First Step Forward Page 12
Instead of a frat kegger on steroids, it’s more akin to an incredibly well-orchestrated preschool pageant. Assigned seats; a flight crew of patient folks who know our names and finicky preferences and feed us every half hour. On the way home, the flight attendants even pass out warm cookies and ice-cold milk. After that, naptime is inevitable for most of us.
Eight years in and my assigned seats—plural, because we each get two—are at the very back of the plane, a sign of seniority. An ice pack is already waiting for me, to treat the mild hamstring strain that cropped up during the third quarter. Even though my head feels nearly back to normal after last week’s win in Phoenix, another part of my body has predictably started to break down. I’ve worked hard to stay lean as I age, trying to ask as little of my joints as possible, but the reality is I can’t bulldoze my way through every play like I did when I was years younger and oblivious to the way injuries add up over time.
I settle in, pull my headphones and iPod out, then check my phone again. A voicemail from my mom and a text from each of my brothers, but that’s it. Looking up from the display, I scan the rest of the plane. Most of the guys have boarded now and nearly all of them are face-first in their phones, either texting or talking, and I’d guess that on the other end of most of those phones is a woman. Wives, girlfriends, fiancées, exes that aren’t really exes, the hookup of the week, or some random girl from a bar who left an impression.
I’ve always had a routine for my time in the air, all based on how the game went. A loss means I cue up a perfectly curated set of songs that provides a soundtrack to analyze every error on the field. Shinedown’s “It All Adds Up” is the first track, NEEDTOBREATHE’s “Keep Your Eyes Open” smack dab in the middle, and Gary Clark Jr. with “The Healing” at the end. By the time we land, I’ve visualized the appropriate correction for each screw-up and I’m able to move on.
A win is easier. I reward myself with an audiobook through my headphones—even the serious military history stories and political biographies that I prefer are a great way to zone out. No matter what, I’ve rarely given my phone a second look once I’ve settled into my seat.
Today, watching all these other fools grinning and laughing away, for the first time, I want the same thing. Even now, I’m leaving my phone faceup on the extra seat, trying to determine if glaring at that spot hard enough will miraculously conjure the stupid thing to life, with Whitney on the other end of the line.
“Why so glum, chum?” Aaron ends the call he was on and looks across the aisle, sporting the perpetual half-smile he travels through life with.
“Nothing.”
“Not buying it. You look pissier than usual. And you’re doing stuff with your phone instead of donning your headphones and pretending like everyone else doesn’t exist.”
I shake my head and look out the window. Shifting the ice pack under my thigh, I wince when the muscle seizes up at the adjustment.
Screw this. I’ll be damned if I’m going to just sit here and mope. There’s probably enough time to call her, so I grab my phone. But just when I find Whitney’s number and get ready to hit the call button, I pause. Maybe I shouldn’t call.
No.
Wait. Definitely, yes.
Maybe if I call she’ll think I’m overbearing, which I am, but we already talked for a while yesterday—just like every other day that’s passed since I left her house. So, maybe if I don’t call today, she’ll wonder why.
Christ, this is insane. I might like Whitney, but I sure as hell don’t love feeling this stupid. Time to man up and find my balls.
Taking a deep breath, I press the call button.
“Hello?”
I try to draw out my agitation when she answers, wrestle that feeling around, to stay frustrated as a matter of male pride. If only her voice didn’t fascinate my dick so much, I might succeed. Instead, just her saying hello means that every damn organ in my body perks up to say hello back.
“Hey, it’s Cooper.”
“Hi.” She gives the word a long roll off her tongue, and any remaining bits of irritation dissolve. “Did you win?”
I smile and take a look out the window again. “Yeah, we did.”
“Are you in one piece? No guys named Stinger that I need to rough up?”
“Nah. My hammie is giving me fits, but that’s because I’m old. You don’t need to be my enforcer this go-round.”
Twisting in my seat, I notice that a large dude—one who needs to get a life—is all ears on my conversation. Aaron has his elbow propped on his seat arm, chin propped on his fist, unabashedly eavesdropping. He smirks and raises his brows. I flip him the middle finger and turn back toward the window.
“I’m headed home and I didn’t know what you were up to this week, so maybe …” I start to fumble over the words, hesitating until Whitney makes a humming sound to encourage me. “I wanted to know if you might have time to come to Denver. Stay with me for a couple of nights.”
She doesn’t respond right away. I start to fill the quiet with details.
“We have part of tomorrow and all day Tuesday off, and a late start on Wednesday. I’d come to you, but with the drive, we’d barely get any time together. I thought your schedule might be a little lighter this time of year. I know you have things going on and this is short notice, but I just …”
Aaron continues to gawk, hanging on every word and stockpiling God knows how much mockery as he waits. Another twist of my body closer to the window, but I refuse to cup my hand over the phone. If he hears me, and gives me shit for every syllable, so be it. I’m used to it anyway.
“I want to see you, Whitney. But I’m in the middle of the season and that means my free time is almost nonexistent.” I pause and force myself to wait for her to say something. When she does, it takes only a few words for me to pick up on the lightness in her voice.
“Well, lucky for us, I have something I need to check out up in Boulder.” She takes a slow inhale, as if she’s already anticipating what’s bound to come next when we see each other again. “I’ll need your address.”
The flight attendants start to make their way down the aisle, reminding everyone to start powering down.
“I’ll text it to you, along with the codes for the garage and elevator.”
“Oh, hell. Don’t do that. I’ll never get there.”
“What? Why?”
“This is a landline. If you try to text me, those messages will end up somewhere in the digital ether.”
“Don’t you have a cell?”
Whitney snorts. “I do. But it’s on a pay-as-you-go plan and adding more minutes is at the bottom of my financial priority list right now. I prefer to eat and heat the house.”
Shit. Money. A basic life thing that I haven’t had to worry about in a long time. Sometimes I forget that money—or a lack of it—is top of mind for most people, especially when their living comes from the land. I watched my family worry through season after season of uncertainty, but neglected to remember how that same insecurity is part of Whitney’s reality. All those worn-out clothes and the beater of a truck in her driveway merely seemed like part of her hippie girl persona, but I overlooked how that also probably meant she wasn’t flush with cash.
My favorite flight attendant stops in the aisle and points to my phone, wordlessly implying it’s time to wrap up my call. I give her my most earnest but silent plea for another quick minute by widening my eyes. She rolls her eyes and holds up two fingers, disappearing to the rear cabin, buying me a couple of minutes to tell Whitney that I’ll call her back when I land, give her all the info then. The instant I toss my phone onto the seat, Aaron starts in.
“Whitney, huh? What did she use in her love trap? I can’t imagine what kind of bait works best on Cooper Lowry. Honey doesn’t work, I’m sure.” He taps an index finger against his mouth, looking up to the cabin ceiling as he does. “Maybe Kendra will have some ideas. She’s going to have a field day with this.”
“I can’t emphasize this
enough, Bolden.” I use both middle fingers this time, but I’m grinning. “Fuck. Off.”
Mid-morning on Monday, when I sprint out of our abbreviated practice, Aaron is standing in the main doorway out of the building, blocking my way—cheerfully, and on purpose. I try to dodge around him, but he blocks me with a dropped shoulder to the center of my chest. I try to shake him off by pretending to throw an uppercut to his jaw. He grabs my fist and laughs. The only choice I have left is to step back a few paces and glare, breathing heavily through my nostrils.
“Kendra wants to meet her.”
“No.”
“I want to meet her.”
“No.”
“Why? What’s wrong with her? Two heads? Nine ears? Missing her front teeth? She’s interested in you, which means her judgment is suspect, but I hang out with your surly ass, so it would be hypocritical of me to count that as a failure.”
“She’s perfect. You’re the problem. Kendra isn’t a problem per se, but she’s still Kendra, and this is a new thing. I don’t need your wife’s particular brand of inquisition to scare her off. We both know I can do that on my own.”
Aaron tilts his head and studies my expression for a moment. When he registers that I’m serious, he steps aside and pushes the door open, giving a sweep of his arm to indicate I’m free to go.
I barely make it halfway down the front sidewalk before he’s hollering.
“I can’t promise that my wife won’t just show up at your place unannounced! The woman has her own mind, so keep your lights off and the doors locked!”
Whitney said she would be in Boulder by the early afternoon but didn’t say when she would head toward Denver, which left me to wait.
And wait.
Every minute that ticks by tests the patience I don’t possess. I don’t like waiting. I like routines. Expected outcomes. Schedules and disciplined habits. Boring? Yes. Do I care? No.
Not having a plan makes me jumpy. But this entire situation is my own personal unscaled mountain. Inviting a woman to my place for a few nights with every intention of trying to make sure she likes it enough to do it again? Brand-new territory.
The last time I put this much effort into getting a woman’s attention, I was a kid and so was she. Senior prom with Abagail Pruitt. A limo I couldn’t afford, a hotel room I really couldn’t afford, a rental tux that didn’t fit very well, and a box of condoms that I didn’t need because she drank too much cheap wine in the limo and passed out. That was my last foray into wooing, so I’m a little rusty. Too many years of singular focus on my career and perfectly contented domestic solitude make it a little hard to jump back in without pulling a muscle or two.
Plus, there was no warm-up. Whitney was a surprise, showing up without warning, without any intention on my part. I wasn’t looking for anyone. I certainly wasn’t looking for her. In a million years, I never would have conjured up an image of Whitney when considering the kind of woman who might be perfect for me.
All of this explains why I’m now standing in the coffee and tea aisle at Whole Foods—my third trip of the day—trying to decipher the best choice among the copious varieties of herbal tea on display. I think back to the crap Whitney served when I was in her kitchen. The name escapes my mind, even if the flavor is still on my tongue.
The bigger matter at hand is that I came back to the grocery store for the third time, just to get tea, just in case she might want some. Five boxes later, I circle around to get an extra bag of steel-cut oats to have on hand for breakfast. Then I toss in some wheat berries because I know she eats those. I double back through the store for goat cheese, another known. I also decide to get some wine. But does she like red or white? Maybe I should get some steak for dinner instead of the salmon I bought earlier. Does she eat red meat? Was the braised chicken in her refrigerator a fluke and most of the time she’s a vegetarian?
Christ, I need a drink, or a neck rub, or something—because I’m fucking wrecked and my wooing muscles are starting to ache already.
12
(Cooper)
Back at home, I put away the groceries and then change the sheets on my bed. After that, I spend another twenty minutes debating what to wear, and as I flick through the hangers in my closet, it’s clear I’ve officially said sayonara to any testosterone-based dignity I once had.
After I’ve selected the right T-shirt and jeans, I put the vase of sunflowers I bought on the coffee table, but only after I cut the stems and rearrange them four times. I keep a clean place, so there isn’t any need for a speed round of housekeeping, but I triple-check to ensure there aren’t any grubby practice clothes hiding anywhere. I might be used to the persistent funky odor from all my sweaty gear, but Whitney won’t be.
I check my watch. Six o’clock. I’ll give it ten more minutes and then I’m turning on the Xbox. If I don’t distract my head and my hands, I’m going to end up doing something suspect. Like rewiring an electrical panel or alphabetizing my pantry goods.
A faint knock at the door is enough to inspire a panicky tremor in my chest, until I’m just standing there with a pounding heart and the sudden inability to move.
Not acceptable. I have to get my shit together. Now.
I pull open the door and Whitney’s there, looking a little harried and wearing a loose dress that hits just above the knee. The soft-looking fabric is covered in a busy maroon pattern that kind of hurts my eyes, and she has what I’m guessing are black tights on underneath. And all I can think about is how she looks great and I’m glad she’s finally here—and if those are tights, as opposed to thigh-highs, how the fuck am I going to get them off without the scene turning fumbling and comedic?
Whitney tugs off a crocheted black scarf from around her neck, then points her index finger straight down at the floor.
“You live above a cupcake bakery.”
I nod and step back so she can come inside. The door swings shut behind me and from the back, the dress is slightly shorter, so I can tell that those are definitely tights because they’re too thick to be anything else. Tights can be cute, but they’re sometimes a bitch to get off a woman’s body. Especially when it’s a first run and you’re trying to keep your moves smooth and awesome so she doesn’t think you’re a total idiot. Later, when you really know each other and a hundred stupid things have occurred in bed, it’s easier to laugh about the way she has to shimmy and tug her own way out of any complicated ensembles.
She stops in the middle of the room with her back to me, points to the large plate-glass windows that face the street, and then cranes her head over one shoulder to look my way.
“You live above a cupcake bakery, there’s a craft distillery across the street, a gourmet burger joint next door to that, followed by a very provocative-looking lingerie shop, a hookah lounge, and a chocolatier. This loft is the epicenter in a hub of vice and sin. How is it that you aren’t four hundred pounds and half-blotto all the time?”
A quick turn and she takes an inventory of my loft, up and down, side to side.
“Wow, this place is amazing. Is that the original brick? The elevator has to be the original—it sounds like it might plummet to the ground, but in a good way. And these floors. Beetle kill? The blue tint gives it away, but it’s—”
Holy fuck. She’s a hurricane of words. Her body isn’t moving, but all that nonstop talk makes her vibrate with nervous energy. Please, please, don’t let her be a sleeper version of Callie. I don’t want to discover that during the time I spent with her in Hotchkiss, she was on a sedative of some sort and this is the real Whitney. That would be worse than discovering she’s … I don’t know … a die-hard Chiefs fan. Married. Really a pod person.
She pushes on by announcing that the fireplace is nice. Is it wood or gas? She likes the barn slider doors. Have I ever eaten at the taqueria on the corner? She splurged on a tea from the Dushanbe Teahouse while she was in Boulder. It’s called Dragon Eyes. She thinks it’s good but a little bitter when it cools off.
I give h
er my best dragon eyes, which means I widen them and tilt my chin down, hoping she’ll take a breath, remember that I’m still standing here, and notice how I’m waiting for her to be quiet.
“Whitney.”
She gets in another few lines. Something about how hard it was to find the entrance to my parking garage, all the one-way streets, that she wasn’t sure if she should park next to my truck or in front of it. I try again. Lifting my hands up in front of me, palms out, in a universal hold the fuck up for a second gesture.
“Whit.” She stops. Thank you, God. I step forward cautiously and she starts to inhale and exhale slowly but deeply, her shoulders rising on every pass. I’m near enough to reach out and press both hands to her face, grasping her jaw gently in my palms. “Hi.”
A small laugh before she blinks a few times. “Hi.”
“Nervous?”
No hedging, no waffling; she just sighs. “Yes.”
“Good. I’m glad it isn’t just me.”
“You don’t seem nervous.” Her lips purse into a slight pout.
“I’m using my laser-like game-day focus to appear unfazed. But two things happened before you got here that will illustrate how messed up I am over this.”
She widens her eyes with a grin. As I point to the coffee table, where the vase of sunflowers sits in the center, she tracks the motion with a quick glance and gives a so what expression.
“I arranged those sunflowers in that vase four times. I bought them for you, even though I didn’t know if you like flowers, or if you’re allergic, or if you would rail on me about the idea of killing an innocent plant purely for aesthetic purposes. Then I spent twenty minutes trying to arrange them properly. Secondly, I actually had this thought when I got home: I have no idea what to wear. After much debate, I settled on this T-shirt. Because it brings out the color in my eyes.”
I bat my eyelashes for effect and Whitney sputters out a surrendering laugh, complete with her entire body relaxing. She tips forward so her forehead rests against my chest.