Chapter Eleven Ingrid and King #2
I sit down at my desk and click my pen a million times, not doing anything useful as my mind digs a hole for me to fall into.
Love bombing is when they dig their claws into you. Isolate you. Keep you alone.
I’m already doing that to myself. Everyone in my life is allowed in on my terms. Family gets a three-day-pass, a couple of times a year.
Is he just some young, dumb guy who doesn’t know how to take things slow?
Am I just being stupid because I’d like to find out what it feels like to get swept off my feet? Well, figuratively, at least?
“You have man trouble?”
Mrs. Yerchenko is rubbing both dogs, who are panting in delight, their tails wagging lazily across the floor as they sit.
“Hm? No! I’m not seeing anyone.” The words feel heavy on my lips, a lie.
Instant mistake.
Mrs. Yerchenko hasn’t made it this far in life without knowing bullshit when she hears it. She glares now and folds her hands in her lap. Chip and Daisy look at me as if to say, “Well, you ruined that, Mom.”
“Uh-huh. Not seeing him. But wishing you were?”
“No. No, no. I’m happily single. I have my own house, a good job, no college loans, my parents and I are on speaking terms... My siblings, step-siblings, and I are on speaking terms when we feel like it. I don’t need a man.”
She leans forward, curly gray hair belying the bright, youthful mischief in her eyes. “Oh, honey. Life is too damn short to think like that.”
I laugh, but there’s a defensive edge to it. “I think I—”
“Climb off the high horse a little. No one said you shouldn’t have all that and more.
You don’t need anything else; anyone can see that within five minutes of meeting you.
” She leans forward even farther, her flowered purple dress dipping dangerously low under her sagging neck to reveal wrinkled skin and glossy old scars.
Even though I know she’s been widowed for many years, her wedding ring is still on her left hand, a tiny circle under an arthritic knuckle.
“Listen to people who’ve lived longer than you” was my mother’s version of “Because I said so, so there,” but there’s a lot of truth in it. I bite my lip and listen as Mrs. Yerchenko continues.
“But you can want more. You’re one of those young, brave types.”
“Don’t know about ‘brave.’”
“I do. You’re one of those young, brave types, and you made yourself a life just so. Got all you needed. Got everything just where you like it. And now...” she winks, “it’s time to get what you want. You want a fella? Go get one.”
“I think it might be more a matter of him wanting me,” I say, and I can’t believe it. Those words have never been said, at least not by me, referring to myself.
Mrs. Yerchenko cackles and starts rubbing the dogs again, scratching the scruffs of their necks in unison. “All the better! Who is he? What’s he like?”
“Oh, you’ve met him. That big hockey player who was in here the last time you came? He’ll be here every other day for the foreseeable future.” My voice grumbles, but my insides stir.
Mrs. Yerchenko’s jaw drops. “That beautiful side of beef!?” she crows.
“Shhhh!” I clap my hands over my own mouth because I can’t reach hers.
“Oh, honey, I’m old, not dead! I’ve got eyes! Needs nursing, does he? Likes older women, does he?”
“Mrs. Yerchenko!” I manage to croak. I’m not sure whether I want to laugh or scream as she takes out a compact and dabs a little red lipstick on her lower lip and both cheeks.
“If you don’t want him, Ingrid, I’ll apply for the position.”
“Thanks, but I’m picky. Not just any older woman will do.”
I whirl around, and there’s King.
If he makes fun of Mrs. Yerchenko, I swear I’ll deck him, busted knee and seven-foot-tall or not.
“I left my phone in my raincoat,” he says. “I need to sign up for the PT app.”
“Couldn’t help but overhear?” Mrs. Yerchenko flutters her lashes without shame.
I hold my breath. What can I say? There’s been a lot of “overhearing” today.
King looks at me, looks at the octogenarian flirting with him, and smiles.
Oooh, don’t you dare be a jerk again, or I’ll...
“You can’t tempt me,” he says, nodding gravely at Mrs. Yerchenko.
“I know all about you glamorous older women and your charms, but... I’ve got to be true to my heart.
It’s part of my culture.” He turns and looks at me.
“Once we know—we know. We’ll do anything to prove it, too. To be worthy of the one.”
I’m trying to breathe nice and steady, but it feels like everything is on fire and the air is too thick. His eyes, his words, the way he moves towards me—even on crutches—everything is sweet, and slow, and seductive.
“Go on quests. Fight battles. Bring gifts... It’s whatever she wants.”
Want him. God, I want him, and I told myself I didn’t, but...
“She wants someone who isn’t going to waste his sweet time with a lot of ring-around-the-rosy!” Mrs. Y chimes in.
“I’m not in a hurry!” I yelp. My body is telling me otherwise.
“Good. Because I’ll wait for you. I’ll move on your signal.”
Why is he so close? Why is he leaning over my desk?
How come his little tusks suddenly make him look so hot and dangerous, and how come I like it?
Maybe I have trichinosis from the wild boar?
No, I don’t think that makes you horny...
King’s lips descend on mine, soft and sudden, and then they’re gone before I can get into it. “Anything you want, my Ingrid.”
And then he grabs his coat, says “Aww!” at the dogs with a big soppy smile that just melts whatever reserve I have left, and hobbles back to Kevin, bowing his head to Mrs. Yerchnenko as he passes.
When the door shuts behind him, I sit down hard. My face must be fire engine red.
Mrs. Yerchenko claps. “That’s the one! Wrap him up and take him home, honey!”
“Oh, God!” I whisper, horrified.
“I’m okay with that!” King shouts back. “Listen to your elders, Ingrid!”
What am I getting into, and why do I want to dive deeper?