Chapter 1
1
[Genie]
I cannot believe I’ve agreed to this date.
The last place I want to be is in this dimly-lit pub just outside of Knoxville, Tennessee. And the last person I want to be meeting is Ralson Meyers.
The forty-something, portly man is the son of a friend of a friend of my mother’s and newly moved to the Knoxville area. By default, my mother thought I should know him despite the relationship distance—the son of a friend of a friend of hers—and she’d decided I should meet him. Like I was a personal welcome to Knoxville committee.
Honestly, I’d like to ship him back to Sterling Falls, our hometown in West Virginia.
However, being a cordial, dutiful daughter, I agreed to meet Ralson. I’d even allowed him to pick the location, which happened to be a decent looking place from the outside, featuring a green canopy over the large, mullion window and a deep-red, oak door. The Boxer had a cute logo with the patchwork face of the corresponding dog breed in black, white, and brown on the wall opposite the door of the small entryway. I might have passed this place a dozen times and never given it a thought.
Ralson had heard of it and wanted to check it out.
Once inside, Ralson thankfully recognizes me compared to the vague description of him I’d been given from my mother.
“He’s got brown hair and a sweet face.”
She meant that the limited hair he has is brown and his face is unremarkable. But I wasn’t here for his looks. I was doing my mother a favor.
“Huh,” he says after an awkward moment where he goes in for a hug and I hold out my hand to shake his, thus causing me to jab him just above the beltline. “You don’t look anything like your Instagram photo.”
My Instagram is a graphic image with a distorted face, wavy, short hair with blond and brown stripes, and a wide smile. Quirky_Girl_Calendars is my handle, and I don’t know how he’d know that nor why I’d look like a caricature. Since my mother hardly gets my business name correct, I’m surprised Ralson found me on social media.
I smile tightly at him before he leads me to a table. The pub only has a few as the majority of the space is taken up by the physical bar lining one wall. A swing door is in the back corner and each time it opens, the sound from that space invades this area like the roar at a football game. Cheers and jeers filter into the rectangular area, continually distracting me.
“It’s been difficult living without my mom.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know your mother passed away.” Mom hadn’t warned me Ralson was in a sensitive position or that he’d lost his mother who was the friend of Mom’s friend. Now I feel bad.
“Oh.” He chuckles, the sound heavy and wet. “No, no. She’s still very much alive. I mean, it’s been difficult living without her because I used to live with her.”
I want to whole-heartedly believe he means temporarily. Like he went to college, earned a degree, and lived on his own before something tragic happened, say a job loss or even a temporary transfer.
But he continues. “It’s the first time I’ve been on my own.” He smiles, pleased with himself, and sitting taller. “How do you feel about laundry?”
“Uh . . . I do it regularly?”
“Wonderful.” His muddy-brown eyes flare but the gleam is unnerving, just like this conversation.
One drink and I’m out of here . I pride myself on being single and willing to mingle, and not interested in marriage. Still, there are multiple reasons not to mingle, and just embrace singlehood. Like the improbability of finding the right-for-me man.
“I like to have mine done on Fridays.”
O- kay . I nod.
“So, I’m happy to drop it off, if you want to just pop me your address.”
What the . . .
He slides his phone across the table toward me and I stare down at the device. Is he serious?
“Um. I don’t own a laundromat.”
He chuckles, his shoulders jiggling. “My mother told me you were funny. Quirky.” He tilts his head, like he’s pleased with his own joke and I’m starting to wonder if this entire setup is one bad prank. Any minute someone is going to pop through that swing door and tell me I’m being punked.
That a forty-three-year-old man did not just proposition me to do his laundry because he’s no longer living with his mother.
Sweet succulents, save me .
We haven’t even ordered that drink I suddenly, desperately, need—the one that starts the very short time clock on this evening—when a server approaches and tells us our table is ready. He tips his head toward the swinging door with a pleasant smile on his face.
With a confused expression, I glance at Ralson. We’re already seated at a table. A very open, very public, very visible by the bartender and a bouncer at the door, table.
“Uh.” I seem to be stuck on monosyllabic sounds because I’m truly at a loss for words.
Ralson stands, and without a glance back at me, as his date , he proceeds to follow the server. Thunderstruck, this would be the moment to swipe right and leave this situation. Just bolt for the door and never look back. Just what the ever-loving-eff-ity is going on here?
Typically, I’m quicker on my feet to leave a situation, so I’m surprised at myself when I’m suddenly standing as well and hesitantly following Ralson, thinking a separate dining room must be behind the swing door. A room that is overcrowded and has bad acoustics.
“I really only planned on one?—”
I cut myself off as I slip through that dividing barrier, catching the door before it swings back to hit my stunned face. In front of me is a boxing ring. A four sided, roped off, raised roughly eighteen inches off the floor, boxing ring, and in the center are two men punching the daylights out of each other.
In silky, violet-purple shorts is one man facing off with another man in white shorts with a green stripe up the sides and around his waist. Each is a powerhouse of strength. Corded muscles. Bulging veins. Boxing gloves on their fists. They also wear a padded helmet which is the only sane thing about this situation.
Standing inside a backroom boxing ring has never been on my bingo card.
Ralson is several feet in front of me and readily takes a chair offered by the server. I close the distance between us but remain standing.
“Hey, I think I’m going to head out.”
Ralson swivels his head almost as fast as the punch I see out of the corner of my eye. I’m trying not to look. The last thing I want to watch is too grown men pummeling one another, and I definitely do not want to hear the breaking of bones. Or worse, see the sight of blood.
Keeping my concentration on Ralson, I’d really like to throat punch him, despite my aversion to violence. Finally, he blinks up at me from his seated position.
“But we didn’t have a drink yet.”
“Yeah, and suddenly, I’m not thirsty.” I’m downright dehydrated, desperately in need of a martini or six, but not with this guy. And not in this bar.
“I was going to order champagne.”
I have no earthly idea why he’d think champagne was a bargaining tool or a platitude to sway my decision.
“I never drink the stuff.” Bubbly and I have a history that’s long and bitter, unlike this date which will be short and quickly forgotten.
“You’ve got to see this guy,” Ralson continues, turning his attention toward the ring like I didn’t even speak. Didn’t reject his offer or suggest I’m leaving. Because I’m going home.
Or better yet, today is National Indie Bookstore Day, and I think I’ll hit up my local favorite. A good book. A gin martini. A warm bathtub. Best date ever. Party of one, please .
“Ralson, I’m not?—”
Ralson flinches. His eyes are trained on the ring. He grimaces like whatever he’s witnessed hurts him . Inhaling deeply, I close my eyes, willing myself not to look. But like watching a horror film, I feel the pull to peek when I know I won’t like what I see.
For half a second—no lie—not even fifteen milliseconds or whatever it would be called; more like thirteen, my favorite number, I turn my head and then turn it back toward Ralson who is fixated on the fight.
But in that microcosm of time, I don’t miss the boxer in purple looking at me. Or at least, facing my direction, eyes appearing to be aimed outside the ring over his opponent’s shoulder.
Ralson winces.
I’m not falling for the temptation to look again, but a strange energy surrounds me.
Snap-crackle-pop .
Or maybe that’s the punch-crunch-break of a bone.
I don’t want to know.
“Jesus,” Ralson hisses, rather loudly, though the sound blends in with the uproar around us. “He’s so damn good.”
Don’t ask. Don’t ask .
“Ralson, I’m?—”
“Have you seen this guy?” His voice rings incredulous, as he finally turns back to me, pointing in the direction of the boxing match.
Of course, I haven’t seen him . I don’t want to look now. I don’t want to ever look.
“Good luck in Knoxville, Ralson.” I say, stepping to the side to walk away. How about losing my number? And thank goodness he doesn’t have my address, although I’m momentarily nervous my mother will give it to him. Telling me I should help a friend of a friend and do the damn man’s laundry for him.
Another thing that is never going to happen.
“I didn’t know Judd Sylver was in Knoxville.” Awe fills Ralson’s voice.
My head whips back toward the ring so fast my neck cracks.
“What?” I drag out the word like the sharp crook of a right arm before— bam! —a hook to the jaw.
Staring at the ring, I see the man in purple shorts turn into a beast of aggression. His arms move like a pinwheel. Left. Right. Right. Left. His vision is tunneled on the man before him who slowly moves backward until his back hits the ropes.
The view is both disturbing and intoxicating, and there is no way that spiraling man in the ring is the thoughtful, quiet, poet-souled Judd Sylver.
A bell rings —ting-ting-ting —breaking me out of my reverie.
Then Purple-Shorts-Guy is stepping away from his opponent. The once-reserved man I knew is now a heavily breathing machine, layered in perspiration with a wickedly delicious energy coming off him and his eyes are trained in my direction. The referee dressed in black pants with a white shirt is lifting Judd’s arm by his wrist and declaring him, “Winner”.
Ralson is on his feet letting out an impressive whistle. One of those where he inserts his fingers into his mouth. The inflection is perfect, ear-piercing and shrill.
And that’s my cue to leave.
I don’t want to be here with Ralson and the last person I want to see is Judd Sylver.
I march hastily to my car, parked purposely underneath a bright lamp in the middle of the lot, and click the button on my key fob to unlock my Camry. It’s not a glamorous car but she’s been dependable and I’m grateful for how easily she unlocks without the trouble of inserting a key into the handle.
“Genie?”
I close my eyes as I near the side of my car, wishing I could disappear in the dark night, but the lot’s light illuminates me.
Clenching the door handle in my fist, I spin to face Ralson.
“Hey.” He bends at the waist and clutches at his knees like he just ran a marathon instead of crossing fifty feet of pavement. With exaggerated breaths, he stands tall again, winces as he pinches his side, and then speaks. “We didn’t have that drink.”
Yeah, and we aren’t going to have one either. “I’m sorry. I have a sudden headache.”
Ralson slowly smiles. “I thought you weren’t supposed to use that line until date number three.”
Does this sad man ever get to three dates with a woman? Does he not understand complaining of a headache isn’t a positive thing?
“Maybe we could reschedule,” he continues.
“Ralson.” I sigh. It’s never easy to let someone down. Even if he is the son of a friend of a friend of my mother’s. Despite the distant, nonconsequential acquaintance, I don’t like hurting anyone. However, I’m good at knowing how these things work . . . and when they don’t.
“Like I said inside, I wish you all the luck living in Knoxville. It’s a great city.”
“You could show me around.” He steps closer to me and my hand squeezes tighter on the door handle.
And I also could not . There’s a thing called the internet and map searches. Even GPS. “I’m . . . sorry.” I don’t know why I’m apologizing. I’m not sorry. “I have a big meeting coming up in a few weeks. One that could change my career and it’s really my only focus right now.” Not playing tour guide to my city.
“Quirky Girl Calendar, right?” He tips a brow and for half a second, the other half of the one from earlier, I think Ralson might have something positive to say. Something encouraging, like asking me about my company, or wanting to know more about my meeting. Maybe he is slightly redeemable.
“Your mom told me about your little hobby.”
Nope . There goes the credit I wanted to give him.
“Ralson, it’s been . . .”
Nope. I can’t do that either. I can’t even pretend this has been fun. Or real. Or whatever might soothe his ego.
Singling and mingling. It’s been my choice, although it’s also been daunting lately, and I don’t have the strength to fake my enthusiasm for a date that was more like a meetup. It’s almost worse than faking an orgasm. Almost .
“I’ve got to go,” I blurt, turning away from Ralson who is suddenly leaning against the side of my car. His hip presses into the back passenger door.
My heart hammers. A split decision is needed. Do I risk opening the door, hoping I can get in fast enough to close it behind me? Do I worry he’ll catch the door and push me further inside then follow me? Or do I hesitate, knowing he could easily step forward and block my entry once I have the door open?
These are all fears I don’t want to have. Ralson doesn’t feel threatening, even if he is a larger man. In general, I’m just tired of having to calculate how a man will respond in these situations.
The not-so-easy letdown situation.
“Genie, I just want to?—”
“She said she had to go.”
I spin at the sound of a masculine voice. One rich and deep, and a bit threatening on a different level. A protective pitch. A commanding trill.
And I stare into somber, sad eyes that ironically flame the brightest blue I’ve ever seen. A blue I recognize, because the shade matches a dress I once bought.
“Judd,” I whisper-choke.
His hair is slicked back yet that familiar flop of his bangs falls forward against his forehead. His face is pink in the light of the overhead lamp. His shoulders are broad in a tight tee. Broader than I remember when he was eighteen, and my prom date. When he’d finally been my friend, or so I thought. When he stood me up for that singular right-of-passage back in high school. And that night hadn’t even been my prom, but his.
He’d said yes but I heard the resounding no loud and clear at his absence.
Judd stares at me a long minute, as if trying to place me. I’m out of context, I assume. This isn’t high school Math Club. Or even Sterling Falls. Judd is four hours from his home and only miles from mine. Our paths have not crossed in over twenty years. Almost twenty-two.
I’m torn between pointing out who I am and letting him continue to ponder the recognition when Ralson speaks.
“Damn good fight, man.”
Judd grunts.
“I heard about you back in Charleston,” Ralson continues, fanboying. Judd has apparently made a name for himself, enough to at least have one follower.
Judd still doesn’t respond to Ralson’s enthusiasm. Those sorrowful eyes are trained on me, and I shiver in the mountain air.
“Anyway . . .” Ralson clears his throat at Judd’s unnerving silence. “Genie and I were just leaving.”
I spin toward Ralson. “Not together.” I don’t know how much clearer I need to be. I’m not leaving with him. I’m not interested in seeing him again, and the last person I want to see as well is Judd Sylver.
While I appreciate this interruption, considering the timing a momentary savior situation, I don’t have any desire to catch up with him.
The boy who stood me up. The one who stole my heart.
I can’t really fault him. He was always a bit quiet. Shy and aloof. He didn’t ask for my crush on him. He barely offered me his friendship.
And right now, I have nothing to offer him.
Still, Judd and I are locked in a moment. One where unfamiliar energy swirls around me, winding me up. He steps toward me. His gaze focused. His mouth open, as if he’s about to speak.
The movement flips a switch inside me, and I quickly turn away from him, giving him my back as I’m not prepared to hear his voice after all this time.
“Good night, gentlemen,” I mutter before swinging open the door of my Camry and slipping inside, keeping my eyes forward until I need to reverse out of the parking space. Only then do I see that Ralson is nowhere in sight, but Judd remains standing a few feet away, underneath the parking lot light as if he’s some ominous creature.
Snap-crackle-pop .
I lean forward to check the sky. Not a cloud in sight. No spring storm brewing, and yet I sense one coming.
Especially after I reverse out of the parking space and glance in the rearview mirror one more time to find Judd has walked out from beneath the parking light, standing directly in my line of sight behind me.
And behind me is where he belongs. In my past.