Bear
Just as promised, I show up at Becca’s dorm at eight on the dot Saturday night — box of donuts in hand. She smiles when she opens the door to greet me, tapping the lid of the box with one nude fingernail.
“You remembered.”
“I already screwed up once, figured I wasn’t ready for strike two yet,” I say, and she smiles wider, taking the box from my hands and depositing it on a small table near the door behind her.
As she says goodbye to her roommate, I shamelessly check her out, starting with the ample curve of her ass highlighted in a pair of high-waisted, bell-bottom pants.
They’re a thin fabric, flowy at the bottom and too tight for church at her hips.
When she swings around, joining me in the hallway, I step back enough to let her out, but don’t stop my visual assault.
I’m blatantly staring at the way her simple white crop top hugs her rack when she crosses her arms, pushing them up a little more.
“Either you haven’t been laid in a long time, or you’re not used to a girl with curves like me,” she muses.
My eyes flash to hers, meeting her cocky smirk with my own.
“Both. Definitely both.”
She laughs, threading her arm through mine as we make our way down the hall and out into the fresh, cool night. Her earrings jingle a little as we walk, and she watches me from her peripheral as I take in her natural hair, styled in a beautiful afro and framed by a unique headband.
“The coffee shop is just a few blocks down and around the corner,” she says, smiling and keeping her eyes forward. “Unless you’d rather just stare at me all night instead of watching the open mic.”
“Sorry,” I say, but it’s an insincere apology. I’m not sorry at all. “It’s just, you’re unlike any other girl I’ve seen. That sounds lame and cliché, but I don’t really know how else to say it. You’re just… strikingly beautiful, Becca.”
“Oh, stop it,” she says, swatting at my arm playfully. Then, she leans in and whispers, “Tell me more.”
We both laugh.
“So, no working at the bowling alley tonight, huh?”
“My one Saturday off in the past three months,” she says. “Hence why I was so adamant about you taking me on a date.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, definitely can’t say that you’re subtle.”
“Never promised to be.” She winks, tightening her grip on my bicep a little. “So, Bear-er-Clinton, why the hell were you on a dating app?”
I smile at her reference to me telling her what my name was the night we met.
“Honestly, I have no fucking idea. My fraternity brother suckered me into it, said I’ve been grumpy lately due to my lack of…” I almost say pussy, catching myself at the last second. “Dating.”
“He said you needed to get laid.”
“He did,” I admit on a laugh.
“And why haven’t you had a lady friend in your bed in a while?”
I scratch the back of my neck, a little uncomfortable at how fast the conversation has gone toward my lack of sex in the past year. “Let’s just say I was getting it on a regular basis, but then circumstances changed.”
“You were dumped.”
“Technically, I did the dumping, but yeah… same shit.”
I feel Becca watching me as we round the corner, and I shift to the other side of her so I’m walking on the edge closest to the street. That earns me a smile.
“Ah, I see,” she says after a moment. “So, you had a girl break your heart, decided fuck that shit, and swore off every other girl.”
I clear my throat. “Kind of. I was hooking up with this one girl, not exclusively or anything, but it didn’t last long.”
“Probably because you were still hung up on the other girl, huh?”
I stop, turning to face her as we reach the coffee shop. “It’s like you’ve read the book on my love life.”
Becca snorts, both eyebrows raising. “Well, let’s just say I could have wrote it.”
“Someone break your heart, too?”
Her face falls then, and she shrugs. “We’ve all had our hearts broken, and probably done some breaking, ourselves. But, I’m not focusing on what the past has held for me anymore,” she says, decidedly, her chin lifting and her eyes finding mine. “I like how the future looks better.”
I smile, eyes washing over the beautiful angles of her face highlighted under the neon buzz of the coffee shop logo.
“Me, too.”
I gently guide Becca inside the shop with a hand at the small of her back, keeping it there until we find an empty table near the front corner of the stage.
There’s a young guy with long, blond, almost dreaded hair playing a set of bongos as we find our seat, his raspy voice fitting in the cool vibe of the shop.
Our waitress stops by to take our order with a smile, and once coffee is on the way, I take the time to look around.
It’s like a psychic and a hippie got married and made this place their love baby.
The menu is filled with tea and coffee of all different flavors, each with its unique, “star-given” name.
The wall is covered with photography from around the world, mostly in shaded hues of sepia, and behind those photos hang large, yoga-inspired tapestry sheets.
The ceiling is dotted with tiny, luminescent lights that give the appearance of us being under the stars, and with the lights dimmed low other than the spotlight on stage, Becca’s face glows in a mixture of warmth and shadows.
“You come here a lot?” I ask, still taking in the décor. There’s a faint scent of burning wood and essential oil, likely from the incense lining the bar.
“At least a couple times a week,” she answers, waving to one of the bartenders. “It has a great vibe, doesn’t it?”
I shift in my chair. “It’s… interesting.”
Becca chuckles. “I take it you’re not really connected with spirit and the universe, huh?”
“Not particularly.”
“Well, don’t be scared. I won’t force you to get a tarot card reading or anything.”
I smile, leaning back a little in my cushioned chair as our waitress drops off our orders. I opted for coffee, but Becca chose tea, and she pours the steaming hot water from the little tea pot they brought her as I consider my next words.
“I’m surprised you haven’t asked me my sign yet.”
“Oh, I don’t have to. I already know.”
I balk at that, watching as she dunks the little bag of herbs into the hot water. “Bullshit. How?”
She smiles, eyes on her tea. “It’s in the way you carry yourself.
You’re practical, very grounded. You seem to think before you speak or act, and you’re aware of how your actions affect those around you.
You’re not necessarily an overly caring person, because you watch your own back, but you also don’t intend to run people over in your path.
It’s not that you don’t have emotions — because you do — but you’re not ruled by them, you don’t let them deter you from your main focus. ”
I shift.
So far, she isn’t wrong.
“You’re a bit shy, a little reserved, but at the same time, open to the possibilities around you.” She continues, chuckling. “Like going on horrendous dating app dates, or meeting a weird girl in a hippie coffee shop.”
I smile. “Hmm,” I muse, thinking over her assessment. “So you think you have me all figured out, then?”
“No, not even close,” she says quickly, slipping her fingers around the handle of her mug. “But, I know enough to hope I get to discover more.”
Well, that was adorable.
“You never did say what you think my sign is.”
“Capricorn.”
I blanch, lifting my coffee for the first sip. “That’s pretty impressive. And what’s yours?”
“Pisces.”
“I’ll have to research the sign to figure you out.”
She lifts her tea, taking the first light sip. “Or, you could just get to know me yourself. It’s way more fun than reading astrology books, I promise.”
“Oh, that I don’t doubt.”
We both pause our conversation to clap as our friend on the bongos finishes up, and a soft music fills the shop as they prep the mic for the next performer.
“Tarot card reading, huh?” I ask, taking another drink of coffee. It’s warm and nutty, with just a touch of cinnamon. “You must do that all the time.”
“I do. Tarot cards are fun, they help you when you’re navigating through trying times, when you have a question or are unsure about a path to take. But, my favorite, personally, is palm reading.”
“That so?”
She nods, sipping her tea. “I had mine read at a young age, and I’ve had follow-up readings. I loved it so much I actually studied it so I can do it on my own.”
“Wait,” I say, holding out my hand in a pausing motion. “You’re telling me you read palms?”
“I do.”
I raise my brows, setting my coffee down and propping one elbow on the table before handing her my right palm. “Do me.”
She cocks a brow back. “Right here? Now? I think we might get kicked out, but I mean, I’m not opposed.”
I smirk, shaking my head at her joke, though I can’t deny that my dick hardens at the thought of her mounting me right here and now. “My palm. Read my palm.”
“I don’t know if you’re ready for that,” she says.
“Humor me.”
She narrows her eyes, taking one more sip of her tea before sliding it to the side and grabbing my hand in hers. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I watch Becca as she studies my palm, taking any excuse I can get to study her.
As much as I wouldn’t mind having her ankles hanging over my shoulders as I plow into her, I oddly find myself wanting to just stay up all night talking to her, instead.
What makes her mind tick? What was she like as a kid, what does she want to be as an adult, who broke her heart, and where does he live so I can break his fucking face?
Or thank him, because now, she’s sitting here with me.
I don’t believe in love at first sight.
To me, that’s ludicrous. I barely believe in love, period, let alone in falling into it without knowing someone.
But, something inside me shifted the night I met Becca, and I feel that same stirring now as I watch her brow crease in concentration, her eyes flying over the different lines on my palm.
It’s like a cold pool of water in the depths of my chest, coming to life as hot water mixes in, warming me from the inside out.
It’s like finding something I never knew I lost, something I forgot about, or maybe never even realized existed.
It’s like a strange recognition, an unfamiliar thing I knew all along.
“So,” she says after a moment, scooting forward in her seat.
“The first thing I notice is that you have an earth shape to your hand, which makes sense, considering how you’re an earth sign.
With palm reading, it signifies to me that you’ve been shaped a lot by what has happened to you — more so than anything you’ve learned from, say, reading, or school. You’ve learned by living.”
I nod, the truth of that sinking in deeper than she could ever know.
She goes on to assess three different lines on my hand — the “head” line, the “life” line, and the “heart” line.
And while I walk into the reading skeptical, I find myself leaning more and more into her as she traces the lines on my hand, telling me what they speak to her.
She points out how the shortness in my head line tells me that I prefer more physically demanding tasks, and that I throw myself into physical work when I have difficult decisions to make or when I’m hurting.
That wakes me up, the truth of it so real it sends a tingle down my back.
On and on she goes, pointing out how my life line tells her that I keep distance and caution in my relationships, and also that my heart line indicates that I have difficulty expressing my feelings, even when I’m aware of them.
Each new word from her lips has me reeling, my wheels spinning as I conjure up example after example of how her assessment is true.
Am I reaching for this stuff, or is she actually onto something?
I can’t be sure, but all I know by the time she grins up at me, watching the different shades of confusion on my face, is that she’s an incredible girl.
Weird, but incredible.
“So, what do you think?” she asks as they announce the next performer — a young girl who will read slam poetry.
“I think that’s some crazy shit.”
She laughs. “It is. There are more lines, too, but I’ll go easy on you for this first one.” She furrows her brows, pulling my hand back to her. “Wait. There is one other thing here… it’s kind of troubling.”
“What is it?” I ask, leaning forward.
“Well, see the way this line curves?” she asks.
I nod, focusing on that line as she continues.
“It’s troubling, because that tells me that there’s someone in your life you’ve wanted to kiss, but haven’t. Someone you want to touch, to feel, but you’ve refrained. It’s a terrible, pent-up energy, and it should be rectified immediately.”
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head at my embarrassing eagerness, which only makes her teasing funnier. When my eyes find hers, she smirks, the light glossing off her irises.
“Real smooth.”
She shrugs, waiting, and I lean across the table, lifting my palm from her hands. My thumb finds her chin, tipping it up just a bit, and then I close the distance between us, pressing my lips to hers.
There’s a curve in her mouth during our first kiss, a sweet smile that permeates into my own lips like honey.
She giggles when I break away, just marginally, enough to lick my lips and dive back in for more.
It’s a kiss I never could have had with Shawna, or Lacy, or any other girl.
It’s a kiss reserved for books and movies, for sappy, romantic guys who don’t refer to girls as bitches and fantasize about banging them the first time they meet.
What’s happening to me?
I vaguely recognize that I should care, I should give a damn that my chest is light, my heart kicking as her hands wrap around my neck.
She pulls me in closer, nipping at my bottom lip, and suddenly that ravaging beast inside me is awake again.
He kicks the sappy bastard who preceded him out in a flash, and I slide my tongue along the crease of Becca’s lips until she lets me inside.
Our tongues swirl, a soft moan leaving her mouth for mine, and as the performer begins her first poem, we back away, our breaths heavy between us.
“What does my palm say now?” I ask, offering her the same hand.
She blushes, tracing one finger down the middle of it before tapping it twice. “It says you need another coffee, because it’s going to be a long night.”
Now that’s a future I can get on board with.