Westerly

Chapter Twenty-Three #3

Molly checked him out in the mirror behind the bar. The guy was tall and thin, his nose long and pointed. His skin was clear and flawless, whisker free. He put his arm up to get the bartender’s attention.

Camille leaned in. “You know what they say about a guy’s wingspan . . .”

Molly elbowed her and looked in the mirror again.

“What do you gotta do to get a drink in here?” he said to no one in particular.

Molly spun on her barstool. “Let me help you.” She lifted her eyes and chin, put her arm out on the bar. The bartender came straight to her. “Whatcha need, Molly?”

“Two more and whatever this guy’s having. He can pay for ours.”

“Got it. What’ll you have, pal?”

“Sheez, that was fast. Guinness for me. Hope that’s not top shelf,” he said.

“Leo.” He put his hand out to her, but it wasn’t like he was offering to shake, more like he was asking her to take a spin around the ballroom.

He had a look to him that reminded Molly of yesterday, like he’d stepped out of a time machine, bewildered.

He had dark hair, cut close but not military close.

Hint of a dimple. Strong jaw. And blue, blue eyes.

Molly rested her hand in his, dramatically, delicately. “Molly.”

As the night drew on, The Wren grew louder, and Molly found herself leaning into this Leo, putting her mouth next to his ear then slouching back to laugh, to see his reaction, to wait for his mouth next to her ear, her neck.

His smell, a hint of some expensive cologne applied hours before, a spiced deodorant, breath and body warm with brown beer and the blue day.

Another round courtesy of Leo’s friend, Henry. They’d formed a circle—her sitting next to Leo, Camille, Henry, two more of Leo’s friends, and a couple of random women. She knew she wasn’t being cool, but she could not take her eyes off him.

“So, what do you do?” Leo shouted.

She wished she worked in an office. “I work in a bakery.”

“You’re a banker?”

She crinkled her forehead, and then realized what had happened. “No,” she shouted. “A bakery. An organic bakery.”

He nodded. “You’re a chef?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m not a chef. I just . . . you know . . . work there.” She forced herself not to roll her eyes at how dumb she sounded. “What about you?”

“Clerk.”

“At like . . .” She almost said a store, but that wasn’t right. Then it dawned on her. “. . . the Supreme Court?”

He laughed. “You’re adorable,” he shouted. “No, I wish. District.”

The theme song for Hawaii Five-O came on, and Camille threw her arms up in the air and whooped. Molly finished off her drink and grabbed Leo’s hand. “Wanna be in my canoe?”

“What?”

“My outrigger. My canoe. Behind me. Get in my canoe!” She sat on the sticky floor, pulled up her knees.

“You guys get in behind Leo!” she shouted to Camille and Henry.

Leo wrapped himself behind her, his thighs encircling her hips, his body bracing her spine and tailbone.

It seemed to Molly he was as close to her as he could possibly be.

He rested his chin on her shoulder. “It’s like a magic carpet. Did you ever do that, when you were a kid?”

The bartenders squirted water into the air like sea spray.

Molly turned her head, kissed Leo’s cheek.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, and she rubbed his hands with hers.

My carpet is a canoe, she thought, and we’re going on an adventure together in this deep blue sea.

Porpoises leap all around us, and the ocean glistens with scales of sunfish and rays of sunlight.

We eat pineapples and drink from coconuts and cool each other with palm fronds on a fine golden beach soft as powdered sugar.

Her boat rocked now, side to side. Molly took up her make-believe oar and rowed, Leo’s laughter in her ear.

She woke on time, thankfully, in her own bed, thankfully, alone, though Leo was still on her mind.

Camille had hopped the Metro back to Silver Spring, but Leo insisted Molly hail one of the cabs waiting at the curb.

Then he picked her up and set her on the hood.

She wrapped her legs around his butt and made out with him until the cabbie laid on his horn and said it was time to go.

“I could come with you,” Leo had offered.

She shook her head. “I gotta work in the morning, and I don’t .

. .” She almost said she didn’t sleep with a guy on the first date.

But that wasn’t true. Sex on the first date, even the first night, was fine.

What she didn’t like was the second date, conversations over dinner, the getting-to-know-you phase.

She liked intimacy of the body, not the heart.

As for the affair with Charlie, that had been one long one-night stand.

He didn’t care a thing about her, and she’d been dumb enough to let her guard down and entertain her own fantasies.

When he dismissed her so summarily, he had confirmed that she was not worth getting to know.

She was good for one thing while that good thing lasted.

But, even as drunk as she was, and as tempted, in that moment she didn’t want to treat Leo casually.

It was only after the cabbie drove away and she turned to look back that she realized he hadn’t asked for her number.

She was in the bakery in plenty of time before the pre-church rush.

Gavin was in back; Ruthie brought out trays and filled the pastry case.

What Molly wanted was something to put into her stomach that would soak up the hangover and the fatigue.

Where was Camille with a pan of lasagna when she needed her?

Her day off. She made herself a latte with the good milk—not the soy or almond the hippies demanded.

The muffins and croissants were too proper and fussy. She needed pizza. She needed a burger.

“What kind of music this morning, boss?” Gavin asked. He called everyone “boss.”

Molly thought of the outrigger. “Island vibes,” she said, her hand a dolphin surfing imaginary waves.

“Steel Pulse it is.”

Three hours later, her hangover caffeinated into a manageable throb, the bell on the door chimed, and Molly came out of the back, wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist. A young woman with a baby in a sling was ordering from Ruthie at the counter.

The person behind her leaned to look. He held two paper Popeye’s bags—contraband in an organic bakery.

Molly pushed the half-door divider and swiped a bag from him like it was dope. She called over her shoulder, “Ruthie! I’m taking a quick break! You,” she said to Leo, “Follow me.”

They walked up the street, out of sight of the bakery.

“How did you find me?”

“I mean, it wasn’t hard. You told me where you worked. Thought you might need a fix.”

Molly squeezed her eyes shut tight. “I did? I guess I did.”

“Hey, if I’m out of line, say the word.”

She sat on a park bench in the shade of a magnolia tree, patted the spot next to her. She opened the bag, and a delicious waft of steam rose. Fresh. Her stomach grumbled. “You come bearing gifts. I’m hungover. How could I be mad?”

“I get the whole vegetarian scene,” Leo said, gesturing to the bakery. “But the way you talked last night made me think you might be down for something else.”

“Well, I don’t know what I said to deserve this, but please, tell me there’s a spork in here,” she said, rifling around in the bag until she came up with the utensil wrapped in flimsy plastic.

“Yes!” Molly held the foam cup in her left hand, sporked beans and rice into her hungry mouth with her right.

“Biscuit chaser,” she said, tilting her head back slightly to keep the food in before biting into the biscuit.

She put her hand to her mouth, chewed quickly, trying not to talk with it full.

“God, this is so good. Thank you!” She swallowed hard, her body bouncing to the rhythm of her chewing, trying to hurry the process along.

She wiped her oily fingers on her pant leg. “I can’t believe you’re here . . .”

“Leo. Leo Doria.”

“I didn’t forget your name!”

Awkwardness caught up with them, strangers bonding over fast food. They both tried to speak at once, to fill the quiet.

“You go,” Leo said.

Molly laughed, suddenly self-conscious. She’d rushed into work that morning and worried that, at a minimum, her pits stunk. “You must have been first in line at Popeye’s. Where do you even live?”

“Adams Morgan. I share an apartment with Henry. From last night?”

“Of course.”

“So, me, Henry, and another guy. Not a great place, definitely too cramped. But it’s fine. Close enough to work, the Metro. Great food. And you, you live here?”

“Yeah, Takoma Park. Hippie house.”

Leo nodded. “And the bakery? How long have you been there?”

“Why are you here, Leo? Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for the red beans and rice. I mean.” She fluttered her eyes. “We drank a lot last night. Made out a lot. But why are you here?”

Leo’s left leg shook, and he let out an exaggerated breath, like a kid blowing out a candle.

“Well, I hope maybe you’re glad to see me and not just the bag of hangover food I brought.

Look, maybe you think I’m some kind of weirdo.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about you after you left.

And then I realized I didn’t get your number.

I should have chased down the taxi. I woke up thinking about you—well, you and my headache.

And I wanted to see you and I wanted Popeye’s and . . . two and two . . . here I am.”

Molly tapped her teeth together. This Leo made her nervous, jittery, like he might be able to kick down that heavy door she’d closed after Charlie.

No one ever went out of their way for her, did something for her that didn’t serve themselves first. Was he just another guy who didn’t take no for an answer?

But there hadn’t been a question really.

He brought food. She sat on a bench and ate it with him.

“Sorry,” she said. “I got up in my head for a minute there. No, that’s really nice.

I had a good time last night.” She cringed, hearing that needy sound in her voice, that dippy flirting.

“And I woke up thinking about you and lasagna, so you are really, really close to perfect right now.”

He reached for her biscuit. She slapped his hand before he could pull it away.

“Killer instincts.”

Her heart skipped. “You have no idea.”

In the daylight, the glow of youth and ease on him was almost unbearable. His skin was absolute butter. Molly was dying to kiss him. She popped the bite he tried to steal into her mouth. “Sadly, I must return to the vegetable mines.”

“What time are you done? That’s me,” he said, pointing to a motorcycle parked at the curb. “I could come back. We could go for a ride or something if you want. I brought another helmet, just in case.”

“Pretty confident, aren’t you?”

He cocked his head, touched her hand. “Nothing wrong with a little hope.”

They locked eyes, both playing the game now. Heat rose in her cheeks, thinking about Leo leaning into her on the hood of the cab. Okay, a little hope, then.

“Clean up this mess, yeah,” she said, pushing the paper bag toward him. “I cannot be seen with poison. My granola universe can’t handle it. And three. I’m done at three.”

Leo was outside at three sharp. He reached for the bandana to help Molly get the helmet on. “You mind?” he asked, his hand hovering.

“Go ahead.”

He undid the knot, and she shook her hair free, knowing the moment was charged. She’d refreshed her lip gloss already, the only makeup she kept in the bag she took to work. “Sorry I’m not in motorcycle gear,” she said, adjusting the helmet. “Well, the boots maybe.”

Leo tightened the straps for her, snapped her in. “You’re fine. It’s not a hog. It’s easier to get around in the city. Plus, it’s fun. We can ride through the park.”

He put his own helmet on and mounted the motorcycle. “Not quite the magic carpet from last night . . .”

“Oh, it’ll do.” She got on the motorcycle behind him, the seat slightly raised so she could see over his shoulder, put her feet up on the pedals, her arms around his waist.

“You ready?”

Molly had never been on a horse or a dirt bike, even.

She loved the feeling of shooting forward, ahead of the moment, only a second behind the future.

She let her body join to Leo’s, riding the languid motion of sun-dappled curves through Rock Creek Park, the humidity low for a summer afternoon.

She loosened her grip and leaned back, the asphalt wave rising up to greet her, the green of the park cool on her face.