.
We walk up to the glowing neon sign for Pinball Dave's. Part of me wants to walk right in and pretend I'm just on a date with a guy that gave me his number.
But that's not reality. I'm standing next to Bear Richards, the football star. He's still just a guy who gave me his number, but I can't seem to separate the two.
Baron opens up the door for me, but as I open my mouth to speak, a group of teenage boys walk out the door. Their words overlap, but you don't have to hear the conversation to know they're enjoying a warm summer evening hanging out with each other. Life is simple: food, video games, friends.
I look at Baron and he smiles back at me, and my heart feels light. I could pretend life was simple. I could let it go for a night and just enjoy the time we have.
One of the boys stops and looks straight at Baron. "Wait—you're Bear Richards?!" All his friends stop and look back at Baron, and I swear I see a frown cross his face for a split second.
It's quickly replaced by a wide grin. "Sure am." I haven't known him for very long, but I can already tell it's the football player talking and not the man I was just walking with. Both are kind, but only one is real.
Damn, the water in that bathtub we were circling is cold.
Baron lets the door handle slip out of his fingers as the boys start to ask a dozen questions. Someone finds a pen, and he spends the next five minutes signing something for each of them.
He's made their night—probably their summer—but I can't help but feel disappointed. I can't pretend life is simple. It isn't just beer and wings and video games.
It's football too, and that makes all the difference.
"Sorry about that," Baron says. He's trying to apologize without making it seem like a big deal. The boys have finally gone off to the rest of their evening, and Baron opens up the door, hoping to start the rest of ours.
I shake my head. "I'm sorry."
He frowns, but he keeps holding the door open. "What are you sorry about?"
I'm sorry I can't walk through that door. I'm sorry I can't date a football player. I'm sorry I can't seem to get over that detail. "I can't go on a date with you."
"Tonight?" I can tell by the way he asks, he already knows the answer. I see his fingers loosening their grip on the door handle.
"Ever." The word feels like a heavy stone thrown to the bottom of my stomach. The weight is sudden and uncomfortable.
"Because I play football?" He says it like it's a hobby he picks up from time to time, like he knits scarves or paints watercolors of sunsets, as if it's something that can be taken out and then packed away when the hour is up and it’s time to go back to normal life.
But, this is normal life.
People recognize him. He has the power to make or break someone’s day, and all because he plays a sport I would rather pull off my own fingernails than sit down to watch. I look at him, and that stone in my stomach feels even heavier.
"We're just different people."
"Because I play football." He lets go of the door and walks over to a chair underneath the coffee shop awning next door. He's processing what I'm telling him, and I follow him and sit down too.
He's quiet for another moment, and then he turns to look at me. His blue eyes are so crisp, I bet if I looked close enough I could see his thoughts like an airplane spelling words across the sky.
He leans his elbow on the table and rests his chin on his fist. I have to use all my willpower not to stare at his tan forearm, but really, I don't know where to stare that doesn't make me want to throw my defensive stance out the window.
"So, you're telling me that if I had walked over to you and given you my number the other night, and I was a professor or a plumber or a bartender, you'd go out with me. But because I play football for a living, you're turning me down."
"Yes," I say quietly. The word feels hollow. It seems silly, but I know I'm right.
Even if it is silly, I can't get past it, and I'm not going to lie and go on a date with him just to say I did.
"Hmm." Baron laughs to himself, like he finally gets the joke. "That's never happened before."
I can't help but laugh too. Women probably throw themselves at him on a regular basis because of his status, and here I am turning him down because of it.
"So, you didn't know who I was when I walked over to you?" I can see him trying to piece together the variables, as if understanding the order of events would help him figure out where this took a wrong turn. The problem is we were never on the same path to begin with.
"No. My friend Andie did though. She told me after you left."
"If you hadn't figured it out…" Baron's voice trails off at the end, but I can fill in the blank: I would have walked through the door to Pinball Dave's with him. It would be easy to say yes, but football is as much a part of his identity as photography is mine.
"I don't know." It's not a good answer, but it's the only one I have for him.
"And I can't change your mind? Maybe give you a list of references, my previous dates and girlfriends?" He smiles to himself, and I wish I could join him.
I stand up and tug at my shorts. "I'm sorry. I should have said no on the phone. I'm just really bad at this sort of thing." I can't look him in the eye, but I can feel him looking at me. My whole body feels it; every cell is on high alert.
"No, don't be sorry. I'm glad I got to see you again."
I look over and see that his eyes are kind, but his shoulders are heavy.
His lips curve up to the right. "There's something about being around you…I can't put my finger on it yet. But, it was better to get a no in person, no question."
My heart skips when I hear him say yet. It's as if he snuck a word in there to let me know this isn't final. I don't know how to tell him it is. Hell, I don't know how to get that message to the rest of my body. My heart has gotten more of a cardio workout in the past twenty minutes than it did on my run.
