2
Annie
I hang back as my friends laugh ahead of me on the shaded path to the swimming hole. Normally, I find walking in the woods at night deliciously scary, but tonight I’m too busy marinating in embarrassment and rejection to feel frightened by the random snap of twigs and flutter of branches.
I did it. I asked Brandon out, and he turned me down. And honestly, I’m shocked and hurt. I thought he liked me, and now I’m reevaluating every small moment together. It’s possible I imagined everything. I do have an overactive imagination.
And oh! I blush to recall how ridiculously flirty I was tonight.
I kissed him!—on the cheek, which admittedly would be no big deal if it were almost anyone else.
But it was Brandon. I respect him more than any man I know.
And yeah, maybe he’s not the dashing hero I imagined for myself growing up, but there’s something about his steady nature and quiet presence that I find surprisingly appealing.
Of course, it doesn’t hurt that lately it’s dawned on me that he’s also incredibly good-looking—in a rugged mountain man way.
I still worry about him being a widower—how am I supposed to compete with his beloved dead wife?
But ultimately, I had decided that Brandon is worth the risk. Too bad that risk didn’t pay off.
I was just so certain that he liked me—that’s why I’m cringing. Did I really think that all I needed to do was show a little interest and he’d snap to attention? How could I be so conceited?
What would a guy like Brandon see in me anyway?
Why would he like a part-time waitress who’s still trying to figure out what she wants to do with her life?
Yep, I must have imagined it all. Just like I made up stories about the possum in the sycamore tree and the raccoons living under the carriage house.
This week I let my imagination run wild.
I dreamed about swimming in the river with Brandon.
We’d swim together in the moonlit waters.
He would be playful; he’d let down his guard and stop masking all his feelings.
And when he saw I was cold and shivering, he’d give me his sweatshirt to keep me warm.
And then he’d wrap his arms around me, and we’d kiss under the blue moon.
I imagined the moment so many times, it was beginning to feel inevitable.
It’s mortifying how confident I was that Brandon would kiss me tonight.
And now I feel dumb. My blissful mood during the dinner party is a distant memory.
I’m tired and chilly, and honestly, the thought of jumping in the river sounds miserable.
I can hear my friends splashing in the distance, but I just want to be home, asleep in my warm bed.
Maybe Brandon had a point. Maybe I’m getting old and boring like him.
For some reason, the thought makes me unbearably sad.
I’m another year older, which isn’t exactly a bad thing.
But I really thought I’d have my life sorted out by now.
I indulge in a silent cry, watching the silver water meander through the dark woods.
The trail opens up, and I spot my favorite flat rock along the water’s edge.
Out of the trees, the night is not as dark, with a full moon and the water twinkling back its silver light.
It’s all so lovely in a melancholy way—it suits my mood.
I sit on the cold rock, hugging my knees, and serenade the moon.
“Blue moon . . .” I begin. “You saw me standing alone . . .” I’m enjoying my solo performance. I’m leaning into my bruised feelings, and with the water rushing nearby, no one can hear me. Something about singing always soothes my soul.
As my heartache lessens, my head clears a little. Perhaps I’m being oversensitive. Brandon just said no to swimming. He didn’t outright reject me. As I sing the last verse, I feel a surge of hope. When I finish, I stand up and do a silly bow to the river.
“Bravo!” A voice calls out from the woods behind me. A man steps out of the shadow only a couple of feet away, clapping.
Startled, I stumble on the edge of the rock and fall backwards into the cold, cold water.
I realize several things at once. I’ve twisted my ankle; I’m flailing in an icy river; and I wish I’d stayed home.
It’s not deep, but the water is swift, and I can’t seem to find my footing.
I panic. As I try and fail to climb out, I can’t help but think, this just might be how I die, aimless and loveless.
Just then a hand clasps my waist. “I’ve got you!” says the unfamiliar voice. “You’re safe now.” In no time I’m sitting on the muddy shore, shivering but alive. I take a deep gulp of air.
“Are you okay?” asks my rescuer.
I nod, still catching my breath. I’m so relieved to be out of that river. I try to stand up. “Ow!!!” I yelp. The pain in my ankle is worse than I realized.
“What’s wrong?”
“My ankle,” I whimper. “My friends are just down river.”
“I think I saw them. Should I get them?” I can’t see much of this stranger in the half-light, but his voice is kind and reassuring.
“No, I can make it.” I really just want to go home. Again, I try to stand up. This time the stranger helps me.
“Here, put your arms around my neck.” He lifts me up in his arms and, though a bit wobbly, carries me. The whole situation strikes me as absurd. I let out a hysterical sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry.
“Are you in pain?” he asks, panting a little. I’m certain it’s not easy carrying me on the rocky trail.
“Yes, sorry—it struck me as funny that you’re carrying me like a groom carries a bride, and I don’t even know your name.”
“Right, I’m Jack. Jack Willoughby.” Even in the half-light I can see that he has a devastating smile.
“I’m Marianne Greenwood. But everyone calls me Annie.”
He stops walking and sets me down. I can tell he’s trying to be gentle, but I slip and land on my bad ankle.
“Aww!” I gasp in pain.
“Sorry, I need to catch my breath.”
“I’m impressed you carried me this far.”
“You’re not heavy, I’m just a wimp. How’s the ankle?”
“Bad. But no worse than my pride. Is there any chance you didn’t hear my singing?”
“Oh! I heard you.” There’s a little mischief in his voice.
“And it was . . . well . . . I don’t think it would be exaggerating to say it may have changed the course of my whole life.
” This comment sends a shiver down my spine.
My dad said nearly the same thing when he met my mom.
She offered to read his palm at a Halloween Party, and he told her not to bother because he could see his future in her eyes.
I grew up hearing the story of their first meeting over and over.
My dad would claim it was love at first sight, and my mom would laugh and smile at him with such genuine affection.
From a very young age, I knew that when I fell in love it would be exactly the same.
I have been waiting my whole life to experience my own lightning bolt moment.
Lately, though, I’ve been entertaining the possibility that love could sneak up on me.
That maybe someone who might not be exactly my type—someone like, say, Brandon, who is a little too old and a little too stuffy—could turn out to be right for me.
But maybe I was talking myself into abandoning my romantic ideals. Walking in the moonlight with Jack Willoughby is exactly the romance I always dreamed of.
“Annie!” My friends rush over, and I explain what happened. They insist on taking me home. Before we part ways, Jack asks for my number (just to make sure that my ankle is okay). I type it in his phone and thank him again.
He texts me before I even make it to the car.
Jack
I ne’er saw true beauty till this night
Annie
Ah a Shakespeare fan?
My dad loved Shakespeare. He used to read the plays aloud to us.
Jack
I played Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet
Annie
I was Juliet
Jack
You couldn’t be anyone else
Annie
I was also Ophelia
Jack
Talk about fate, I was Hamlet
Annie
That doesn’t bode well :)
Jack
So did you ever want to be an actor?
Annie
No, I had no interest beyond high school. I wanted to be a writer
Jack
So you’re a writer?
Annie
Not really. I write but I haven’t published much except a couple poems in some online literary mags
Jack
Cool! I’d love to read anything you write
That sentence is hands down the most romantic thing a man could say to a struggling writer like me. The only thing more attractive would be a sincere, “I read your poems, and I love them all.”
Annie
Maybe someday . . .
Jack
Maybe after I take you to dinner tomorrow?
Annie
Yes to dinner. Maybe on the poetry
I text Jack from the passenger seat as my friend Julia drives me home. I’m giggling and smiling like a teenager.
“You look happy? Does your ankle feel better?” she asks from the driver seat.
“Not really. But Jack is doing a good job distracting me.”
“Who is this guy?”
“I don’t know much about him, except he once played Hamlet, and I think I’m going to marry him.”
***
I’m lounging on the couch in the living room with my sore ankle resting on a pillow.
I’m wearing my cutest pajamas, and my hair is in a messy bun, which I may or may not have put up three times trying to achieve the perfect blend of unkempt but alluring.
I’ve also put on the lightest, most natural makeup.
My goal is to appear like I just woke up looking like this.
I cover myself with my favorite mossy green velvet throw because it’s a good color on me.
Jack texted me a little after nine this morning, asking if he could stop by.