Chapter 13 Lindsey
LINDSEY
“The Curious Heart.” Oliver reads the name on the sign above the door aloud as we step inside that evening, the cozy store restoring some warmth to my cheeks.
It’s getting colder, and every day the ache in my muscles spreads a little wider, and I feel like I’m playing pain Russian roulette.
Will this be the day my fibromyalgia rears its ugly head again, condemning me to bed for days on end and making it damn near impossible to think through the brain fog?
“I love this place,” I say, pushing the thoughts from my mind as we make the next stop of our extended tour of Loving.
The Curious Heart is decorated for the holidays, but not in the traditional sense.
The Christmas tree in the corner is made entirely from books stacked at least six feet high.
Sparkly purple garland is strung from the ceiling with quirky ornaments dangling from it.
I spot a ceramic disc painted to look like a pepperoni pizza and another designed to look like van Gogh’s The Starry Night.
“Oh wow.” Oliver glances around the cozy space, packed to the gills with every kind of gift you can imagine and plenty you can’t. “This place is incredible.”
“It’s chaotic in the best way.” There’s handcrafted jewelry and paintings done by local artists, and a section filled with rare toys. In the middle are racks of vintage clothing and a few costumes.
“Welcome in,” the busy clerk greets us with a wave from the checkout counter.
“Hi,” I call out, maneuvering around pieces of vividly painted furniture to get to an especially garish nutcracker costume. I pluck it off the rack and hold it up so Oliver can see. “I think I just found the perfect outfit for you.”
He raises his brows and lifts the attached plastic package. “It even comes with a mustache.”
I stretch out one of the sleeves and try to maintain a straight face. “I think this green would really bring out your eyes.”
“Really?” He arches a brow and cocks his head, casting a dubious glance in my direction.
“What? You don’t like your nutcracker costume with sequins?”
“Of course, I do,” he says with an amused grin. “But the mustache ruins it. Makes it way too over-the-top.”
“Oh, that’s what ruins it?” I plunk the hanger back on the rack with a laugh, and we set off in pursuit of a small tabletop tree with dozens of ornaments attached. I gingerly trail my fingers along a pink unicorn, a hamburger, a turtle with dove wings, and a tiny record player.
“Did you see this?” He shows me one of a gift box with a small puppy inside. “It looks like Ron’s dog. How’s she doing, by the way? Is she a handful?”
“She’s got lots of energy. You know how puppies are.” I leave out the cat humping and penchant for destruction. I don’t want him to think I’m complaining. “Maybe I’ll get that for him as a little get well present.”
He places the trinket in my hand. “I think he’d love that.”
I return my focus to the ornaments until I find a tiny fire truck and pluck it off the tree. There’s a button on the side that I press, which causes the lights to blink. “Look at this one.”
“How cool is that?” He reaches for it, and our hands touch, sending a shiver vibrating through my body. “I should get it for the tree at the fire station.”
“It’s perfect,” I say as we continue browsing.
“What made you decide to become a firefighter, anyway? Was it something you always knew you wanted to do?”
“Yeah, since I was eleven,” he answers. “I was actually in Loving when I realized that was what I wanted to be when I grew up.”
“Really?”
“I was here with my grandpa that summer, and one night he started having chest pains,” he begins.
“I got scared and called 911. By the time I heard the sirens coming around the corner, Grandpa had collapsed. His heart had stopped beating. When the firefighters arrived, one of them jumped off the rig and ran inside. He did CPR and ultimately saved his life. Because of that firefighter, I got another ten years with my favorite person.”
Tears blur my vision. I know first hand what a beautiful gift time can be and how devastating it is to lose it.
“After that, I just knew I wanted to be like them one day, and now, here I am.”
“That’s incredible, Oliver,” I say, “but don’t you ever get…scared? Running into burning buildings and all?”
I picture him bursting through a window to save someone, flames coiling around him like poisonous snakes.
It’s admirable and brave, but it’s also terrifying.
As great as Oliver seems, his job is a hard-line for me.
One I won’t dare cross. Too many things can happen, even when someone isn’t putting their life on the line, let alone when they’re sprinting toward burning buildings.
“I can’t even tell you the last time I saw a big fire. Yours was the first fire call I’ve been on since I moved here,” he says with a shrug. “The majority of what the fire department responds to is medical, especially in small towns. Where I moved from was even smaller than Loving.”
My mind replaces the image of Oliver surrounded by flames with one of him helping animals stuck on rooftops, little old men who tumbled down the stairs, or women who’ve gone into labor.
My brows shoot up. “Wait, really?”
He nods. “Before yours, I think the last fire I responded to was a couple years ago on Thanksgiving. This old-timer started a grease fire while frying up his turducken.”
“Was he okay?”
“Oh yeah. The turducken, not so much,” he says. “Though, if you ask me, those things are weird anyway. They’re just so…meaty.”
“I think that’s kind of the point.” I chuckle. “What do you say we check out so we can continue our tour?”
We head outside, and the scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes fills the air as we get closer to the sleek white “Antonio’s Cucina” sign.
“Oh wow, that place looks fancy. It smells amazing.” He peers into the window, where a few patrons are dining. “You ever been?”
My breath catches in my throat. Antonio’s is a sweet little Italian spot known for its warm, homemade bread and shareable pasta dishes. It has an intimate vibe and is the kind of place that books out months before Valentine’s Day.
“I have,” I answer. “It’s been a while, though.
” With my ex, Daniel, about a month before my dad passed, and it hadn’t exactly gone well.
I’d had a rough day at work after having to tell one of my favorite patients that her beloved dog with cancer was out of options.
I wanted to cancel our date night, but he insisted we go.
When I broke down and cried into my linguine, he told me I was humiliating myself.
I didn’t feel humiliated. At least, not until he said that.
“How is it?” Oliver asks.
Like an old wound that’s been scratched open, visions of Daniel bleed through my mind.
The worst of them are the ones where he wasn’t present at all.
The ones where I was left alone, crying on my bed in the fetal position, during one of the worst times of my life.
Just as quickly as the flood starts, though, it stops.
My sister’s voice and the deal I made with her slap a Band-Aid over the hole in my heart. Tonight isn’t about the past.
“Good,” I say. With the right company, it could even be great.
“Maybe we can go there together sometime,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Maybe,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I actually mean it. “Speaking of food, there’s a really cool place around the corner. How do you feel about nachos?”
He grins. “Are you kidding me? If you don’t like nachos, then I’m nacho type.”
“Wow,” I say with a laugh. “How long have you been waiting for the right moment to use that in a normal conversation?”
“Long enough that I should probably be embarrassed by the answer.”
“But you’re not,” I say. It’s not a question or a judgment. It’s more that I’m…impressed—fascinated by this guy who doesn’t take himself too seriously.
“Not even a little,” he says with a smile I can’t help but return. I like how comfortable Oliver is in his own skin. He doesn’t seem concerned about what other people think, and that intrigues me.
We walk the short distance to Chips on the Table, a hole in the wall nacho bar that has shelves filled with every board game under the sun and a wall lined with retro arcade games.
Oliver’s eyes widen, and a soft gasp escapes him as we step inside. “No way.”
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I think I’m going to kick your butt at some Skee-Ball.”
Hands on my hips, I lift my chin. “Game on.”
“Table six,” the cashier calls, sliding a tray the size of a trough onto the counter.
“That’s us,” Oliver says, jumping up to retrieve our order.
We’ve already played three rounds of Skee-Ball, which I won before we moved on to the off-road racing game where Oliver proceeded to beat me twice.
I enjoyed every second of it. My mind never wandered.
My thoughts didn’t spiral to all the dark possibilities that have been lurking in my head like shadows. I was having too much fun for that.
After a round of Pac-Man, we decided to stop long enough to order some dinner and drinks.
“These look amazing,” Oliver says, placing the mountain of nachos on the table.
My stomach growls, and I reach for a chip piled high with buffalo chicken, tomatoes, onions, jalapenos, cilantro, a drizzle of blue cheese dressing, and of course, lots of melty cheese.
My eyes practically roll back in my head when I take that first bite. “To call these nachos almost seems like an insult. These are more like a religious experience.”
He pops a loaded chip into his mouth, then presses his hand to his chest. “Wow. Oh wow. These are good.”
“They’ll definitely ruin all other nachos for you.”
“I haven’t had one of those in ages,” Oliver says, gesturing toward my drink.
“A Shirley Temple?” I ask, and he nods. “I love these things. They remind me of my dad.”
“Was that his favorite drink?”
“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “He used to make them for me when I was a kid. Whether it was after a bad day or if I was celebrating something like a good grade on a test, he’d make Shirley Temples, and we’d just sit and talk.
We called it ‘bartender time.’ Now I understand it was because bartenders are such good listeners. ”
“That’s sweet,” he says.
“When Ben and Lucy came along, he continued the tradition, only sometimes, I was allowed the coveted position of bartender, which I loved. At the time, I thought I was cool because I got to make the drinks, but of course, it was never really about the drinks. It was about the time we spent together, supporting each other on the hard days or celebrating the good ones.”
“I love that,” he says. “So, what’s today?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Is it a good day or a bad day?”
“A good one.” My lips curl into a grin. “I mean, how could anyone have a bad day while eating nachos?”
“Ah, so it's just because of the nachos,” he teases.
“Well,” I say, drawing out the word. “The company’s pretty great too.”
“Yes!” He pumps his fist in the air before folding his arms on the table and leaning forward. “Okay, I want to learn more about you.”
I take another loaded chip. “What would you like to know?”
The adorable crinkles that frame his eyes when he smiles reappear. “Everything.”
Before I can register what’s happening, he reaches across the table, his finger brushing the corner of my lip. “You have a little something there.”
Reflexively, my hand moves to cover the spot he touched, a rush of warmth passing through me, as though I’ve just had a glass of expensive wine.
“If you were a sandwich, what kind would you be?” he asks.
I snort out a laugh. “I’m sorry—what?”
“I told you, I want to learn about you,” he says. “And while knowing things like your favorite color or holiday are nice, they don’t tell me a lot about you.”
“This may come as a shock to you, but I’ve never considered this before,” I say, resting my chin on my hand. “Are you sure I can’t interest you in my favorite color—blue—or my favorite holiday—Christmas?”
“While I do love blue and Christmas, and even ‘Blue Christmas,’ no. This is important.”
I chuckle, then pause to consider the question. “Well, my favorite is ham and cheese.”
“But are you ham and cheese?” he asks with mock seriousness.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t think so. Ham and cheese is too effortlessly good. It’s simple and doesn’t feel the need to try too hard. I would be a club sandwich.”
“And why’s that?” The way he listens intently, eyes focused on me, makes me want him to ask me questions all night long.
“A club has something for everybody. Depending on who you’re feeding, you can add or take away as much as you like. It aims to please. A club isn’t too spicy or bland, and it’s dependable. It’ll always fill you up.”
“I feel like I need a minute to digest that answer.”
“Which is fine, because club sandwiches are easy on the stomach,” I say with a grin. “Same question for you. What sandwich would you be?”
“Peanut butter and banana.”
“And why’s that?” I ask.
“It’s reliable, sturdy. But it’s also got something a little unexpected; something fun.”
“Wow, that is wildly accurate.”
“But,” he says, lowering his voice, “now I kind of wish I was ham and cheese.”
“Don’t we all,” I say, plucking the cherry garnish from my drink, biting the sweet fruit from the stem.
Oliver clears his throat, his eyes traversing down to my mouth. “So, are you going to show me your secret talent?”
“Huh?” I ask.
He gestures toward the cherry stem I’m rolling between my fingers.
My cheeks burn.
“You don’t have to,” he adds quickly. “Unless, of course, you want to. In which case, please do, because truly, I am fascinated.”
I let out a giggle so high-pitched, I don’t even recognize the sound as my own.
“Sorry, but that’s something I reserve for a third or fourth date,” I say.
Oh. My. God. Am I…flirting?
“Well, I am nothing, if not committed to the cause,” he says with a laugh. “So, any chance you’d let me take you to dinner Wednesday? We could go to Antonio’s.”
What am I doing? This was not part of the plan. This was supposed to be a one and done thing, but there’s something so freeing about being in Oliver’s presence that makes my heart feel lighter. It’s something I haven’t felt in…well, ever.
I smile, twirling my straw in my drink. “It’s a date.”