“The second time you’ve done that since you walked her outside,” Gretchen says quietly, but with an edge. She was completely fine with me spending a few minutes with Annie outside, but after the first name slip, things quickly went south. Understandably.
What a douchebag move to call a date by the name of a different woman. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t get Annie Walker out of my head for some reason. I keep spacing out and picturing her soft blue eyes and then realizing I’m just staring at the salt and pepper shaker on the table.
It’s an unresolved attraction, that’s all.
During my stint working in Rome, Kentucky, it was always difficult to not pay attention to the youngest Walker sister. The sweet one, everyone says. The quiet one. The cute one. I’ve heard folks in that town refer to Annie as every possible synonym of those words—but never once did they give her the adjective that always sprung into my head when I saw her: gorgeous.
We’d never really talked before because first, I don’t socialize while on the job, and second, I’ve known since the moment I laid eyes on Annie that I needed to stay the hell away from her. Something about her attracts me in an I-could-get-feelings-for-her kind of way. And I don’t do feelings.
But tonight, I talked to her, and it was a colossal mistake. I can’t stop thinking about her.
Even just that short talk with Annie outside of the restaurant was the most I’ve enjoyed a conversation with anyone in a long time. Which is a problem because I’m currently on a date with a woman I can’t seem to focus on. I just keep thinking about how Annie’s entire face lit up and reflected her thoughts. Her wide eyes. Her pink mouth. Her nervousness. I wanted to talk to her all night. Hell, I would have settled for sitting and watching her read her book. I bet she makes all kinds of faces while reading.
And now I realize I’ve done it again. Gretchen said something, and I don’t know what it was. Shit, I don’t deserve to be on a date with her tonight. “Uh—” I smile at her, trying to search my brain to see if any part of it heard her. “Damn, I’m sorry Gretchen. I’m distracted tonight and missed what you said.” I hate that I’m not giving her my full attention. Annie did something to me—she scrambled my brain.
Gretchen pats her lips with her napkin. “It’s okay, I just said that I got a promotion at my job.”
“That’s great. You deserve it.”
“Yeah,” she agrees and then frowns. “To be honest, Will, I feel like I’m having dinner with a brick wall. Is it because of her? Annie?”
I lie, mostly because I want it to be true. “No. Well, sort of. Annie is a family member of the person I’ll be providing security for again starting tomorrow.”
“Rae Rose,” Gretchen says flatly. “You’ve been her security on and off for five years, Will, it’s not a secret. You can just say her name.”
Yeah, but I’ll never do that. I take my job protecting Amelia seriously—and that means never dropping her name. The number of dates I go on where they recognize me from that damn BuzzFeed article is absurd. They always want to know the gossip about Amelia. What’s she like? Is she sweet? Have I ever hooked up with her?
It’s wild to me the intrusive questions people will ask about a celebrity because they think their life is open for public consumption. And by the way, the answer to that last question is a resounding no. I have never, nor will I ever, sleep with Amelia. Like I said, I take my job seriously and sleeping with the person you’re protecting is unprofessional. Not to mention I like to think I have good morals, so sleeping with someone who’s engaged is not appealing. And third, after working for Amelia for so long now, she feels like the little sister I never had.
I don’t want to offend people, though, so I sidestep Gretchen’s statement just like I do everyone else’s. “Anyway my head jumped into work before it was supposed to after seeing Annie. I hate to do it, but I think I’m going to have to cut our date short tonight and head out after dinner.”
Gretchen frowns. “Wait. You’re not going to come back to my hotel?”
I get why she’s upset. Gretchen and I don’t see each other regularly. She works for a pharmaceutical company and travels a lot for it. We hook up occasionally when we’re in the same area, and usually go on a date before. There is a difference. But I’m not into it tonight. Annie is, for whatever reason, stuck in my head, and I don’t think it would be right to go to Gretchen’s place when I’m preoccupied with someone else.
“Yeah—I think I just need to get some sleep tonight.”
She scoffs with a smile, pulling her napkin from her lap to set it on the table. “Wow. She must have really made an impression.”
“I’m sorry, Gretchen,” I say again, and I really mean it. I didn’t intend for this to happen, and it’s never happened before.
Some of Gretchen’s icy demeanor cracks and she smiles genuinely. “It’s fine. Really. I don’t know why I’m acting so jealous all of a sudden. You and I have never had that kind of relationship, and I don’t want it either. I guess, I just…” She pauses, looks down at her plate and then back up at me. “The look you’ve had on your face while thinking about her—” She shrugs lightly. “For a minute I thought it would be nice to have someone look like that while thinking about me. Maybe I’m realizing it’s time to readjust my intentions.”
Wait, I’ve had a look on my face? That’s not good.
Gretchen sighs and continues, “Do you ever think of committing to someone? I don’t mean me…just someone in the future?”
“Never,” I say quickly. “Long-term relationships are not for me and never will be.”
I take a drink of my water, suddenly feeling like my throat is too dry to speak. Mainly because Gretchen’s question is ringing loudly in my ears. Annie did make an impression—and I’m not happy about it. I like women, I like dating, and I like to think I’m a good guy who appreciates and respects women. I make sure everyone knows my intentions up front, and I only sleep with women who have the same goals in life as I do—singlehood.
But lately I have noticed when I sit still, there’s a feeling I can’t quite pinpoint—or more accurately, maybe don’t want to pinpoint. It’s why I like staying busy with work and adventures. It keeps my head from wandering.
Tonight, however, after talking to Annie and then watching her drive off, I found myself rubbing my chest to ease that damn feeling. I hate it. I want to pay for dinner and take Gretchen back to her place and spend the night tangling up with her until the feeling goes away and I never have it again.
Instead, I pay for dinner and walk her to her car. We have an unmemorable conversation on the way and I sigh with relief when I get into my SUV and drive away from her—straight for the town that I hoped I wouldn’t have to go back to. Straight for the woman who now feels like the most dangerous person in the world to me.
Ten minutes into my drive, my phone rings and I answer it over my car’s Bluetooth.
“Hey, man,” I say to Ethan after answering. He’s two years younger than me, and we look nothing alike. Where I have dark hair and blue eyes that I’ve been told look grayer in certain lights than true blue, he has dark brown eyes and dirty blond hair. Other than how we look, though, we’re very much alike.
We don’t see nearly enough of each other because my job keeps me busy (read: I like staying busy) and he lives on the other side of the country in New York, with his own busy career. He’s a divorce lawyer, which is both fitting and satisfying given the way we grew up.
“What are you up to?” he says like it’s totally normal for him to be calling to shoot the breeze rather than getting straight to the point. We’re not phone talkers, which means if we call, it usually goes like this:
Hey, man.
Hey.
You okay?
Yep. You?
Yep.
Okay, see ya later.
And then we text each other memes on occasion to let the other know we’re still alive.
“I’m currently driving back to Rome, Kentucky. Which, by the way, gets really shitty service, and my call could drop at any second.” Yet another reason I’m dreading going back there. When I say this town has no service, I mean it’s like a black hole. If you want to make a call, you have to walk around with your phone extended above your head just hoping the cell phone gods will bestow a single bar. My agency told me it’s gotten a little better since I was there last with the help of several shops that installed wifi in their establishments, which I guess is better than nothing.
“I thought you weren’t going until tomorrow?” asks Ethan.
I adjust my grip on the steering wheel. “Decided to go tonight instead.”
I intentionally leave out the part about dinner, and seeing Annie, and then bailing on my night with Gretchen. Mainly because it isn’t a big deal, and I don’t want him to make it into one. I’m just tired and distracted, that’s it. Annie happened to throw me off balance a little, and all I need is a solid night’s sleep before my job starts tomorrow to get my head in the right place.
“Cool,” Ethan says and then goes quiet. The pause grows and grows until it feels tangible. Something big is coming, I can feel it. And if he’s stalling this much, it’s because he knows I’m not going to like it.
“So…uh—listen.” He stops. “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
“Um…shit, I’m just going to say it. I asked Hannah to marry me last night.” Another pause. “She said yes.”
My throat closes. A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, and my hands grip the wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
“Come on, Will. Say something,” Ethan urges when I stay silent too long.
But I don’t want to say anything. I want to scoff. I want to curse at him and hang up.
I squeeze the steering wheel tighter. “I don’t know what you expect me to say to this. Congrats? So happy for you? I can’t do that, and you know it.”
Ethan sighs heavily. I hate disappointing him like this, but he knows where I stand on marriage, and until a few months ago, he stood right here beside me in avoiding it.
“I don’t expect you to congratulate me, but maybe to…I don’t know, just try to hear me out.”
I grind my teeth and stare out at the dark road. “Dammit, Ethan. I don’t want to hear you out! You practically just met her. Like what, three months ago? How in the hell is that long enough to know that you can spend your life with her? You’re a divorce lawyer for shit’s sake, you know better than this.”
“Yes, I am, so you know that I’m going in with my eyes wide open. But I love her, man. I gotta take a chance because…I’m helpless to do anything else.”
Helpless to do anything else. I want to punch him in the face.
“Well, now I really know it’s a mistake. Tell me it’s for practical reasons—that she needed to go on your insurance or you wanted a tax break. Anything other than you’re doing it out of a misguided romantic notion—then I could come around to it. But helplessness? Ridiculous.”
“Why does it have to be misguided?” he asks sharply.
“You know why!” My voice is hard as granite. I can’t believe I’m even having to explain this to him. “You and I grew up under the same damn roof, Ethan. Our parents were serial cheaters. They were toxic and they blamed all their shit on us. Or maybe I shielded you too much for you to remember? Maybe I should have taken the headphones off your ears and unlocked our bedroom door when they were screaming at each other in the kitchen and we were upstairs scared out of our minds?”
“I remember just fine,” he says, but I wonder if he really does.
We both go silent as memories swim through our heads. Mine most likely different from his because unlike him, I took most of the brunt of our dysfunctional upbringing, always trying to create at least an illusion of normalcy for Ethan. Our parents both worked at low-paying jobs that required them to be gone most of the day—sometimes nights too. I took care of my brother more than they ever did. I cooked most of his meals. I did our laundry. I made sure that he had help with his homework. And then when they’d come home exhausted and angry, they would tell me I was the one who messed up by not cleaning up the dishes after I made dinner. My perceived laziness would kick-start my parents’ fighting. My dad would drink. My mom would leave and go to whichever dude she was sleeping with at the time—and in the end, they’d always come back together and tell me and Ethan that they were going to make it work for us.
There was very little happiness in our home when we were growing up, and there sure as hell wasn’t love. Maybe marriage works for people who grew up in ideal homes with parents who support and care for each other; but for people like me and Ethan, we wouldn’t even begin to know where to start to have a good relationship. I’ve tried it a few times. I never make it past the three-week mark before either I’m ending things or she is because we can’t stop fighting, or that initial spark has faded. It’s why I don’t even bother trying anymore. I don’t know how to love—not even sure I’m capable of it. In fact, I don’t know that I believe in it.
And until three months ago when he met Hannah at a concert, Ethan felt the same way.
“I’m sorry, but I won’t support you in this. You’re making a huge mistake, and I can’t sit by quietly while you do,” I tell him plainly—hating that I have to upset him but incapable of not being honest with him at the same time. I love him too much to watch him potentially ruin his life like this. “Why not hit the brakes a little and take it slow? Keep dating for a while and see if your infatuation holds up—because most likely, that’s all this is, and soon the fighting will kick in or she’s going to cheat, or—”
“Stop. I’m choosing not to be hurt right now because I know where you’re coming from, but I won’t listen to you talk negatively about Hannah. As someone who understands better than anyone else, I hoped you’d be willing to listen to me and trust me when I say that I was wrong about relationships and marriage. We had a terrible upbringing, but not all relationships have to be like that. My relationship with Hannah is really good, Will. We communicate, we both give and take, and it’s so nice to know that at the end of the day I have someone to love me through every—”
I end the call.
Later I’ll text him and tell him I lost service, but for now I can’t stand to hear him say any more about it. I hate that he’s running full steam ahead toward something that could really hurt him, all because of feelings that are still brand-new. And I really hate that he doesn’t seem to be as scared of it as I am. How is he able to move past it so quickly when it’s something I’m affected by daily?
It doesn’t matter. Because the fact is, when I started keeping people at arm’s length was when I started really finding happiness—and I’ve never met anyone who’s made me want to challenge that decision.
No one.
Not Gretchen, not the woman I met in Italy last year, not Jada from Texas, not Allie from Indiana, and not even…
My thoughts snag on the one name I can’t bring myself to lump in with the others for some concerning reason:
Annie Walker.
