Sneak Peek At First Smile
Chapter One
Cane Austen and Me
Pen
“Mommy, what’s she doing?” The small chirp of a child’s voice draws my attention.
I am not the aforementioned “mommy,” but my head tilts toward the tiny human anyway. There’s something in the shock and awe in their voice telling me there is a small finger pointing at me.
“It’s her stick?—”
It’s a cane . I don’t correct the wrong terminology. Instead, my smile tight and white cane ahead of me, I stroll down the not-yet-fully awake Buffalo-Niagara Airport terminal.
“It helps her see.”
Ah, if only it were that magical. It’s barely seven a.m. After spending a week with my mother, I lack the temperamental bandwidth to explain to this woman and her child the intricacies of being legally blind. It’s a cane. It doesn’t help me see, but rather it’s a tool to allow me to use nonvisual cues to get from point A to point T. Right now, the point T I’m destined for is the Tim Hortons tucked into the airport’s food court.
Aunt Bea always said I was a shining light illuminating the darkness in the world’s understanding of what it means to be blind. It’s why I’ve dedicated so much of the last ten years to educate people through my social media page, Cane Austen and Me. To my thirty-thousand followers, I’m the “It” blind girl, documenting my every day and big adventures with Cane Austen, my white cane, helping the non-visually impaired world’s knowledge be just a little less obscured about vision loss.
The knowledge that I’m no longer Aunt Bea’s little light aches deep in my heart. I can almost feel her soft arms folded around me as she cooed, “Pen, you’ll help them understand.” No matter how tired I was, she’d have expected me to stop. Explain how the cane works. Tell the child that not all blind people can’t see. Set his mommy dearest straight on the blind people facts, helping their little human grow up without misinformation and ensuring that other little humans – ones like me with failing vision – don’t repeat the storyline I’d faced as I grew up.
Clear their vision , Aunt Bea’s sing-song words dance in my heart.
Sighing, I pivot on my strappy, wedge sandals and head toward the sound of the mother and child. A little boy sits, feet kicking, beside a woman, her long hair gathered into a messy bun, at a half-full gate.
“Hi. I’m Pen.” My free hand gathers my long auburn hair, brushing it onto my right shoulder. The action soothes the pulse of anxiety. No matter how many times I do this, it’s still awkward as fuck. Good thing I love you, Aunt Bea.
The little boy tips his head to his mom, whose forehead puckers in confusion.
Yep, I’m weirding them out. Frankly, I don’t blame them. Most people don’t have a lot of interactions with the legally blind. Let alone one who walks up to them and introduces themselves. Thanks to Aunt Bea, that is exactly who I am. Even if there are days – like today – where I wish I wasn’t. Where I’d rather fade into the crowd, unseen and forgotten.
“I heard you ask about my cane,” I lace just enough sweetness into my words to not send anyone into a sugar-rush. “This is Cane Austen. I’m legally blind, and she helps me stay safe. See how I sweep the cane? It’s called constant contact and helps me trail things to guide my path or find things, so I don’t trip and fall.” With a tight upward curl of my mouth, I demonstrate how I use the cane.
“Are all canes girls?” The little boy’s face twists into a pout.
A genuine smile kicks across my face. “Not all, but this one is.”
“Why did you name it Cane Austen?” The woman’s eyebrows knit.
“So she’ll help me find my Mr. Darcy,” I quip, making the woman snort with laughter.
It was the same reaction Aunt Bea had. This is my tenth Cane Austen. I’ve had a new one every year since I was sixteen. While everyone else was getting their first car, I was getting my first cane. The eye condition I have, retinitis pigmentosa, progressed to the point that a cane is necessary to keep me safe. I’d been diagnosed at age six, so I knew my vision was fading to black at a glacial pace…slow but unstoppable. The gradual progression of vision loss didn’t lessen the painful realization that, while classmates were getting their licenses and cars, I was facing just another way in which I wasn’t like them.
Not allowing me to wallow, Aunt Bea presented me with my first white cane. Blindfolding me – which she found hilarious – she dragged me into the driveway where she gifted me a white cane tied up with a giant red bow. She’d even put a Porsche sticker on it, winking as she affirmed that her niece would travel in style. “You gotta name this bad bitch,” she’d crooned, explaining that the cane was my car, and everyone named their vehicles.
The little boy worries his lower lip, as if considering his words. “What does ‘legally blind’ mean?”
What, indeed? To the world blind means you can’t see, but unsuspecting civilians didn’t realize that blindness is served on a spectrum. The majority of legally blind people are like me, with some usable vision. There’s a whole medical explanation that Trina, my ophthalmologist bestie, would bore people with at parties. I keep it simple, saying I have enough vision to get myself in trouble but not enough to always get myself out of it. Which is why I avoid trouble. As adventurous as Aunt Bea raised me to be, I don’t take uncalculated risks.
After finishing my impromptu blindness in-service, I leave the smiling mother/son pair and redirect myself toward Tim Hortons. My flight to LAX doesn’t board for another hour, so I have ample time to secure my sought after breakfast sandwich and make it to the gate to lose myself in my steamy romance audiobook. There’s something delightful about listening to the swoony and sometimes illicit words of a favorite male narrator, with his hot guy voice, in public places. The idea of exposure makes the risk so much more rewarding. Whoever ends up sitting next to me on my flight home would, no doubt, turn a violent shade of red if they only knew what I was listening to.
Grinning, I stroll toward Tim Hortons. Bless the airport gods! I fight the urge to wiggle my hips, spotting only one other person in front of me. The sweet ecstasy of a multigrain breakfast sandwich and apple cinnamon tea is within my grasp. Besides seeing Trina, Tim Hortons was the only thing bringing me joy on this trip back to Buffalo. After moving to Seal Beach, California with Aunt Bea at seventeen, this Western New York staple was the only thing I missed. That includes my mother, who was already on husband number three at that time, and had no problem letting her teenaged daughter move cross country without her.
Whenever Aunt Bea and I went home, the first thing we’d do was hit Tim Hortons. Each Christmas, Mom sent us an assortment of teas, coffee, and hot chocolate from the retailer. Even this last Christmas. Though there’s no longer a coffee drinker in the house.
I swallow the growing lump in my throat. Adjusting the large weekender bag on my shoulder, I force my focus to the back of the head in front of me. Only, in order for my gaze to actually land on the back of the man’s head requires craning my neck. How tall is he? I’m five eight, but he’s a giant.
“The card machine isn’t working,” the peppy cashier says to the tall man.
“Oh.” His large hand slips to his pocket.
No doubt the action is to grab the wallet bulging from his back pocket and not to call attention to the way the faded jeans hug his firm backside. One that Trina would joke that she could bounce a quarter off. Although, I could think of far more pleasurable things to do with that ass.
Stop checking out his behind! Pushing my red-frame glasses atop my head, I twist my now extra foggy vision away from the tall man’s cute butt. I mean, how would I feel if he was ogling me like I’m the last cupcake?
That might be a nice change. It’s been a minute since someone looked at me with the same kind of covetous gaze that I’d used when looking at baked goods after that ill-begotten month I tried to give up carbs. Life’s too short to not eat a cookie or ten.
“Shit!” he grumbles, closing his wallet. “Is there an ATM around?”
Second-hand embarrassment on his behalf flushes my cheeks. Few people carry cash on them. My always prepared motto means I’m not one of them. No matter what country I’m in, my wallet remains stocked.
The cashier taps the counter. “I think there’s one down by gate twelve.”
“Thanks. I’ll run down and come back,” he says, slipping his wallet into his back pocket.
Poor guy. My lips drag into a frown. Traveling is frustrating enough but to toss in an unnecessary trip across the airport terminal is obnoxious.
“No need, I got this,” I offer, pulling my glasses back down. “I have cash.”
“No, it’s–” His words halt as he spins to face me. Beneath the brim of a blue cap, a smile curves at his lips. Its brightness is accentuated by his tidy dark beard.
A sudden swoop seizes my stomach, causing an explosion of butterflies. That’s new. Am I into men with beards?
A navy Henley molds to his muscular frame. A fresh woodsy scent wafts from him, eliciting scenes of a pre-dawn walk through a dew-kissed forest. His entire aesthetic screams sexy lumberjack. Like someone who would press you against a tree, its rough bark biting into your bare ass, while even rougher hands held you in place.
Good lord, perhaps I need to cut down on my dirty audiobooks.
“That’s kind of you, but I have cash. It’s just in the bank.” A gentle, barely noticeable Irish lilt mingles with his low gruff timbre.
I love the way unique voices tingle along my nerves. Perhaps my dulled vision heightens the way I hear the world, but I revel in the musicality of voices, picking out the unique notes that make each one distinct.
“Those pesky banks holding our cash hostage.” My smile lifts, just a little bit more, with his soft chuckle. “It’s really no big deal.”
“Are you sure?”
“This will give me at least five karma points for the day.” Stepping up, I join him at the counter.
“Are you in need of karma points?”
“Well, I did send my mother to voicemail this morning.” Twice. But he doesn’t need to know that.
This trip I lasted three of the five days I’d planned to stay at my mother’s house, a new record, before I sought refuge. On day four, I retreated to Trina’s, feigning that she had more reliable Wi-Fi for me to work from than the farmhouse my mother lives in with Charlie, her latest husband.
He grins. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of you reaching Nirvana.”
“Thanks.” I brush my long hair behind my ear, facing the cashier. “Can I get a large apple cinnamon tea and bacon, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwich on a multigrain bagel.”
The cashier shakes their head, a big laugh bursting. “That’s two apple cinnamon teas and bacon, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwiches on a multigrain bagel.”
Twisted toward the man, my eyebrow arches. “Tea?”
He wags a finger. “That judgy eyebrow may cost you some of your karma points.”
I gesture at him. “You just don’t seem the tea type.”
“What type do I seem?”
I frown and cock one hip. “Like ‘drinks gasoline while eating a burger made out of the grizzly bear he just killed with his bare hands’ type.”
“That’s preposterous,” he scoffs. “Everyone knows moose make better burgers.”
“I stand corrected.” I laugh, pulling out my wallet.
After paying for our food, we slide down the counter. Drinks in hand, we stand waiting for our breakfast sandwiches. Other customers file up to the counter, while we remain in silence. Not uncomfortable or awkward silence, just companionable. Sipping my sweet, spicy tea, my eyes flick between the staff preparing our food and the sexy lumberjack beside me.
I play the game we all play when meeting someone: using the little external clues to put together a picture of who he is. His clothes are comfortable and well-worn, but clean. One hand grips the to-go cup, while the other brushes the back of his head as if he’s nervous.
Do I make him nervous? No, that can’t be. Men like him make people nervous, not the other way around.
Gnawing on my lower lip, I try to think of the last man I made nervous. Besides Cael, Trina’s fiancé who was terrified that her oldest and closest friend wouldn’t give him the stamp of approval, the last man with a wisp of nerves around me may have been Alex. Ugh, Alex.
“Pen,” I blurt.
His head tips to the right. “Pencil?”
Laughter bubbles out of me. “My name is Pen. Well, it’s actually Penelope Meadows, but my friends call me Pen.”
He grins. “Rowan.”
Of course, his name is Rowan. That name radiates big D hot guy energy. Not a Herman or Stanley vibe about him.
“Nice to meet you, Pen.” His hand envelops mine, sending a jolt of something zipping along my nerves.
I try not to fixate on that little tingle but have to admit failure. When was the last time my body reacted to someone like this?
“So, are you coming or going?”
Seriously? Coming or going? Who am I? I school my features into a pleasant smile stamping out the blooming wince at my non-stellar verbal skills.
“Excuse me?”
“Are you coming into town or leaving?”
“Both.”
“Overachiever,” I tease, pivoting towards him, and my arm brushes against his. My senses hum with the quick caress of his muscular body against mine.
He clears his throat. “I drove down from Hamilton, Ontario to catch my flight.”
“So, where you heading to?”
“L.A.”
“Me too!” I say with far too much pep.
What is wrong with me? I’m like an overexcited puppy. I should be cool and indifferent, not exclaim with the fevered devotion of two ten-year-olds exchanging friendship bracelets on the first day of camp.
“Well, not L.A. I live in Seal Beach, but LAX is a direct flight getting me the hell out of here sooner.”
Why am I sputtering? Awkward, party of one.
“Not a fan of Buffalo?” He shifts, turning to face me.
“I have nothing against Buffalo as a city. People are nice. Love the wings. It’s just…”
Stop talking, Pen! Do not emotionally vomit on this poor man. All he wanted was breakfast, not to have you overshare.
“…just prefer being home.” I tighten my hold on Cane Austen’s handle.
“Buffalo’s not home?”
“Not anymore.” I shake my head.
Rowan’s hat brim shadows the upper half of his face, making it hard to read his expression. Reading facial expressions isn’t my forte. Even with the limited vision I do have, it’s often difficult to make out the tiny cues that can be found in someone’s face. Aunt Bea always talked about the stories in the eyes. Those are stories I’m unable to read. If I’m close enough and the light is just right, I can make out some of the little eyebrow ticks, lip quirks, or forehead wrinkles.
My stories come from the voice and energy. Everyone has a kind of energy they exude. It may make me sound like the lady with a different crystal for each day of the week, but it’s something I’ve learned to trust.
Right now, the energy coming off Rowan telegraphs annoyance, but I don’t think it’s directed at me. Despite my oversharing, his broad frame remains mere inches away. His obscured gaze fixed on me.
He nods. “I get it. I’ve only lived in L.A. for three years and it feels more like home than Hamilton where I grew up.”
“Canadian boy, eh?”
He snorts at the terrible joke laced in my even worse Canadian accent.
Smirking, I raise my tea to my lips. “So, how did a nice Canadian lad end up in L.A.?”
His hand rubs his neck. “Work.”
“What do you do for wo?—”
“Christ,” he groans, yanking out his cell from his back pocket. “Sorry, this is the fourth call in a row that I’ve ignored. I need to take this.”
“Sure.” I smile.
Holding the phone up, he grumbles, “This best be important.” Pivoting, he strides away from the counter.
“Ma’am.” The cashier holds up two bags with what I suspect are our breakfast sandwiches.
With a nodded “thank you,” I take them. In literally five seconds, I’ve lost Rowan. Scanning the now bustling food court, he’s disappeared into the crowd. Do I wait? Do I try to track him down? Do I just take his sandwich in hopes that I run into him again? What if he comes back and thinks I stole his sandwich? Although, I paid for it, so it’s not stealing.
“Excuse me, do you see that man I was with?” I ask the cashier.
“He went over there.” She points.
“Where? Can you verbally explain?” I hold up Cane Austen in a nonverbal reminder that pointing is not the best way to give direction to the visually impaired.
“Oh, sorry.” The blush can be heard in her voice. “Far right corner… My right, not yours.”
“Thanks.”
Turning, I set off listening for his voice. Moving through the crowd, I make my way toward the far-right corner. Voice recognition is the best way for me to find people in large gatherings. Although, it’s not ideal with someone I just met, there’s something about Rowan’s voice that has imprinted on me, both distinct yet familiar. Like nothing I’ve heard before but somehow something as well-known to me as my own.
“Damnit, I told you I don’t want to do that,” Rowan growls.
I halt. Not because I’ve found him, but due to the frustration underscoring his words. He’s pissed.
“This is fucking bullshit.”
Really pissed.
With his back to me, he carries on in an annoyed mutter with no idea I’m standing behind him, eavesdropping. It’s not intentional, but I’m listening, nonetheless. Granted, my relationship with Rowan is five minutes old, but this anger reads wrong on him. Like an ill-fitting Halloween costume. Also, I’m not going to overthink my use of the word relationship.
Raking my teeth against my lower lip, I clutch the sandwich bag. I should turn, run away, and give the sandwich back to the cashier. Let them give it to the angry man. Not because I’m scared. There’s no nip of fear telling me to stay away. Rather, it’s more like witnessing someone do something they don’t want to do.
“You’re being a real motherfucker,” he snarls, causing a few onlookers to clear their throats.
Ouch. I don’t blame them. His tone is harsh.
Dropping his duffle by his feet, Rowan’s rigid stance slumps. His free hand grips the back of his neck. The movement communicates regret.
“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” Scuffing his sneakers along the floor, he lets out a beleaguered sigh. “I know. You’re my motherfucker.”
Aw. It’s almost sweet the way it rolls off his tongue.
“We can discuss this when I get back. My flight gets in…” Pivoting, he comes face-to-face with me, mouth slack. “Pen.” It comes out almost pained.
Crap! “I wasn’t listening… Well, I was, but not intentionally. I—” I hoist up the Tim Hortons bag. “Breakfast!”
“Thanks,” he says, drawing out the word and taking the offered bag.
“Sorry.”
The muffled voice of whoever is on the other end of the call crackles between us.
“I should go.” Frowning, I turn and hurry away.
So fricking embarrassing. Rowan is clearly having a day and I’m all like “Here I am holding your breakfast sandwich hostage while eavesdropping on your conversation with someone you fondly refer to as motherfucker.”
Finding my gate, I fold myself into an uncomfortable plastic chair to devour my breakfast sandwich and fall into my latest audiobook. The sultry timbre of Wesley Williamson – my favorite narrator – helps me escape into the world of thousand-year-old hot vampires with Mr. Darcy vibes. The story being woven in my earbuds helps me leave the last week behind. Leave why I came back to Buffalo, the tension with my mother, and the awkward meet-cute with Rowan.
Rowan. My stomach flip-flops between a sigh and a flutter at the thought of him. I hope everything turns out okay with he and motherfucker. It seemed to have turned the corner before he’d caught me listening in. I scan the boarding area, wondering if he’s here. He’s not. At least, I don’t see him which doesn’t mean he’s not here. He’s bound for L.A. Are we on the same flight? The Buffalo-Niagara Airport is small, but not that small. There are several airlines flying direct to Los Angeles in this time window.
“Penelope Meadows, please see the agent at gate eleven’s counter.” A voice booms over the sound system, interrupting the vampire/awkward girl meet-cute.
Hitting pause, I sling my bag over my shoulder and shuffle with Cane Austen to the counter. “I’m Penelope,” I say, reaching the agent.
“Ms. Meadows.” The agent beams. “Your seat has been upgraded. I have a new boarding pass for you.”
“Upgraded?” I blink.
“You’re still in a window seat, but you’ve been moved to first class. Seat one-A. We’ll start pre-boarding in a few minutes for our passengers with disabilities. Would you like assistance going down the jetway?”
First class from Buffalo to Los Angeles? Perhaps I had earned some karma points after all. Thanking the agent and telling them I wouldn’t need assistance, I head back to my seat.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I check my messages. Despite the frown, guilt swirls in my stomach at the four unread messages from my mother. Sighing, I open them and respond.
Me: I’m at my gate.
Mom: Good! Did you click on the links I sent you to those clinical trials?
Eyes closed, I release a hard breath. If it isn’t messages about my love life, it’s ones about studies to cure my eye condition. She means well , Aunt Bea’s cautious warning plays on repeat inside me. Opening my eyes, I reply.
Me: I’ll look at them when I get home, so I can see them on the larger screen. I’ll message when I’m home.
It’s a lie, but my energy for this familiar conversation is nonexistent.
I swipe to my message with JoJo, my West Coast bestie. Trina is insistent that I’m allowed two best friends if I designate them by coasts. Trina Lyons, who is two years older than me, was my first bestie due to close proximity. She lived next door until I moved with Aunt Bea to California. I met JoJo Rivers a year later as freshmen in undergrad.
Me: Flight is on time. You still picking me up at the airport?
JoJo: Does a hobby horse have a hickory dick?
Me: A simple yes would do.
JoJo: Then I wouldn’t be me. Tongue out emoji.
I snort just a bit. Even with the magnification program on my cell, I have the worst time with GIFs and emojis, so JoJo spells them out for me. It’s both sweet and totally self-serving because I’m a hundred percent positive that a majority of the GIFs and emojis that she spells out do not exist.
JoJo: How are you doing, BTW?
God, that’s a loaded question. My heart aches just thinking about the many, many responses rattling around in me. How does one respond when their entire world as they know it has been ripped away in a single moment?
Me: Okay.
JoJo: Acceptance smiley face when your friend is pretending they are okay when they’re not emoji.
Me: Middle finger emoji.
JoJo: Gasp emoji.
Me: These aren’t real emojis emoji.
JoJo: I love you emoji.
Me: I love you too emoji. We’ll have all the LAX to Orange County traffic to dig into how I’m doing. I promise.
JoJo: Excited social worker friend emoji.
Hearing them announce pre-boarding, I text goodbye to JoJo and slip my phone into the pocket of my denim jacket. The late June weather is warm, allowing me to sport my favorite pale pink cotton sundress, but the jacket will keep me warm on the plane.
I won’t pretend that excitement doesn’t crisscross inside me at turning left while boarding the plane. The first-class lifestyle isn’t something I’ve indulged in. Outside of that all-inclusive resort Aunt Bea took me to in celebration of my master’s degree. As first-class as I typically get is getting to skip the wait at Bread, my favorite breakfast spot in downtown Seal Beach, because Aunt Bea and I’ve gone there every Saturday for the last nine years. Almost every Saturday.
Ignoring the twinge in my heart, I follow the flight attendant to my seat in the front row, which means more leg room. It also means all my things have to go up top. Pulling out the things I’ll want quick access to – bottled water, bag of trail mix, phone, and earbuds – I toss my bag into the overhead bin and plop into my seat.
Head pressed against the window, I lose myself in my audiobook which drowns out the flight’s boarding soundtrack – murmured apologies, cleared throats, and muttered, “I think that’s my seat,” and the repeated chastising of a passenger for blocking the aisle.
Someone takes the seat beside me. The furnace of their body laps against my skin. A fresh woodsy scent makes my eyelids flutter open. Straightening, I turn my face toward my seatmate.
“Pen,” Rowan drawls.