Chapter 14 Ruth #2
He shoots me his mischievous smile. “You don’t think you can handle it?”
“Oh, no, I can totally handle it, but let’s walk and see what looks good,” I suggest, tugging my jacket closed, and I fall into step beside him.
Large crowds of people pack the sidewalks, and the scent of everything from sweet, spicy, and salty aromas swirl this way.
We move slowly, shoulder to shoulder, and the tight coil of nerves in my stomach starts to loosen.
Maybe it’s the fresh air doing its thing, but the more steps we take, the easier my breath is.
A couple walks by, wrangling not one, not two, but an entire six-pack of standard golden retrievers in matching sweaters. One barks, and the others follow. “Boy, it looks like they have their hands full,” I say low so they don’t hear as they pass.
Chuckling, he says, “Right, I bet there’s never a dull moment.”
We pause and watch them parade down the walking path.
One of the dogs lifts a leg on a bush, at which point we turn away to give him privacy.
“I had a dog when I was little,” I say, not sure where the memory came from but suddenly unable to stop it.
“Her name was Shoo Shoo. She was such a flirt. She would always run after the mailman and the delivery guys, but only on the days the male carriers stopped. If it was a woman, she would just sneeze at them. For the males, she’d never bark, but just wagged her tail, waiting to be petted. ”
“She sounds sweet. I have one dog. He’s nearly twenty, and I got him right after high school. His name is Puck”
I blink at him. “Of course that would be his name. What breed is he?”
“Bulldog.”
I nod, as it fits his personality perfectly. “Has he been a good dog to take care of?
“For the most part. He does have a problem with stealing and hiding my things. I have to make sure everything is locked up, because it’s also the most random stuff that I would never think he’d want.
Of course, it’s always when I need the item he’s hidden, and I’m low on time.
Sometimes it drives me to the near point of insanity, but I love him. ”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It can be, but it’s the game he plays and loves.”
We’re both grinning now, and a comfortable silence settles between us for a beat, until he glances over at me. “Okay, I have a very important question, and you have to be honest.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Who said I wasn’t honest?”
“Oh, you absolutely are.” He stops walking and stands in front of the waffle truck. “What’s the weirdest food combo you actually like?”
I know exactly what to say, as I have a weird favorite food that spurred during my pregnancy with Noah eighteen years ago, and the cravings never left. However, it’s more than a little weird. I’m not sure he’s ready to hear this yet, so I pretend to think, stalling, and say, “You first.”
“Fine.” He straightens with too much confidence. “I love an ice-cold Coke with olives in it.”
My mouth drops open. “What?”
“I know it’s crazy, but once you get over the ick factor, you will find it’s not much different than a beer with olives. That used to be my favorite drink, but I gave up drinking booze years ago and was looking for a substitute. This is what I landed on. You should try it sometime.”
I gag dramatically and turn my shoulder to him, acting like he’s suddenly contaminated, and I don’t want to look at him. “I feel like you shouldn’t tell people that.”
“What? It has fizz and salt.”
“All right, fine,” I say, lifting my hands in surrender. “Mine is just as bad. When I was pregnant with Noah, I craved two foods and only two foods. I couldn’t get enough of them, so I started mixing them together in a bowl.”
He freezes. “This is going to be gross, isn’t it?”
“Tuna with butterscotch pudding.”
“That’s”—he makes a sound halfway between a groan and a gag—“so disgusting?”
I shrug, not offended at all because I know. “I blamed the hormones for a long time, but really it’s not much different than putting mayo on tuna, and how many people do that?”
He presses both palms to his face like he’s in pain. “No, Ruth, it’s a lot different than mayo.”
“I stand by it,” I say sweetly. “If I have to try your Coke olives, you can try my butterscotch tuna.
He peeks through his fingers, mock horrified. “You realize I’m totally judging you now.”
I lean in a little, biting back a smile. “And I you, but you started it.”
A spark gleams out of the center of his eyes, making me enjoy the conversation so much more. In a way, it feels like we’ve been friends for a long time. “What do you think?” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder to the waffle truck. “Should we start with the jalapeno waffle stick?”
“You would want to start with that?” He laughs but doesn’t hesitate to get in front of the truck window, ordering us both a big waffle stick with raspberry dipping sauce. It’s not something I’d normally eat, but it’s a beautiful day. I’m up for the challenge.
He hands me my waffle stick, and I dip it in the sauce and then raise it to my chin as I try not to get the sticky jelly paste all over me. When my teeth sink into the first bite, I can’t resist and I hum, “Mmm.”
“That’s good.” He takes the words right out of my mouth, and he motions to the bench off the path. “Should we sit over there?”
I don’t even reply because I’m too busy enjoying another bite. I simply walk forward and plop down on the bench. He takes a seat beside me and points to the jungle gym behind us. “Did you see that climbing thing over there?”
“Yeah?”
“I once got stuck on the very top of that thing. I kept climbing higher and higher, not taking the time to see how tall it was. When I reached the very top, I panicked and froze.”
“How was that for you?" I stare at him over the top of my waffle stick, not slowing as I nibble off another bite.
“Terrifying, actually. My mom tried to coax me down, but I was completely stiff. She eventually called the fire department. You’d think the near mention of having to call for emergency help would have scared me enough to try to come down, but nope.
They came with a small engine. For a moment, I thought I would get to ride in the bucket ladder, but they didn’t need it.
One of the men climbed up and carried me down under his arm.
Of course, I cried.” He grins, pleased as he adds, “And I got ice cream.”
“Oh, you poor little boy,” I say, giggling. “I bet your mom was relieved though. Little boys are so much work.”
He shrugs his thick shoulders. “She probably was, but I think I was more relieved.”
We both bite off the last of our waffles, neither of us in a hurry to let the moment go. We linger side by side on the bench like something else is supposed to happen, but we just don’t know what yet. I’m not hungry enough for another snack, but I also don’t want to go home yet.
He crumples his napkin and stands, stretching his hands over head and walks a few steps over to a trash bin, tossing his garbage away with an easy flick of his wrist. I do the same, making sure to brush the stray crumbs from my coat and straighten my skirt. That’s when he holds out his hand.
Not for a high five like a good job on doing your part to not litter.
But an open palm of invitation.
“Skate with me,” he says, voice steady, like he already knows I’ll say no and has a solid plan to counter all my excuses.
I glance toward the small ice rink a few yards away, the edges lit up with string lights.
It’s actually the same ice rink where they held Granite Ice tryouts, and where I first saw him.
The memory alone is enough to make my heart ramp up, but someone’s playing old love songs through a portable speaker, and suddenly, I’m swooning.
Still, I shake my head. “You know, I haven’t been on the ice much since Noah was little, when I taught him how. I’ll likely get us both killed.”
“You’ll be fine. I promise to catch you if you fall,” he says, not dropping his hand. “Come on.”
I hesitate and turn to look back down the path to my car. I mean, we came for one snack. I held up my end of the deal. I could leave now and feel pretty okay about it. I shift my focus back to him waiting with his palm still open, gaze fixed on mine like I’m the only person here.
And for some reason, I give him my hand.
My fingers slide into his, and the moment we touch, something inside me stirs.
We stride together to the icehouse, where we grab a couple of pairs of rental skates.
My hands tremble as I lace them up. I’m not only terrified of skating, but of where this whole thing is going to take me with Bill, and not in a destination sort of way.
I’m silent, allowing him to take my hand again as we step onto the ice, and we take slow, careful steps.
I’m beyond awkward, trying to shuffle forward with straight knees, but he shifts his position, placing his closest hand around my lower back, and he holds my hand with his other hand, putting his side into a hip-to-hip lock that robs the breath from my chest.
Being in his arms is electric.
And terrifying.
It’s terrifyingly electric.
Or electrically terrifying.
I’m not sure of the proper order of words, but I’m positive those are the correct words.
He skates forward, but he has some superpower where he doesn’t actually have to watch where he skates because whenever I steal a fast side-eye, his gaze is on me.
His hand presses firmly above my hip, just enough to remind me I’m not flying.
Though now I feel like I am. Around us, the music plays, and we avoid a kid who whizzes around the rink, darting in and out of other skaters.
Bill looks behind him, staring after the kid, and says, “He’s got wheels, huh? ”