by K. L Randis
“Yeah,” he said, slowly nodding his head. “Yeah, I have no idea.”
“Oh!” I said with way too much enthusiasm, “Must be someone else then.”
He nodded, his hand still cupped behind my hair acting like a barrier to the sand. “Can I ask you something?” The seriousness of his eyes ignited the fragments of emotion I felt when visiting him. He lowered his chin, and the anticipation of whether or not he was going to kiss me was overpowering.
“Yes,” I said, watching his gaze start to glow in the winter sunset.
“Did you make a train noise?”
“What?”
“A train noise. Did you…you know, make a noise like a train when you were running?”
My cheeks flushed. “What? No! Why would I make a train noise?”
“Well, your cheeks right now are telling me you did.”
“That wouldn’t even make sense.”
“It doesn’t, that’s why I was asking if you did. I could have sworn you were reenacting Thomas the Train back there.”
His stupid half-grin snapped me back to reality. “I did not, how would you know what noises I make?”
He pointed to the side of his head. “No headphones.”
“You don’t run with music?”
“No, it’s distracting.”
“So are you. You can get up now.”
Realizing we were still pressed against each other his eyes widened in embarrassment, then softened. “Why, is a train coming?”
“Oh just—” I pushed against his shoulder, trying not to let him see me laughing as I stood up and brushed myself off.
When I turned to face him I was taken aback by his height. Watching him brush the remnants of sand from his shorts, combing his hand through his hair, and looking out into the distance I couldn’t think of a time he’d ever looked so healthy, so self-reliant.
Then he looked at me.
His eyes told a completely different story. They contained a depth that pulled me in, but a force field that warned I shouldn’t get too close.
“I’m going to need your number now,” he said.
“What for?”
“Dinner, of course. I can’t let the winner of the race go home empty-handed. I think dinner would be perfect. Aren’t you starving after runs like that?”
“I like to eat,” I admitted.
“So, we’re on for tonight?” He traced over my face, watching me pause for a second too long. “Oh, you have plans already?”
“I do,” I said, my voice weighing heavier than I expected it to. “What would your consolation prize be?”
“You’ll be there at dinner, right?” he asked, handing me a phone from his pocket so I could enter in my number.
I hesitated. I knew that doctor-patient relationships had a code of ethics a mile long that had to be upheld. Peering down the coastline I considered the possibility that at one point he might want someone to talk to, someone to encourage him to go back to the hospital again. Since he wasn’t technically a patient anymore, and we technically met on the beach having a friendly race, I didn’t see the harm. He nudged the phone toward me, raising an eyebrow in a way that forced me to smile.
I took it.
I punched in my number, returning it to him as he read the screen. “Nice to meet you, Pippa. I’ll text you so you have my number too.” He touched the screen a few times, and returned the phone to his pocket just as the phone in my pocket chimed. “So, since you gave me your actual number, not a dummy one, I’m assuming it’s okay we chat and figure out when dinner can be?”
I shrugged, trying to mask my grin, “Guess so.”
“By the way, I’m Jackson,” he said, walking backwards. He raised his eyebrows, then turned on his heel to run off into the sunset.
“I know,” I whispered behind him.
Chapter Five
Jackson never called.
He never texted or tried to find me on the plethora of social media sites I was sure we both frequented. I tried to not let it bother me, especially knowing the past of how we really met. Considering how destitute he was in the hospital, I was worried there was a different, more compelling reason he didn’t reach out other than no longer having an interest in dinner.
I wanted him to be okay. At least when he was hospitalized I was able to check in on him whenever he crossed my mind.
Meg picked up on the residual flirty hangover emitting from my smile when I met her back at the gym that day. I had to dish on how a random, albeit easy on the eyes, man tried to run me down on the beach and how we might revisit my Olympic games victory over dinner. I excluded mentioning that he had been the same man from the hospital who had been my fake-patient or that he was the identity behind door two-thirty-three.
She immediately dismissed my comment about the aesthetics of his face, telling me that my definition of guy-throbs was slightly off Richter ever since college.
We parted ways after dinner and Meg spent the better part of the next two days harassing me about every single bachelor she could, reveling that she felt my ‘dating switch’ had been turned back on.
“If you want to see someone really easy on the eyes, you need to come visit me at work right now,” Meg hissed into the phone.
“You’re just trying to get me to come to The Inlet on my day off to day-drink. I should do the responsible thing and go home to sleep and then, oh I don’t know, go for a ten mile run or something.”
“Yes, exactly, you need to day-drink. You’ve been training too hard lately anyway. Come see this guy though, just for a few minutes. I’m going to talk you up before you get here. He’ll have no choice but to propose to you the second you walk in the door.”
“Please don’t.”
“Blind date, Inlet style.”
“You’re a terrible person. I thought you don’t call customers from the bar? Isn’t that your golden rule? No playing Cupid while you bartend, no matter how much the customer is crying on your bar?”
“My bar, my call. You’ll thank me, trust. See ya in five,” she said, hanging up.
I pulled into the parking lot of The Inlet, not attempting to fix my ponytail before heading inside. “Sorry, Prince Charming,” I said out loud, putting my car in park. “I’m too tired to play dress-up today.”
Meg was behind the bar, her high-profile bun bobbing all over as she fake-laughed to something a guy sitting at the bar whispered. I sighed, spotting the guy from the back and immediately regretting my decision to show up. I looked around, wondering if I could sneak back out before she noticed.
“Hey, girlfriend! Hey!” Meg waved with just the tips of her fingers, motioning me over. “Come have a drink, beautiful.”
The guy peered over his shoulder as I approached and I wondered what planet Meg was living on by calling me. Sitting on a stool next to my prearranged suitor, I spoke to Meg directly, not knowing if I could muster the strength to not speak through gritted teeth. “Hi friend,” I cooed, tilting my head to the side, widening my eyes.
A cheeky, full tooth smile was my reply. “What’s your drink, lady?”
I looked at the guy, mulling him over. If Meg and I were out at a bar and he approached us I wouldn’t deny a drink if he offered, but I certainly wouldn’t consider going home with him. He was wearing work boots, which was a good sign, at least he had a job. Most of his hair was still there, except for a small circular patch at the back of his head he probably wasn’t aware of. Blond hair, so he still had at least a decade before he’d have to shave it off. Squinting, I tried to see where Meg could possibly—
“Ay, love, can I have me another?” he said.
Ah, there it was.
I smirked, raising approving eyebrows at Meg as she approached him with a fresh beer, absorbing the Irish accent and relaxing knowing she knew me so well. I was a sucker for a foreign accent.
“Thought maybe you’d want a Long Island,” she said, pushing it in my direction, winking.
“Go strong or go home, got it,” I repli
ed, then lowered my voice. “He’s okay.” I ticked my head in his direction. “What’s his name?”
She looked around, landing her eyes on the guy beside me, whispering just as carefully. “Who? Connor?”
The guy looked up at the sound of his name. “What’s that, love?”
“Oh nothing, you’re good,” Meg replied, flashing another fake smile until he returned to his beer. She turned to me, her voice barely audible. “Connor’s the new cook. I made Susan hire him last week.”
“They didn’t need another cook.”
“I know that. But the accent.” She gripped the edge of the bar, biting her lip.
Connor finished the last of his beer and wiped his face, pushing his chair away from the bar and heading toward the double doors to the kitchen.
“How’d you get Susan to sign off on that one?” I asked, genuinely impressed. “And is he supposed to be drinking while on the clock?”
“Told her I’d quit. And he wasn’t drinking on the clock, he just clocked in now.”
“Mature.”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures. I don’t want to sleep with him, I just want him to talk dirty to me.”
“Oh, Meg!” I said, covering my nose to hide an impending snort.
“Ay, love, want me to cook your potatoes?” Meg said, impersonating his Irish accent.
I turned my face to the side, hiding the giggles.
“Want me to show you how to chug a Guinness?” she continued, forcing both eyebrows to do the wave while she smiled.
The chair moved to the left of me and a gruff, “Seat taken?” broke our laughter.
“No you’re good,” I said, wiping my eyes and looking up so I could gauge whether the person had enough room to squeeze next to me.
“Jackson!” I said, all laughter ceasing to exist.
“Wait you know him?” Meg said, pointing her finger at his face.
“You could say that,” Jackson said. “Would you mind grabbing my beer from the other end of the bar, Meg?” Then he lowered his voice, “Didn’t realize I’d have competition this early in the day,” he said, nodding in the direction Connor had disappeared.
“Pippa, this is Jackson,” Meg said through clenched teeth. “Apparently you already knew that, so I guess I didn’t have to hold him hostage with fun facts about you while we waited for you to get here.”
“THIS is who you wanted me to meet? Oh, you didn’t…” I begged, realizing what she had said.
“Oh, but she did,” Jackson answered lightly, tilting the beer to his lips as Meg handed it to him. “I know lots about you now, Pippa Winters.”
“You told him my last name!”
“She told me your last name,” he repeated, keeping his straight face and laughing eyes.
“Meg!”
“What?! How was I supposed to know you two had already met? And why don’t you know his last name then?” she asked.
“Yeah what’s your last name?” I demanded, even though I had seen it on his medical charts numerous times.
Amused, he obliged. “Walker.”
“Ohhhhhh, I love it,” Meg gushed, resting her elbows on the counter and plopping her chin in her hands.
“His last name?” I questioned, eyeing her suspiciously.
She shook her shoulders, a pretend shiver traveling from her head to her tailbone. “Men who have verbs as last names. It’s so sexy.”
There was a silent moment where Jackson and I exchanged glances incredulously, the comment almost too ripe to respond to.
Meg took a step back as the first bout of laughter roared out of Jackson. Taking her by surprise, she retreated to the back end of the bar, staring at him like he was a caged animal that had just been let loose.
My laughter started with a choked snort. Hot tears stung the inner corner of my eyes where day-old mascara started to puddle off.
Jackson covered his mouth as he laughed and I wondered if he had learned that behavior from having braces when he was younger. He certainly didn’t need to hide his smile now; it lit up a room as quickly as efficiently as his eyes darkened it.
Jackson’s pointer finger and thumb were suddenly on my lower back, his head bent over the bar in a fit of laughter that he couldn’t overcome.
The subtle, innocent gesture made me stop laughing, and I struggled to change the subject as Meg eyed my reaction. “Okay Chuckles, it’s not that funny.”
“Yeah, yeah it is because that’s not even the best part of—,” a genuine squeak of new laughter bubbled from his mouth and he couldn’t finish his sentence.
“Someone has a good sense of humor,” Meg said awkwardly.
“I’m a verb, but you’re a train!” Jackson said, covering his mouth and gasping into the cusp.
My eyebrows came together, “I’m a—? OH MEG, YOU DIDN’T!” I yelled.
Meg stepped backwards with her hands in a surrender pose, realizing she had been dishing dirty secrets to someone I already knew. “I’m a bad friend, I’m a bad friend,” she chanted.
Jackson pointed to Meg, wiping his eyes and taking a huge gulp of air. “She told me when you were in college you’d get a really intense runner’s high and would yell out like a train whistle during track meets. I knew it, I knew you made a train noise the other day on the beach.”
Meg cringed listening to Jackson throw her under the bus. Immediately upon absorbing the last of his comment though, her eyes widened and she pointed at me with such haste I thought her earrings were going to rock right out of her earlobes. “HE’S THE GUY FROM THE BEACH?”
“Guilty,” Jackson said, raising his glass and downing the rest of his beer. He wiped the outer edge of his left eye, sighing as he finally caught his breath.
“I don’t want to hear it,” I warned, narrowing my eyes at her. “Any other tidbits you mentioned that I should know about?”
“Just that you’re waiting to see if you’ve qualified for the Boston Marathon,” Jackson answered for her. “Now I know why you’re so competitive.”
“Meghan!” I said, genuinely hurt.
Meg covered her eyes. “Oh, you used my whole first name. I’m the worst best friend, I’m the worst, I know it. I’ll never speak to you again. I don’t deserve you in my life.”
“So, he knows about Dylan then?” I said, throwing one hand in the air while I sucked back the remainder of my Long Island with the other waiting for her response.
“Oh no, no Pippa,” Meg said, glancing at Jackson. “I would never…”
“Who’s Dylan?” Jackson asked, all giggle-bugs firmly at bay.
“He’s none of your business,” I said, eyeing Meg, coaxing her to keep quiet.
“More drinks?” Meg asked, eyeing the empty ones in front of us. “I think everyone could use more drinks. I’d certainly like a drink.”
“I’m not done with you,” I threatened as she walked away.
“So, Boston huh?” Jackson started.
“Drop it.”
“Nah, I get it, you don’t want to tell anyone just in case you don’t qualify. It’s cool.”
I sucked in a balloon’s worth of air, ready to rant about how he knew nothing about me when he continued.
“So, let’s train together.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Clearly we’re good motivators for each other.”
“I have my own motivations, thanks.”
“Yeah, but none like me.”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Meg returned with two beers this time, handing one to each of us. “You guys look cozy so I’m just gonna…” she pointed to the end of the bar where a twenty-something brunette had just sat down.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said, watching Meg slink away. “I’m perfectly capable of training on my own.”
“What’s your best time?” he asked.
“None of your business.”
“Yep, you need me.”
“Why’s that?”
“If you didn’t, if you were proud of the
time you have, you’d have told me. Since you didn’t that tells me you’re struggling to push yourself to your full potential.”
“Oh, so we’re a psychoanalyst now are we?” I teased.
“No, are you?” he asked.
“I—uh, well, what do I do for work, you mean?”
Jackson smirked as his pocket vibrated, a call distracting him at just the right moment.
“Tell you what,” he said, clicking the edge of his phone to send the call to voicemail. “Drink your beer faster than me and I’ll leave it alone.” He waved his hand over the bar to visually demonstrate he would cease provoking me. “If I finish first though, you have to let me train you for your marathon.”
“What do you know about running in marathons?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I know everything about body conditioning though, and you’d be amazed at what I could show you.”
“So you’ll call me then? Just like you did last time to set up our pretend dinner date?”
“No, I’ll show up. When it matters, I’m there. I’ll show up for you.” He raised his beer, nudging at the air to get me to do the same. “Here’s to Boston then?”
My hand was wrapped around my glass, the buzz from my previous drink finally hitting me and making me more agreeable than I would have been otherwise.
“Yeah, I don’t know Jackson. I don’t even know if I qualified yet, and you just don’t seem like the kind of guy who—.” I had two gulps in before Jackson realized what was happening, a panicked look painting his face.
“Hey! What the—!” He tipped his drink back, wasting no time in leveling the playing field, both of us racing to the bottom of our glasses.
“Go Jackson!” Meg yelled from across the bar.
I eyed her angrily over my glass and she changed teams. “Pippa! Yeah go, Pippa!” she called out, less enthused.
Glass clinked against the counter top, with a victorious Jackson smiling and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “AND you cheated!” he said, pointing to the last gulp in my glass.
