by K. P. Haigh
How is this man, this bear of a man, so sweet?
I hum to myself. Being wrapped up in his arms with his lips to that wedge of space between my eyebrows…it isn't what I expected.
It's even better.
Baron pulls back, just enough to catch my eyes. "I want you to know that I want to take you to bed with me. I want to have you, all of you, but I also want you to know that I'm interested in you, not just in getting laid. So, I think we should sleep in separate beds tonight, because if I'm next to you…I'm not going to be able to keep my hands off you. Not for a second."
I agree with him, but that doesn't stop my body from feeling like someone just stopped the Ferris wheel before we made it up to the top. The ride's not over, but I still want to yell at the attendant to hurry up and get us moving again already.
"You're right. Space is good." The words come out like I'm trying to convince myself.
"I wouldn't say it's good." He doesn't take his eyes off my lips, and I can't help but bite them as I think about how good it felt to kiss him, as if my world started and stopped with every taste. "But I don't want to rush this. You're worth every single second. It won't kill us to take it slow."
"Are you sure?"
"Nope." He shakes his head with a small laugh.
I wiggle myself out of his arms and sigh dramatically. "If I die tonight, it was nice knowing you."
"Just remember, if you die tonight, you'll miss tomorrow, and I'm going to make sure it's worth sticking around for."
"I guess I can try not to combust overnight." I reach up and kiss him on the cheek. "But damn, you make it hard."
He raises his eyebrows, and my eyes go wide for a split second as I take in the double meaning.
"I mean…" I fumble.
My enflamed cheeks only egg him on. "I can make it hard all night long."
I barely hold back a snort, but even though he's making me laugh, it's not cooling me down for a second. If anything, it's the complete opposite. "Don't tempt me," I warn playfully.
"I'm just trying to make sure you come back for me, that's all."
I don't think it’s coming back that's the problem here. It's the walking away that's the real challenge.
I pull out my phone as I climb into the biggest, softest bed I've ever seen. This real-life, successful grownup business is pretty damn awesome. Now that I'm getting a taste of this side of life, I wonder if my measly little twin-sized bed is going to feel quite as comfortable.
When I press the home button, I notice I have a message from Andie.
Hey, just finished study group. I'm 2 doors down from ur place. Girl time?
I pull the message to the side to check what time she texted. Hmm, fifteen minutes ago. She's probably waiting for my response. Damn. I quickly type a response.
Sorry, not home tonight. Hang out soon tho?
I don't want to say too much. This is one hell of a situation to try to explain over text message. My phone buzzes again.
Parents?
Ugh—so much for avoiding the topic. I debate just replying with a flat Nope, but I doubt that'll fly.
At Mr. Sportsball's apt
I can almost hear her squeal from forty miles away. I see the trail of dots light up my screen immediately.
OMFG!!!! RU SERIOUS?!!?!?!
Why ru txting me right now?!
GO BANG THE HOTTIE
Thank you, Andie Bertelli. I have my own personal sexytime cheerleader, just a text away. I would tell her we're in separate bedrooms, but that's a detail best saved for the in-person debrief I know is coming ASAP as a direct result of this breaking news.
I'll get right on it.
I wish I was getting right on it—literally—but Baron is right; it won't kill us to take this slow.
YOU GOT THIS!!
Love you!
Have THE BEST NIGHT EVER!
I laugh to myself. I don't think this many capital letters and exclamation points have been used since Andie texted me that she got into Michigan's medical school. It's one of the top ten in the country, and they're notoriously picky about accepting students who went there for undergrad too.
It's odd to be on the receiving end of the excitement. I haven't exactly been living a bustling life full of daring adventure and intrigue, but I think the tides might finally be changing. Today, I'm staying with a famous sports star. Tomorrow, I could be on my way to Haiti. Who knows?
The world keeps handing me surprises, and I'm not going to complain. I'm just going to keep showing up and seeing where it takes me.
I wake up to the smell of coffee, and it takes me a full minute to process where I am. Not my clothes…not my bed…definitely not my apartment.
Memories of last night do a quick lap around my brain. Ah, that's where I am. I grab my phone: 10AM. I contemplate whether or not I should beg off and head home, or stick around and see what Baron's like the morning after.
Well, the morning after a very PG-rated sleepover. I hate this anxious flutter that's growing in my stomach. I don't know why people do one-night stands. I hate the next morning awkwardness, the do I stay or do I go. You tiptoe around the conversation. Neither wants to kick the other out, even though you're both wondering if the other one really wants to stay.
Okay, game plan: I should grab a cup of coffee and scope out the other member of this equation. Granted, just looking at Baron is visual kryptonite. I should probably make all my decisions while I'm not within visual proximity of him.
This train of thought is going nowhere without caffeine.
I walk out into the main living area, and the nutty aroma of fresh coffee overwhelms any other thoughts I was planning on having for the moment.
"Morning." Baron is leaning back against the counter in a soft blue t-shirt and jeans. His hair is still half wet from a morning shower, and I bet if I walked right up to him, I’d be able to smell the scent of his body wash.
"Hi." My answer is soft, uncaffeinated.
"I thought maybe we could go out for breakfast and then walk around the farmer's market." He smiles as if his plan to take over the world is working. I don't want to break it to him that I'm not quite as exciting as the whole world. Something tells me he wouldn't listen anyway.
"I'll say yes to anything so long as there's more of that around here somewhere." I point to his mug.
He laughs and walks into the small galley hallway that's just to the side of the kitchen. I follow him and see a counter tucked in there with a sink, some cupboards, and the largest silver contraption I've ever seen outside a coffee shop.
"Um, I think I might need to go back to school to get a degree on how to use that thing."
"You should see the manual. It was taller than this mug."
No one should put that much work between coffee and me in the mornings. I'll take my ten-dollar on/off switch machine any day.
"What do you like to drink?"
I'm tempted to ask for something ridiculous. Double venti half pump caramel extra foam cappuccino. I decide to take it easy—on Baron and on my taste buds. "Coffee and cream please."
"Coming right up."
Less than five minutes later, I'm sitting at the counter with the most delicious cup of coffee with warmed cream I've ever had. Okay, so maybe I can't knock this whole fancypants coffee machine thing.
I can't knock much of anything these days. Every time I try something new, it opens up a whole new world. I feel like someone's going to hand me a flying carpet pretty soon, and who am I to say no to an offer like that?
"I didn't even know this existed. I grew up less than thirty minutes away, and I've never been here." We decided to take advantage of the gorgeous morning and walk the two miles to the market. I imagined it would be a bunch of tents set up in a parking lot.
Nope. There is a full-on brick building that's been here for over a hundred years. Mind. Blown.
I can already see that the indoor area is crowded with vendors; their stands are overflowing outside. There are flowers and produ
ce and trinkets. It's a good thing we walked, because my eyes and stomach would walk out with ten bags of things in a matter of minutes if I knew I had a car to transport them in.
"Come on, there's this fruit stand in the back that's amazing." Baron reaches for my hand and starts to walk me through the crowds.
I have no idea what he's talking about. There are berries right out front that look like they were dipped in paint, their color is so vibrant. I see watermelons that are at least twice the size of my head, but I let Baron lead me forward. The man knows his coffee; I'm guessing he knows his fruit vendors too.
He finally stops in front of a stand where an old man with a green apron wrapped around his tall, wispy figure is greeting people as they walk by.
When he sees Baron, his face lights up, displaying each well-earned crease around his cheeks and eyes. "Bear! I wondered if I'd see you today! I saved you the best peaches. Here, let me grab them for you."
He has me at peaches. He goes to a table in the back and reaches down to grab a carton of the most beautiful peaches I've ever seen. They're a perfect ombre from red to orange, the tiny fuzz softly diffusing the brightness.
The man hands the carton to Baron and notices me standing off to the side. "Who's this?" he asks with a wink.
I reach out my hand. "Hi, I'm Monty."
He wipes his hand off on his apron and stretches it out to welcome me. It looks like worn leather, creased and battered, but when I take it in my own, it surprises me with a soft warmth.
"It's nice to meet you, Monty. I'm Chevy."
"Good name in this city." My parents met in Montgomery, Alabama; I wonder if Chevy's parents worked at the car company.
Chevy winks at me again. "I tell 'em I'm the best model yet."
I bet he is. He has to be at least eighty, and he's here working the stand like he's still thirty years old. I hope I have half as much energy and enthusiasm when I'm his age.
Baron pulls out his wallet, and Chevy shakes his head. "Nope, you're going to take our team all the way this year, and I'm going to tell everyone it was the peaches."
Baron smiles but continues to pull a ten out of his wallet and presses it under the corner of the silver cash box near the back of the table.
"You never know."
"Have you seen this boy play?" Chevy asks me, standing just a touch taller. You'd swear Baron was his own son. "He's the fastest runner I've ever seen for someone his size."
"No, I haven't."
Baron laughs. "She's not much of a football fan, Chevy. I don't think she's going to be cheering on every game like you do."
Chevy gives me a long look, his eyebrows pulled in while he takes in Baron's statement. Is he trying to find the critical flaw that causes me to be different than the millions of Americans who can handle sitting down for four hours to watch a bunch of men run around on a field? I hope he tells me if he finds it; I wouldn't mind knowing what makes me so different.
He looks over at Baron and pats him on the shoulder in approval. "That's good. You need someone to keep you on your toes, Bear. Someone who'll push you to be a good man, not just a good football player."
I feel my cheeks flush with heat. I don't know if it's because of Chevy's support or the fact that I've barely spent a whole day with the man standing next to me and we’re talking about games that are months away from now.
Baron shakes his head. "Give me a chance to win her over first, Chevy."
Chevy chuckles. "Well, what are you standing around here for? Go show her the market." He adds in a mock whisper, "And buy her some flowers for goodness’ sake."
Baron reaches out and shakes the man's hand again. "Thanks Chevy. It's good seeing you."
"You too. You too." Chevy turns to me. "You got yourself a keeper with this one. He's a good man, one of the best."
I swear I see a little bit of color touch Baron's cheeks. I turn to look Chevy in the eyes.
"Yes sir."
I don't doubt that he's right. I don't doubt it for a second.
One bouquet of flowers and three extraordinarily juicy peaches later, we're walking back to Baron's apartment. I have no idea what comes next, but if it's half as good as this morning, this will be one hell of a first full day together.
I've been thinking off and on about Chevy, about the city—hell, the state—full of people that support Baron. He is a good man, but he's also a good football player. Yet, he doesn't seem like the type of person who needs the approval of a cheering section in order to be satisfied in life. The football players I've met thought they were God's gift to the world. They were good at the thing people revere. They got off on being the game-day hero, even when they were villains off the field.
"So, why football?" I've avoided the topic, as if turning the light off on the subject would make me forget there's a giant elephant standing in the center of the room.
Baron hums to himself. I'm sure he's answered this question a million times in a million different interviews, but the way he's taking his time makes me think he's giving me the real answer—not some canned version that sounds good in an article.
"My two older brothers played all the sports. Hell, my sister did too. We didn't have a ton of money growing up, but we had a lot of land, so we were constantly outside, even in the winter." He laughs to himself, and I silently wish I could see the memory that is so clearly running through his head right now.
He reaches for my hand and threads his fingers together with mine, and for a second, I can almost feel the nostalgia mingle with the pure pleasure of being in this moment with him.
"My dad loved football," Baron continues. "He always wanted to be a football player growing up, but he blew out his knee when he was in high school. So did my brother, exact same injury. But, I was good at it, quick and big. I played in high school, and when colleges started showing interest, I played even harder. It was a way for me to go to school for free. So, I pushed myself, and once I started, I just never stopped. I did a bunch of work with my brother's knee doctor in order to avoid the same issues, and really, I just got lucky. I've had minor injuries here and there, but nothing major—not yet, at least."
The way he says it…as if it's inevitable. "Not yet?"
Baron shrugs. "I'm trading getting beat up on the field for lots of money. It's not something I can do forever."
"What do you want to do forever, then?"
Baron doesn't need to think; his answer is immediate.
"Buy a huge piece of land near my family in Ohio and build furniture."
"Furniture?"
"Yeah. I built all the tables and bookshelves in my condo. My bed, too. I like being out on the field playing ball, but using my hands to craft a piece of furniture is my own personal nirvana. I could do that for the rest of my life and be happy."
The way he talks about it, the way his face is illuminated with pure delight, I believe him. I can see it, and the image of Baron standing in a huge barn working with power tools is a damn fine image. Hell, he could charge admission just to let people watch him. The clientele would be ninety-nine percent women, and they would probably demand a shirtless option, but man, I'd pay more for that too.
"What about you?" Baron's voice interrupts my imaginary vignette of him, shirtless in a barn. Yup, I'll be coming back to that one later.
What about me? "Umm…" A flicker of images surface, but there's no clear way to describe them.
"You take pictures of adoptable pets and events for the newspaper…is that what you love to do? Or is it something else?"
Do I love that? "Not really. I mean, I love photography. I feel the most like me when I have a camera in front of my face, but what I'm doing right now isn't exactly the type of photography I really love."
"What kind of photography do you love?"
It's embarrassing to admit the kind I’d love to do is not at all what I'm doing right now.
"The kind that ends up in National Geographic. The kind that takes me to areas of the world most people will never see i
n their lifetime. The kind that stops people in the middle of a grocery store to pick up a magazine because the image on the front cover takes their breath away."
My brain shifts into overdrive like it always does when I start thinking about the kind of life I really want.
If I really want it, why am I not doing it?
"What's wrong?" His tone is kind, gentle—the complete opposite of the voice in my own head right now.
"Nothing."
"Your face lit up when you started talking about the kind of photography you love, and then all of a sudden it shifted to the biggest frown I've ever seen."
I sigh. "I just hate that I'm not doing what I want to be doing."
"Neither am I. Sometimes you have to do something you're good at for a while before you can do something you love."
I scrunch my face together like a mouse.
"That's not quite it."
"What is it then?"
I bite my lip. I know what it is, but I've never actually said it out loud. I close my eyes and let go.
"I'm scared of what I love. I'm scared to travel across the world and be away from my family and my best friend. I'm scared I'm not good enough to take photos that show up on the cover of magazines. I'm scared I'll get lost, or sold to a cartel somewhere. I'm scared I'm not strong enough to hack it in the middle of nowhere. I'm scared to show up and start doing what I think I love and then figure out it isn't as exciting or glamorous or wonderful as I've imagined it. I'm scared I won't love it when I start to live it."
Baron stops walking. He's silent for what feels like an eternity. He traces the triangle of freckles on my left shoulder, and his touch softens the sharp edges of my fear.
His hand stops moving, and he looks straight at me. His eyes convey the words before he even says them. "Even if you don't end up loving it, it'll be okay. It's okay to love something in theory and then find out you don't love it in real life. I thought I wanted to coach college football after I finished playing. You know what I figured out?"
