A Springful of Winters

by Dawn Sister

  My eyes meet his perfect azure blue ones. It might still be winter outside, but it is definitely spring in here, because his eyes are like a clear spring morning. I don’t usually notice people’s eyes. I avoid looking at them altogether because meeting someone’s gaze is just too intimate, and overwhelming. It’s like looking into someone’s soul, and you can’t do that when you first meet them. Eye contact is for close friends and family and something that happens after you get to know them very well, and I want to get to know this man. It’s never going to happen, though, because he looks angry.

  This tall, blonde Adonis in a crisp white shirt and black dress pants is hot as hell as he storms up to me, his blue eyes taking in my appearance and making judgements I don’t want him to make, but in this situation, what else could possibly happen?

  “What are you doing here?” he demands and I manage to hoarsely answer.

  “M-my dog.” I squeak. “She’s in there.” I grimace. “S-sorry!” He takes one startled look at me and then looks through the door, propped open with my foot.

  “Holy shit! What’s her name?” he asks, turning back to me.

  “B-Bessie,” I tell him.

  “Stay there, I’ll get her.”

  “Careful, she’s covered in…oh.” I’m too late to warn him about the fox poop because he’s already through the door.

  I try to shout the warning to him but the music is too loud and swallows my words, and it is already too late anyway. The Adonis that looks like spring has found Bessie and scooped her up in his arms. I see he has begun to realise the folly of his actions by the expression of disgust on his perfect face. His nose is wrinkled because there is no way he can ignore that smell.

  I jump away from the doorway as he pushes backwards through it, turning his head from side to side to try to avoid Bessie’s insistently friendly tongue.

  “Here,” he hisses urgently. “Take her and go, quick, before anyone sees you.” He hands her over and I hesitate. Surely that can’t be it. Surely I have to stay and face some sort of retribution for my part in this disaster.

  “B-but the bride,” I stutter. “Her dress. I should—”

  “Her insurance will pay for it to be cleaned.” Mr. Spring turns me and pushes me towards the main entrance. “You really don’t want to go in there and try to explain. She’s fucking bridezilla, and her family are all bonkers. They’ll kill you. Literally. Go, before they come out here looking for you.” His eyes sparkle, and I’m not sure if it’s with mirth, or concern, or something else. I can never tell in the best of circumstances.

  I do as he says. I really don’t feel like getting murdered today, or any day. I don’t dare look to see how dirty his shirt is. I don’t even think I say thank you, the ungrateful sod that I am.

  I get home without any more trouble and Bessie firmly on the lead. She looks as if she has had the best walk ever; I feel like I’ve been hit by a forty-ton truck.

  After I’ve cleaned Bessie up as best I can, I go over to Yenta’s house. She lives just across the back lane from her shop and flat. I tell her what happened over hot cocoa and crumpets, and I don’t think I have seen her laugh so much. I’m glad my embarrassment has been such a good source of amusement.

  Well, all right, thinking back it was kind of funny, but not while it was happening, and that waiter… I fancy my chances of ever seeing him again are pretty slim to non-existent, at least not unless I’m dreaming. I’m sure he will feature in my dreams tonight.

  I know I should go over there and apologise, but I’m just a great big cowardly shithead when it comes to things like that, so yeah, not gonna happen.

  Chapter Two

  Finally Some Spring Weather

  or

  People Should Really Look Before They Open Their Car Doors

  The snow lasted two days. The worst two days of my life.

  Yenta has suffered more than me, however. Not only has she been stuck inside because she is eighty, and eighty-year-olds don’t do well in icy conditions, even sprightly ones like her, but she has been stuck inside with me: an extremely grumpy twenty-four-year-old who hates having his routine disrupted by anything.

  I like to keep fit. I go to the gym, and I cycle. I haven’t been able to do either because the weather stopped me.

  The weather has also prevented me from going over to apologise to that lovely waiter at the hotel. Apologise and perhaps check he didn’t lose his job. Well, I’m using the weather as an excuse. I could have gone over, but I’m a coward, and things like this take time to plan. I can’t just go over there and improvise. I have to think about what I’m going to say, write it all down, practise it all in front of the mirror, practise in front of Yenta. I know she’s ready to throttle me because I’ve obsessed about this so much.

  It’s what I do when something is playing on my mind, and I won’t get over it until I get it over with. He might turn out to be really nice and we can—urgh! I don’t know—be friends maybe?

  I am such a hopeless case. Who am I kidding? Even if I do pluck up the courage to go over there, he’s going to see me at my most awkward and at best, accept my apology and send me packing. At worst, he’ll call me something unpleasant and tell me to fuck off. People like him never want to get involved with people like me.

  To take my mind off things, I go out on a bike ride. The shop closes half-day on a Saturday and the weather, though still cold, is dry with little trace of snow left anywhere.

  Yenta takes Bessie home with her when we close the shop; I can’t take a boisterous beagle on a bike ride, and she keeps Yenta company when I’m not around. I then get ready for my ride.

  I always wear the same clothes. My cycling shorts are a little worn, but they’re comfortable and familiar. I hate having to buy new things, and I’m fussy about what I wear, so when I find something I’m happy to wear, I tend to wear it out.

  I always take the same route. I don’t really mind riding different routes, but if I take the same one every time, I don’t have to think about it. It means I can think of other things.

  Other things like a good-looking waiter that I have nicknamed Mr. Spring because he has eyes like a clear blue spring sky.

  It is because my mind is on ‘other things’ that I don’t notice the car door open in front of my bike until it is almost too late.

  With a cry, I slam on my breaks, stopping as my front wheel hits the open door. The bike overbalances and I fall sideways, straight into the lap of the driver of the car. Thank god for my helmet, otherwise my head would be in direct contact with this guy’s, erm, helmet.

  “Holy shit, are you all right?” the guy exclaims. “I didn’t see you. I’m so sorry. Oh god…it’s you.”

  “Bloody hell,” I gasp, scrambling to get out of this guy’s lap, except I’m wedged between the car, his lap and my bike. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you to look before you open your door into oncoming traffic? I could’ve bloody broken my bloody neck.” I don’t really register his words until I utter the last ‘bloody’. The situation is embarrassing enough without the lap belonging to Mr. bloody Spring. “Hoooo, shit.” I give a half-sob, half-laugh of sheer embarrassment as I scramble unsuccessfully to stand up.

  This is worse than Bessiegate. Far worse. I wish I had broken my neck now. Then at least I’d only have to face eternal damnation. A better option by far than facing him, like this.

  “Hello again.” Mr. Spring sounds as cheerful as his nickname suggests, and his eyes… Oh my god, they’d melt a frozen tundra.

  “Um, hi?” I try to sound as casual as I can as I stop struggling, but it’s not easy with my head in his lap and him acting as if we’ve just bumped into each other on the street.

  “Hi.” His smile gets broader, showing two rows of perfect teeth. “I was hoping I’d run into you again.” He rolls his eyes and gives a low chuckle. “Well, not quite like this, obviously. Are you okay?”

  “Er, what?” That eye-roll distracted me and his words kind of echo somewhere in the distance, drowned o
ut by the bells I can hear. Is someone ringing bells? Maybe I hit my head and I have concussion. Did he just say he was hoping to run into me? Didn’t I just run into him? “I’m not sure if I am all right, actually.” When I’m embarrassed I get snippy and edgy and a little confrontational, all in an attempt to deflect from my utter humiliation. “Maybe that has something to do with the fact that someone who shall remain nameless thought it was a good idea to open their bloody car door without checking behind them first.”

  “Oh, well, sorry.” He snorts. “I think I did apologise straight away but it bears saying again. Of course, while we’re here laying blame, let’s not forget one of the first things they tell you when you’re doing your bikability at school is to watch out for arseholes who might open their car doors without looking behind them.” He says this all with a smirk firmly in place, waiting for me to join in the joke. Well, if he thinks I’ll let him off the hook that easily, he can think again, and also it gives me a perfect excuse to be angry with him and hide the fact that his smile, his eyes, his voice, his entire being melts me from the inside out.

  He begins to help me to stand, pushing and lifting me from his lap. I bat away his hands in irritation.

  “Thank you, I can manage,” I hiss, pulling myself to my feet with as much dignity as a beached whale.

  I smooth down my cycling shorts. Thank goodness they’ve managed to come out of this unscathed. I straighten and instantly regret standing so abruptly as a dizzy spell threatens to send me back into his lap.

  I grab the open door as he jumps forward from his seat to support me, his hands on my hips, his head level with my crotch.

  For a moment, time freezes and his eyes widen as he glances up at me through thick, blonde lashes. I find myself swallowing hard at the multitude of possibilities that are running through my head as I gaze into those spring-light eyes. Too much information, too much. I should look away but I don’t want to. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone more than I have at this moment.

  There must be some giveaway in my expression because his eyes widen even more and he pushes me gently away before letting go of my hips slowly, as if he is unsure of what he should do next.

  Just when I thought this could not get any more embarrassing, my face heats to the boiling point of something metallic. If he was any closer I’d be in danger of melting his gold eyebrow stud.

  “Erm, yes, well, sorry that I crashed into your car door,” I stutter as I back off rapidly.

  Without taking my eyes off him, I bend down to retrieve my bike and hear a telltale ripping sound as my threadbare bike shorts pick that moment to finally give up the ghost.

  Oh my god, I’m going to die. The chain of my bike is jammed, and there’s no way I can stop to fix it because my head is whirling. I now face a very awkward hike home with a broken bike and ripped shorts. When Mr. Spring opens his mouth—to point this out, I’m sure—I hold up my hand to stop him.

  “Please don’t,” I say, not able to look him at him. “Don’t look at me or even think about offering to help. I can manage.”

  “B-but your bike. And your shorts…” His breath hitches and I look up, startled.

  “Are you laughing at me?” I glare angrily and he backs off, his hands up in defence, shaking his head.

  “N-no. I wouldn’t dream of it.” He sounds a little less than genuine, and when my eyes narrow, he continues, his hands in a pleading position, “Truly, I’m not laughing at you. This is a terrible situation to be in, and some of it was my fault.”

  “Some of it?” I squeak, desperately trying to hold my ruined shorts together at the back.

  “Well, all of it, because your shorts might not have, you know, if I hadn’t, you know… At least let me offer you a lift home.” He gestures towards the relative items as he speaks and he looks genuinely apologetic, but this is more than my low embarrassment threshold can take. I have to get out of here before my life starts flashing before my eyes and I expire from heat exposure.

  “Look, thanks for the offer, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. I only live around the corner anyway.” That’s not true, but accepting a lift from a relative stranger was never part of my plan for today, nor was running into his car door. Things are beginning to get out of control, and I might have a bit of a hike to get home, but at least it will be along a route I know. Plus, the time it takes will give me the opportunity to reflect on how crazily embarrassing this has been.

  “I’m sorry about the dog thing, you know? The other day. I hope you didn’t lose your job or anything drastic like that.” God, I sound like a right twat, but I have to get out of here, and because I doubt I am ever going to get another opportunity, I guess this is the best time to throw an apology at him and hope it sticks.

  “Okay, that’s no problem, mate.” He frowns as he replies, obviously remembering how I’d just scarpered to let him take all the blame. “And I didn’t lose my job, so no worries there either,” he adds, still frowning as if he can’t quite fathom me out.

  He tips his head to one side, his blue eyes narrowed slightly and his brow furrowed so deeply I have the sudden urge to lick it.

  Good god! I have to leave now.

  “Oh, good, well, I’ll be seeing you.”

  I’ll be seeing you? I’ll be bloody seeing you? Now I definitely sound like a twat. Why the hell would he ever want to see me again?

  I turn and start to walk away as rapidly as I can with a buckled wheel and a bruised ego, not to mention torn shorts of which he now has an unobstructed view.

  I turn with a gasp and start backing away, giving him a helpless pleading, pathetic look as I make another attempt to hold my ruined shorts together and retain the thin thread of dignity I have left. Dignity that has faded into myth.

  Please stop watching me! Please get in your car and drive away. There’s nothing to see here but a twat in ripped cycling shorts about to die of embarrassment.

  He’s biting his lip in an attempt not to laugh. I can see the laughter in his eyes, though, and I can’t bear it. I don’t care if he sees my arse, I need to leave now. I don’t even stop when I hear him call out to me. I can’t. I just can’t deal with any more humiliation.

  Chapter Three

  Yenta Helps Me Make a Plan

  or

  Reading over People’s Shoulders Is Quite Rude Actually

  When I eventually get home and manage to shower away some of the tension, I find a message from Yenta in her usual beautifully scripted handwriting:

  Come over for dinner, Lapushka. I’m having roast chicken and I can’t eat an entire bird on my own.

  I smile. She doesn’t have to cook an entire chicken. She buys too much food because she knows I won’t refuse to go and help her eat it.

  I get ready and join her about half an hour later.

  “You look tired, Lapushka,” she comments as I kiss her forehead. She grabs my face and gives me an intense searching look.

  “I’ve just had a five-mile hike with a buckled bike wheel,” I admit. Knowing that she will demand no less than a full explanation and will know if I’ve left anything out, I tell her everything, from the car door opening to my less than dignified escape with ripped shorts.

  When she finally stops laughing and wipes the tears from her eyes, she directs an admonishing look my way. “Oh, Lapushka. You should perhaps have accepted his help. It would have saved you such a long walk home. Would it have been so bad?”

  “Yenta!” I gasp. “Didn’t you hear anything I’ve just said? I couldn’t accept a lift from him. I mean, I abandoned him like a coward the first time we met and then never went back to apologise for mine, or Bessie’s behaviour. Then I land in his lap and get all angry like it was entirely his fault when I’m really the one who should have been looking where I was going. Why would he even want to help me after such atrocious behaviour? He only offered out of politeness.”

  “And a wish to get to know you, perhaps, Lapushka?”

  “To know me? What’s there to kn
ow? I’m a grumpy grotbags and a coward to boot. He’s probably back at home now, wherever that is, thanking his lucky stars I didn’t accept.”

  “Nonsense, Lapushka. Sometimes I want to knock your head against something hard. Really.” Yenta sounds angry. “You tell me that you wish to meet someone, but when you do, you do everything you can to push them away.”

  “I didn’t meet him, Yenta. Bessie covered him in fox shit and almost cost him his job the first time. The second time, I landed in his lap and tried to blame the entire incident on him. Poor guy probably thinks I’m mad or that he’s been run over by a steamroller. In fact, he might prefer that fate to ever getting to know me.”

  “You put yourself down so much. I don’t understand. Anyone would be glad to know you, Lapushka.”

  I don’t reply. I simply heave a sigh, blowing air out through my nose in a sort of derisive snort. Yenta says these things that I find very hard to accept. I think she sees a different me when she looks. I don’t have any idea why because she’s seen me at my very worst, when I get so anxious I can’t even remember my own name. But she was there to help me when no one else was. She stayed when everyone else disappeared into the woodwork, never to reappear, including my boyfriend at the time. She’s allowed to think what she wants and say what she wants, and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for her, including this idea she has that I need to get out there and meet new people.

  I mean, it’s not as if I don’t ever want to have friends, or perhaps a boyfriend eventually. It’s just that, for me, it takes a little more planning and a little more effort on the part of potential friends or partners. Sometimes it is easier to just be by myself, but that isn’t always possible and just a little bit lonely, to be honest.

  “You should apologise to him,” she suggests, and I sense she is about to make this an order that she knows I will never refuse.