Constantine: Britain’s Story Part 2 (Spearhead Lake)

Chapter 1

Britain

18 years old

You’ve got two choices, Britain; you can stand under that pavilion with all those strangers and mingle. Ugh. Or, you can stand alone, in the sun, and bake to death. I’m having a hard time deciding which is worse.

It’s 105 degrees today, making it, quite possibly, the worst day for a picnic. Worse even still, is that I’m here. Well, technically, I’m in the bathroom, splashing cold water on my rosy red cheeks and chest in an attempt to cool down after helping my mom get this whole thing set up. But also, I can probably squander away ten minutes without anyone noticing my absence. Not that Georgia would even realize I’m missing either way. She doesn’t pay much attention to me.

My jaw practically hung open with disbelief when she told me I had to come to her company's picnic. Never, in my 18 years, has she invited me to one of these, let alone mandated my attendance at an MS Group company function. Aubrey and I had plans today, none of which included me sweating my ass off at some dusty lake in the hills, setting up picnic tables, and filling ketchup bottles for the last hour.

It’s not that I don’t like being social per se…well sometimes. It’s not that I even dislike those people specifically. It’s just that I don’t know anyone here besides my mom. Everybody else here is tight. They’re one big, happy family — one that I’m not a part of. And even though Georgia has worked at the MS Group since I’ve been alive, I’ve only ever met her boss, Connie, on three separate occasions. Everyone else is a mystery to me. Well, mostly. I know about them, but I don’t know them. And they don’t know me.

Georgia will occasionally let slip comments about people from the office, and while it’s certainly not for my benefit when she does talk about work, she gets…lighter. Her mouth extends into a smile, and her color rises. Like when she told me how Liam fumbled his first big pitch, calling Mr. Prattle Mr. Pittle for the entire meeting.

She came home practically bursting with laughter. But then, it’s like she remembered who she was talking to and she dimmed herself back down. I wanted to ask more, hear more, even see her smile more, but she just walked back to her bedroom and shut the door. Her anecdotes aren’t invitations. They never lead to something more, no matter how many times I’ve hoped they would.

I also tend to soak up whatever information she shares with me, like the attention and love-deprived sponge that I am. It doesn’t help that I’m also cursed with a wicked memory. So even though I’ve never met Connie’s kids, I could tell you all their names, from oldest to youngest, and their approximate ages based on details Georgia’s dropped throughout the years about birthday gifts or their grades in school.

I’ve always been that weirdo, though. The one who remembers other people, but never the one remembered. Yup, that’s me.

I still cringe when I think about my computer science teacher asking me mid-year what country I was from. He thought I was the new foreign exchange student. Not me, Britain, who was in his class the previous year and again that year. But that’s pretty typical crap for me. I mean, when your own father pretends you don’t exist, and your mom barely acknowledges your existence, you get used to it. Sometimes, it even works to my advantage, and I can fade into the background. For some reason, I get the feeling fading won’t be an option today.

I don’t really know why — it’s just a gut instinct. I mean, it makes sense, though. I’m the outlier, the odd one out. They’ll look at me and know. Or, more likely they’ll look at me and think, she doesn’t belong. They wouldn’t be wrong. I don’t belong, not here, maybe not anywhere.

I drag my vision up to the cloudy mirror mounted on the cinder block wall in this glorified outhouse California State Parks has deemed a bathroom, and thankfully, my cheeks are starting to look less beet red now. Just more sunkissed, and I no longer feel the sweat rolling like a river down my spine. Unfortunately, the evidence of my heat exhaustion is still visible. Thanks to the sweat beading along my hairline, the baby hairs framing my face look light brown instead of their typical golden hue. Christ, it’s hot.

I’ve just got to last — I look down at my phone perched on the sink ledge — two hours and 53 minutes. I whimper quietly, dreadfully, letting my shoulders droop and fall.

Looking back at my reflection, I thank the heavens I at least had the forethought to put on a sundress before I was forced into spending my day at this outdoor oven. I shimmy and twirl my hips slightly, willing the fabric to stop sticking to my damp skin, and send out a prayer of thanks that my little black dress with dainty white flowers is hiding my sweat spots surprisingly well. I guess miracles do happen every day.

You can do this, I think to myself in an attempt to combat the overwhelming social anxiety coursing through me.

Grabbing my phone and inhaling deeply, I place my hand on the cool, metal door handle before letting loose an exaggerated exhale. I push hard on the heavy door but am immediately stopped from opening it fully by a wall…of man. Well, I don’t so much as stop it, as his forehead stops it.

“Owww, FUCK!” The man-wall drops his phone and brings his hands immediately to his forehead, applying pressure where there will surely be a huge, swollen knot any minute.

“Shit! Shit, I’m so sorry! I had no idea someone was standing right outside the door!” The metal door swings back towards me, the impact causing me to falter. Yeah, that’s a heavy fucking door.

“Fucking hell,” the man groans, clenching his eyes shut while pressing the palm of his hand against his forehead.

Way to fade into the background, Britain. I look around briefly to see if anyone has noticed, but not many people have arrived yet and Georgia is nowhere in sight, thank God.

“Just wait here, just a second. I’ll be right back!” I take off, running over to the picnic pavilion, grabbing my purse, a bottle of water, and a half bag of ice that wouldn’t fit into one of the coolers. When I get back, the man is still standing where I left him, palm to his forehead, groaning.

I snatch his phone off the ground where he’s dropped it and lead him into the bathroom, taking extra care to guide him, safely, out of the door’s path. I drop the bag of ice in the sink, perching his phone and the bottle of water on the ledge while letting my purse land somewhere on the grimy floor. I'm too concerned about the head trauma I’ve just perpetrated to care, though.

Emptying a portion of ice into the sink, I use what’s remaining to make an ice pack. Winding the excess plastic tight, I move the man’s hand, gently, from his forehead and replace it with the bag of ice. His eyes stay clenched, but at least he’s no longer groaning.

“Again, I’m so, so sorry; I didn’t know you were right outside the door.” I’m absolutely killing it at first impressions.

The man takes a deep breath. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t know anyone was in here and my stupid, fucking phone distracted me.” I let loose a little breath of relief. Hopefully, this means he won’t blame me for the concussion he might have — or the hospital bills that might be coming his way.

The man starts to sink back, looking for something to lean against, but his hands are just groping blindly behind him, so I step forward to guide him. My one hand is still holding the bag of ice to his head, while my other presses his left hip back and to the left until his hands find home and he rests against the sink’s edge. When I let go of his hip, I feel a tingle. My body responds before my mind can, causing my cheeks to heat rapidly. That touch felt…intimate…not platonic. Huh.

I’m in a bathroom. Alone. With a man I don’t know. Cool.

I give him a once over, up and down. A very attractive man I don’t know. He’s got thick, sandy-colored hair and is dressed handsomely, leaning against the sink like a damn J. Crew model. Handsomely? Who am I? I should hand the bag of ice over, make a final apology, and leave. I should get him two ibuprofen from my bag, tell him there’s a bottle of water on the sink, and walk out that door. I should definitely do that, but…the longer I stay in here, the less time I have to spend out there. So, I keep holding the bag, and surprisingly, he doesn’t move to take over.

“Would you like some ibuprofen?” I ask him quietly. At the sound of my voice, he starts to ease his eyes open…and fuck. They’re the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Jesus. It’s not even like the color is particularly bold. It’s just that they’re his eyes, on his face. And he’s striking. His strong, sharp jaw, perfectly straight nose, and dirty blond hair accentuate his tan, creating a perfectly balanced harmony with those gorgeous blue eyes.

I could have stood here for hours in quiet companionship as long as he kept his eyes closed, but damnit, with his gaze fixated on me, I’m getting hot again. The small bathroom starts to feel stifling, and as if on cue, I feel a drop of sweat bead and roll down my spine, getting trapped in my panties. I can’t help but fidget under the weight of his focus, which he hasn’t broken since opening his eyes. To be fair, I haven’t either.

“I have some ibuprofen in my purse if you’d like some,” I offer again quietly, “for the swelling.” He’s still staring at me, and I don’t understand why. We’ve definitely gone past the point of polite eye contact, with no talking.

“Crap,” I whisper mostly to myself as a wave of panic takes hold. “Do I need to call an ambulance? Do you know where you are? Do you know who you are?” How bad did I hit this guy? He just laughs a low, calming laugh. The sound puts me at ease while simultaneously exciting me.

“I know where I am, I know who I am…What I don’t know is who you are.” He cocks his head slightly, questioning.

“Oh, um, I was just helping set up the picnic.” I give him a half smile. I don’t know why I didn't answer his question. Well, I guess he didn’t really ask me a question, though, did he? He made a statement. A true one at that; I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me.

“Huh,” is his only response, but the questioning look lingers. I finally break eye contact when his Blackberry begins vibrating on the edge of the sink. It’s behind him, so I instinctively reach for it to pass it to him, and while I shouldn’t, I do. His phone is still open to the chat he was reading when I hit him with the door…and I read the message. More like a novel by the looks of it, but I only have a moment to glance at the first couple of lines before I hand it over to him. Immediately, I wish I hadn’t.

I hold the phone out for him to take, but he doesn’t. He just keeps looking at me, completely ignoring the phone in my hand. When it vibrates again, I push the phone towards him, and when our hands touch slightly this time, I feel that hint of intimacy again. There’s this heat between us, and it's growing.

What is happening right now? Am I imagining this? Stuff like this doesn’t happen to Britain Palomino, and after reading that text, I should absolutely not be feeling the kind of warmth that I am right now. The kind that makes you rub your sticky thighs together and squirm with anticipation.

Ugh. Why? Why won’t he take it? Probably because he knows “Nancy” is leaving him — for someone else. He makes no move to take the phone, though, leaving us stuck in this strange standoff. Me holding ice to his head, holding his phone out for him to take. Him staring at me, bracing his hard and muscular body against the sink. My fingers are still slightly touching his hand when I have the realization that I’m being weird. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I clear my throat and look away, setting the phone back down behind him.

“I should probably get going…” I begin to lower my hand from his forehead when he grabs my wrist to stop me. It’s not hard — quite the opposite, actually. He does it with so much tenderness I can’t help the burning in my pelvis.

“Please,” he pauses, dropping his gaze to the ground, “can you just stay a little longer?” I reply wordlessly, with a simple nod and move my slightly trembling hand back to his forehead. He releases my wrist, and I feel his thumb slowly graze my underarm as he does, but maybe I’m imagining the intent behind it. I guess it’s just been a while since anyone has touched me. Huh, it’s been over a year since I’ve been touched. At least not intentionally or, warmly…or intimately. That’s fucking depressing.

“Do you believe that everything happens for a reason?” His question breaks through my mental fixations about the touch, startling me.

“Wh-what?” I awkwardly stutter back.

“Do you believe in fate?” He asks again. I’m struggling to comprehend why handsome Mr. Blue Eyes is asking me this. I flounder for a moment, blinking awkwardly.

“Do you want my honest answer?” Stupid question, Britain, you idiot. Would anyone want you to lie to them? I die in embarrassment slightly.

Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice and just replies solemnly, “Always.” His striking blue eyes pierce me with their intense focus and I muster the courage to tell him what I really think.

“Well, no,” I sigh. “I think believing in fate means believing in fairy tales and happily ever afters, and I don’t believe in those. So no, I don’t think things happen for a reason. Things just…happen. Good things, bad things, things that don’t make us feel anything at all. Constantly and for no reason at all. At least that’s the conclusion I’ve come to so far.” I shrug my shoulders and his face transforms, his mouth turning up into a smile. Damn, his smile is contagious. It makes me smile. And for what seems like no reason at all, I’m smiling with this man. In a shitty bathroom, at a dusty lake, on a day that feels like hell reincarnated on Earth.

“Do you? Believe in fate?” I ask.

He hesitates before laughing out his reply, “Nope.” His voice comes out a low, rumbling chuckle. The sound vibrates and shakes me to my core, but there’s something about his response that niggles the back of my mind, and I don’t laugh with him. Something about his response feels wrong, and my smile fades.

I move away from him, removing the bag that’s mostly water now from his forehead, and when he averts his eyes, I know that’s my cue to leave. I’ve spent a lot of years honing my ability to read social cues because I’m awkward enough as it is. Something about this moment feels definitive, and I know it; our time is up.

I drop the bag in the sink and bend over to get the ibuprofen out of my purse. I fumble for what feels like minutes until I find it, hidden under my swimsuit and cover-up. Popping the cap, I slip two red tablets into my hand.

I don’t attempt to hand them to him, avoiding another uncomfortable standoff. Instead, I drop them on the sink next to the water bottle. Even though I can feel him watching me, I do my best to avoid eye contact as I pick up my purse, straighten my dress, and head towards the door.

“Well, again, I’m very sorry about the door…and the head thing.” I look down at his phone and almost say, and I’m very sorry about your girlfriend, or maybe even your wife, but I don’t. I stop myself.

Instead, I say, “And it was very nice to meet you.” I give him a soft smile and turn to leave, instantly regretting my choice of words because did I meet him? I didn’t. I have no idea who he is.

As I walk towards the picnic pavilion, a feeling of regret engulfs me. It’s so intense I come to a complete stop halfway to the picnic area. I pause for a moment, letting some weird, internal debate wage well below my conscious mind. This feeling is like an invisible tether, tugging at me to go back. Back to him. But I immediately shake it off, mentally berating myself for being foolish.

I may not know much about life yet, but I do know that men like Mr. Blue Eyes aren’t interested in girls like me.