Chapter Seven
Rowan
Idon’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to bungee jump with a girl I barely know. Let alone the actual act of jumping off a bridge and plunging toward icy water below.
I’m a fucking idiot because as soon as that mental image hit, I knew I had to find a way out of it.
There is no way in hell I would physically be able to follow through with something like that.
It’s too eerily similar to my near-death experience.
I feel so stupid for not realizing that little tidbit before agreeing to do it.
I tossed and turned for two nights straight, nightmares of the car accident and pulling Lily’s limp body out of that damn water were all I could see as soon as I closed my eyes.
I knew I had to find a way to tell Millie I couldn’t do it, but I also didn’t want to disappoint her for some weird reason that I’ve yet to figure out.
It’s not like I owe her anything, or that we are even good friends. Sure, I like her and all. She’s funny and sweet, pretty too, but I’m not in the right headspace to think of her as anything more than a friend, especially not one that is counting on me to help her fulfill a bucket list.
When I went to the house build yesterday, I was fully prepared to tell her that I was sorry but I couldn’t help her with her list, but those words died on my tongue the moment her light brown eyes landed on me.
No matter how hard I tried to push those five little words out of my mouth, they refused to fucking budge.
It should have been easy to say, sorry, I can’t help you.
But nope, the next thing I know I’m volunteering for another bucket list item.
Then I’m peering over her shoulder trying to sneak a peek of what else is on her list because at this point I feel invested, and oddly curious about this list of hers.
At first, I thought she was just like any other kid our age, wanting to experience life to the fullest, but the more I get to know her, the more it seems there’s something else going on here.
I don’t know what it is, but I find myself wanting to help her, even though one thing on her list absolutely terrifies me.
I’ve put it off for now, but after sneaking a look at her list, I know that she’s got them listed out in order of importance. Bungee jumping is in the top ten. I guess I’ll have to cross that bridge when we get to it.
When she said she wanted to learn how to ice skate, I was more relieved than I wanted to admit. I have a sinking suspicion that she blurted that one out just for my benefit.
No matter how nonchalant I tried to seem when I told her I thought we should start off with something easier, inside I was freaking the fuck out.
And when her eyes narrowed on me, I was sure she could see my pulse pounding in my veins, my heart trying to beat out of my damn chest, but to my surprise, she didn’t call me out or ask any questions.
The amount of appreciation and relief I had at that moment would have had me agreeing to do just about anything with her. She wanted to sword fight? I would have said you bring the swords. Cave diving? Tell me when. Skydiving? Bring it on. Anything but bungee jumping off a damn bridge.
Ice skating only piqued my curiosity about how much else she hasn’t experienced because if she had never been to a hockey game, that was number one on my list of things I wanted to do with her.
Millie St. James is an enigma. She’s sweet but sassy.
Too smart for me but easy to talk to. Kind and soft but hard in a way that I’ve yet to figure out. She intrigues me.
I look down at my phone when I feel it buzz in my hand. The text is from a buddy of mine who plays for the Polar Bears, who just so happens to be playing tonight at their home arena that’s forty-five minutes from here.
Ryan: You’re all set.
Me: Thanks dude. What’s the damage?
Ryan: It’s not so bad. I have to clean the locker rooms after the next four games.
I wince because that is totally going to suck. Locker rooms after games are usually trashed—stinky underwear, socks, and gear, along with some other questionable items that usually follow a celebration like winning the game.
Me: Appreciate you. Let me know if you need help with the cleanup. I can probably swing one or two of them.
Ryan: Naw, we’re good. I still owe you.
He thinks he owes me from that time last year when I helped him with his sister. She dated this guy that turned out to be a real fucking prick. The dude was a player on an opposing team we happened to be playing the night he fucked her up.
Ryan called and asked me to take care of it, and that’s exactly what I did. I had never been ejected from a game until that night, and I don’t fucking regret any of it. The only thing I regret was the fact that the dude was able to stand on his own two feet to skate off the ice and to the med team.
Me: You don’t owe me anything. I owe you for doing this at the last minute.
I would have done that shit for his sister just on principle. That dude got exactly what he deserved. I just wish I could have done more.
Ryan: We can agree to disagree. Enjoy your night with your girl. I made sure to get you front-row seats. Just pick the tickets up at will call.
My stomach pitches at the idea of Millie being my girl.
A feeling that isn’t entirely uncomfortable but one that definitely catches me off guard.
I don’t bother correcting him when I text him another thanks.
I mean, it’s kind of weird as shit that I’m doing all this for a girl that isn’t my girlfriend, so I understand where the assumption comes from.
Shit’s a little complicated, but I won’t lie and say I’m not enjoying the distractions she provides every time I’m around her. I find myself looking forward to seeing her on the weekends and whenever I have a spare evening, which isn’t as often as I would like.
I had to bribe Mrs. Chambers into pairing me with her when she could, which involved a lot of donuts and sweet-talking.
She caved on one condition: that if she heard one complaint out of Millie, she would pull her from the building sites indefinitely.
That kind of threat is enough to keep me on my best behavior.
Though I have no intention of breaking either of the ladies’ trust.
Me: Pick you up at six?
That should give us plenty of time to get to the rink, get our tickets at will call, and grab something to eat at one of the food stands. The game starts at seven, and I like to be in my seat for the first face-off.
Daredevil: I can meet you there if you send me the address.
My hands grow a little sweaty at the thought of having a girl in my car, but I quickly try to push down the annoying feeling.
My old car was totaled after the wreck. When the insurance check came in the mail, the last thing I wanted was to step foot into another one.
I wanted to shove that check into the back of a drawer and never think about it again.
But my parents insisted I needed one. Which they weren’t wrong.
There would be no way for me to make it home during the off-season or school breaks if I didn’t have one.
So I finally caved and went out and bought the safest truck on the market in my price range. I was avoiding driving it, though. It would sit in the parking lot for weeks on end, just collecting snow on top of it.
My fear of driving is one of the main reasons I was seeing a therapist. It’s where that stupid saying came from—a means to help me stop the panic attacks I would feel coming on every time I sat in the driver’s seat. I accept this feeling, for it is only temporary.
Like I said, it’s bullshit.
I finally just accepted the fact that I can’t avoid cars for the rest of my life and said fuck it one day.
I sat in that damn car seat for hours before finally working up the nerve to crank the damn thing.
The amount of relief I felt when I finally reached for that key should have worried me, but I was too busy focusing on the fact that I was behind the wheel again, with the car on.
Every day since, I’ve been trying to drive it more and more. After that first day, each step has gotten easier and easier. I haven’t had a panic attack in the car in a while, and I’ve done several trips to the store or across town for various things.
I finally told my parents I was done with the therapist because I didn’t think it was helping.
I was behind that car wheel because I was finally done with being weak, not because of some psycho-babbling therapist who wanted to relate my hesitation to some imaginary childhood trauma.
I had trauma, alright, but it directly correlated to a very real and very scary accident, not some far-off trauma response from suppressed childhood memories.
I mean, sometimes a spade is a spade, and that’s exactly what you should call it.
Tonight would be the first time I’ve had another person in the car with me since the accident, and I’m not scared to admit that makes me pretty damn nervous. But I also don’t want to be that kind of guy who can’t even pick her up when I’m the one that invited her out.
Me: It’s no problem for me to pick you up.
I tell myself that it isn’t a lie.
Daredevil: If you come to my house, my parents are going to want to meet you.
Daredevil: …. And well, I’m assuming this isn’t a date.
My phone continues to buzz in my hand as her texts come through in quick succession.
Daredevil: Unless it is and I completely misread all the signs.
Daredevil: In that case, please tell me it is so that I have time to freak out before you pick me up.
I chuckle, the uneasiness from just moments before fading into the background as I click her number and press dial. She answers on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"There's no reason to freak out, Daredevil."
"Oh."
The disappointment in her tone does something funny to my stomach and has me backpedaling. "I just meant, date or not, there's no reason to freak out. If you want me to meet your parents, I can do that."
I gulp, surprising myself at the promise I just made. Really, Rowan? You barely know this girl and you're offering to meet her parents?! But I find myself not wanting to take it back. Quite the contrary, I find myself wanting to make her happy.
"Do you want it to be a date?" I ask, curious to hear her response.
She's silent for a second before she says, "I feel like this is a trick question."
I laugh, suddenly giddy at the thought of tonight being a date. "No trick, Daredevil. If you want it to be, then that's what it is."
She sighs, and I can picture her rubbing her fingers over an imaginary spot on her neck, like she always seems to do when she's nervous.
"How about this? Tonight is just friends, and if you want to ask me out on a date another time, you will. If not, no hard feelings."
Her bold statement has my pulse kicking up and excitement coursing through my veins. Something about her honesty, coupled with the fact that she isn't demanding a date from me - the hotshot hockey player that every other girl is trying to land - is refreshing to say the least.
Maybe refreshing is exactly what I need to get myself out of this funk.
And refreshing is the perfect word to describe Millie St. James.