Once we’ve got bikes, I lead the way up to the street and over the Rideau Canal. We take the path down to the locks where the canal meets the Ottawa River, pausing to watch the water cascading over the gates.
I should say something. The silence is sliding from comfortable to cold.
Say something, self.
Please, please say something.
Talia finally attempts to restart the conversation. “You like biking?”
“Seemed nice, riding along the river trail.” I’m hoping she’s okay with it. She didn’t object.
“Plus we have to take advantage of summer while it lasts,” she adds.
“Hey, Ottawa has four seasons, Miss Rexburg.”
Talia cracks a smile. “Yep. And three of them are winter.”
“The fourth is road construction.”
Her smile converts into a laugh, and I know we can keep this up. “Do you come here often?” I ask before I realize I’m echoing a lame pickup line.
“First time. You?”
“Mine too.”
She turns back to the locks, and the wooden paths running across the tops over the little waterfalls. “Can we walk on them?”
“Guess so.” I indicate the handrails.
Talia turns to me, a question hanging in her eyes: shall we?
I hold out a hand, inviting her to go first. We walk our bikes across, only to find the concrete landing pad on the other side doesn’t extend into a sidewalk to the next gate.
“Oops,” Talia mutters. She checks with me, chagrined. Like we should have looked before we leaped.
At least I’m not the only one worried about screwing this up.
“We’ll manage.” I take the lead to put her at ease, walking my bike down the dirt path beaten to the next gate. She follows. Once I’m back to the fully paved side, I turn back and catch a glimpse of Talia, paused in the middle of the gate. Her bike leans against her hip, and she’s pulling her dark hair back into a long ponytail.
Without thinking, I get out my phone to take a picture.
“What are you doing?” she calls over the rushing water.
“Need a picture of you for my contacts,” I ad lib. “Since I can’t get one from Facebook.” She smiles before I capture the photo, the Château Laurier looming behind her like a castle.
“Does it look okay?” she calls again.
“Perfect.”
Her gaze drops to the walkway in front of her, and she grabs her bike handlebars before I realize maybe I said too much with that word. I gulp hard and stick my phone in my pocket, scanning for where the river parkway begins.
Be cool. Please be cool, self.
“Oh.” I point across the greenway between us and an asphalt path, and we walk our bikes that direction. Yep, this is the path we were supposed to be on. Definitely should’ve figured that out sooner. I sneak a glimpse of Talia. She isn’t staring at me like I’m an idiot. She gets on her bike and starts off, and so do I.
In silence. It was a lot easier to talk to her last week. Focusing on pedaling is looking good. Except this is downhill, so we’re coasting. We reach the bottom lock, and the path turns to parallel the Ottawa River. Talia stops at the fence marking the parkway entrance. “Think we should read the map?”
I’m about to say maybe when I see the teasing in her eyes. “Guessing we’ll find our way back.”
“Let’s hope so.” She starts off again. I hurry to keep up, reaching for a conversation ploy less lame than my last pickup line. “Where are you from?”
“The States?” She isn’t checking her facts; she’s checking to see if I remember them.
Naturally. “There are fifty of them, you know.”
“Oh, I lived all over. How about you?”
“I grew up in Missouri and Michigan. Lived in Colorado for a while, too.” Then back to Michigan, but I really don’t want to talk about why.
She nods. “Cool.”
“You a military brat?”
“Nah, just had to move a lot.” Talia stands up on her pedals and glances back. “Oh, hey.” She stops and motions behind us. I turn back to see the glass towers jutting above the trees.
“National Gallery.” She pans around to the steel cantilever truss bridge spanning the river. “Alexandra Bridge.” Finally she points to a building with white columns supporting a rounded green roof. “Museum of History.”
“How long have you lived here?” I ask.
“Three years.”
“Right, law school.”
“Yep.” She hops back on the pedals. I hang back, watching her a minute. Even knowing her this long, I can tell the shields are still up.
We round a bend, and green-roofed Gothic towers rise above the trees in front of us. “Parliament Hill,” we announce in unison. Talia smiles over her shoulder.
“How have you coped with not sharing cute kittens with anyone this week?” she jokes.
It takes me half a second to catch up with her physically and mentally, remembering that from our Facebook-free conversation at Sunday’s break-the-fast. With her teasing tone, I definitely want to play along. “Honestly? I’m dying.”
Talia’s gaze turns distant, like she’s thinking of something. I echo that contemplation in my grin. “What?”
“Putting the clues together.” Her tone matches her gaze.
“About me?”
“Mm hm.”
Funny, I’m trying to do the same, but she’s not giving me much to work with. “What did you get?”
“Kitten-loving, Michigander rocket scientist who hates Facebook.”
“Me in a nutshell.” The green hill to our left has grown into a cliff, and a sign warns us to dismount for the tunnel ahead, so I obey.
Talia stops too, eying me. “That’s a profile of you. It’s not you.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Okay, tell me more about me.”
She barely hesitates long enough to focus on the middle distance. “You’re always thinking, probably analyzing and criticizing things, especially yourself. You’re good at recognizing patterns and making connections. You like answering questions, especially if it seems like no one else will. You’d rather do something solo or individual than a team sport. You’re not totally comfortable being the center of attention, so I bet you haven’t done it a ton, except maybe at work, where you’re brilliant, though you’d never say that.”
With every phrase, she nails something else about me, not everything I’ve really consciously thought about, until I almost expect her to list my relationship with Kendra next.
Fortunately, she doesn’t strike quite that close. She stops, expectations in her half-raised shields. “How’d I do?”
I make a face to say not so much. “Eh.”
She rivets me with a look of I’m not buying that for a minute. “Forgot to mention your killer sense of humor.”
“Got me there.”
Talia leans away from her bike. Toward me. I’m not thinking about kissing her — well, I wasn’t — but my pulse picks up anyway. Her voice drops to a dramatic whisper. “And I don’t think you like kittens half as much as you claim.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Everyone loves kittens.”
A couple other bikers zip past us before they dismount to pass through the tunnel, ruining the moment. Talia mimics my meh expression. “We’ll see about that.”
“Try me.”
“No, you try me.” She starts walking her bike down the path for the tunnel. “Or can you?”
“Give me a minute.” The pieces are already there, but after everything she’s noticed about me in a couple months of sitting through the same Sunday School class, I want to make this good. We reach the tunnel, a series of cement boxes with breaks to let the light in, and I have to maneuver closer to her. No objection here, and Talia doesn’t move away.
That gives me all the courage I need to answer her. “You aren’t at church for the social scene, which says a lot. Arjay’s your closest friend, and I think he’s the reason you
came to the break-the-fast. I’m guessing he’s either your matchmaker or your wingman.”
In the half-shadow, her laugh echoes.
“When you want to do something,” I continue, gaining momentum, “you do it, no matter how hard you have to work. You perform better under pressure. You don’t know how to give up. I don’t like being the center of attention, but you hate it, and you work hard to avoid being noticed at church. But you’ll talk one-on-one, so you’re not shy. I think it’s a defense mechanism.”
We’re closing in on the end of the tunnel. “Defense from what?” Talia murmurs.
“You’ve been hurt.” In the second-to-last stripe of light, she turns to me, shields down. Instead, her eyes are full of fear.
She blinks and it’s gone. “Everyone has.”
“True.” Truer, apparently, than either of us like to admit directly.
“Race you to the end of the trail.” Talia hops on her bike and launches herself out of the tunnel.
I add not as subtle as you think you are at avoiding touchy topics to my description of Talia and take off after her. “The trail runs to the Pacific,” I shout.
She looks back long enough to reply, “Better get pedaling.”
I answer with a wry smile and try to keep up with her. Too many people around to really race, but we cruise past the back of some Parliament building at a decent speed, the crowd slowly thinning, until it seems to hit us at the same time — it’s getting dark. We make eye contact and slow down by a silent signal, both scanning the sky. Heavy clouds are rolling in, fast.
“Not supposed to rain until three,” I say.
“Don’t think those clouds are wearing a watch.”
“Time to head back.”
Talia agrees, and we head back. The crowd hasn’t just thinned: we round a corner and we’re the only ones in sight.
Then the storm breaks. I slow down to let Talia pass me, and then we both pedal hard, though it’s too late to stay dry. The speed makes the pelting rain sting more.
The tunnel comes up fast, and she doesn’t dismount like we’re supposed to. “Talia! Stop!”
She plunges into the shadow. I follow, focused on her sil-houette. She stops pedaling and coasts to a halt in the last block of the tunnel. I roll up next to her, drawing deep breaths after that race that turned real. Talia stares out at the rain, breathing hard, wiping away the water running down her cheeks.
“You okay?” I ask.
She flashes me a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking how glad I am I decided not to wear that white shirt.”
She laughs, and I have to join in. “Well,” I say when our laughter subsides, “we’re already soaked. Do you want to brave the rain or wait it out?”
“Let’s wait. Can’t last that long.” She leans her bike against the cement tunnel wall and sits on the dry patch of ground in front of it. Once again, I follow suit, taking a seat facing her.
“Lovely weather we’re having,” Talia begins.
“Yeah, torrential downpour is my favorite biking weather.”
She appreciates the joke, and though my fallback topic is one of those stupid standard questions you always ask, it feels totally natural to continue the conversation. “Any siblings?”
“Too many brothers.”
I make a face like I’m afraid they’ll come after me, and she dismisses that concern with a wave. “They’re far away; you’re safe. What about you — any siblings?”
“Little brother and sister.”
“Did you always want to be an aerospace engineer?” she asks before I come up with another question.
A small thing, I know, but I really like that she remembers the real name of my job, instead of “rocket scientist.” We fall into conversation, and I don’t miss the potential distraction or escape the bikes offered. When the rain slows after fifteen minutes and stops completely after thirty, neither of us make a move to get up — definitely not because this asphalt’s comfy. It’s not until the shadows start to grow longer that I realize the bike shop might close soon.
I stand and help Talia up, and we retrieve our bikes. The conversation slows down to match our pace walking back, but now the occasional quiet is a lot more comfortable.
My original plan was a short daytime date to ease into . . . everything. But this date is just starting to hit its stride, and I’m not ready for it to be over. I need a Phase II. An early dinner? Where?
I glance at Talia, and she’s looking at me. Waiting. Oh, crap, my turn to say something. “You know, I don’t think I asked you why you wanted to be a lawyer.”
“Oh.” She waves the question off. “You know, the usual. Save the world, make enough money to pay off student loans while doing it.”
Once again, I get the distinct impression there’s more to say, but I’m willing to let her tell me as much as she’s comfortable with.
Okay, my turn again. I should ask her to dinner. Maybe we’ll find something to do after that. Marathon first dates are okay, right? Sure. They even count as two or three, and that makes kissing at the end totally acceptable.
I just have to say something. Talia’s watching me again, this time like she knows what I’m working up to.
So say something, self. Say something. Just say it.
The silence ticks past. The trailhead grows closer by the second.
Say anything.
Then her phone rings, stealing my opportunity. She checks to see who it is. “Sorry, work,” she murmurs. I signal for her to take the call, of course.
“What is it?” she answers the phone. I take it she knows the person on the other end pretty well.
“Yeah. . . .” She stops walking abruptly. “Can it wait? Can’t you handle it?” Her face says it all: major crisis. “Where should I meet you?”
Well, there goes the second half of my date plan.
“Okay.” Talia ends her call and looks to me. “Danny, I’m so sorry —”
“Major crisis at work. It’s okay. Obviously it’s out of your hands.”
She smiles her thanks, but picks up the pace to get back to the bike shop. “I hate to run off,” she says for about the third time.
“I know.”
“I had fun,” she says, like I doubted. “Thank you.”
“Thanks for coming.” Before I can suggest we do this again, Talia’s already backing away for her car. “See ya,” I say.
She waves and finally walks away. I watch her until she reaches her car, mentally cataloging the new entries in my Talia file. Youngest, bunch of brothers, kind of a daredevil as a teenager, lived in Florida, went to BYU–Idaho, never seen the Great Lakes, likes her dad, no mention of her mom, super dedicated to her job, evasive about why exactly. Though most people can hide this for a few hours, I do have to note Talia shows no signs of being a complete psycho.
Only thing I regret: letting her get away. At least I’ll see her at church tomorrow. Too soon to sit together? Too soon to ask her out again? Too soon to kiss her?
Whoa, wait, what? We’ve spent like four hours of our lives together, ever. It’s way too soon for just one thing: thinking about all that.
Suddenly, I’m colder than when I was soaked from the rain. We’ve been on one date — one half of a date — and I’m losing my objectivity over Talia.
Yeah, I like her, but maybe it’s smartest to take a step back.
I cut my date with Danny — and it was going really well, we were really connecting — short for this? The World’s Worst Tacos (we’re here solely because this dive has outdoor seating for the summer) and watching Galina and Vasily rehearse through the plate glass of their street-level studio? Elliott’s basket of chips conceals his long-distance listening device, but even I can tell our dancing friends aren’t passing sensitive intel.
To make matters more frustrating, Elliott and I are the entire surveillance team. Normally, you’d want two or three people per target at a minimum — a dozen would be ideal — but we’re still not supposed to talk to the rest of our team about this
.
They’re not the only people I have to be careful around. The defenses rising in my mind don’t have anything to do with the spymaster across the street. They have everything to do with the guy munching cold, greasy chips at the next table. The guy who should be my best friend.
I hate feeling like I can’t trust myself around him, but with everything going on lately . . . I can’t. I don’t dare mention Danny or church or my mother, and the list seems to grow every week.
Funny how much more comfortable I was an hour ago, talking to a guy I barely know. Reason #43: Danny’s a good listener. Maybe too good — I still have to be careful about some things. My job, yes, but most of all, my mother. The less I say about her, the better.
As if he’s reading my mind, Elliott pipes up once the waiter ducks inside. “Sorry for making you miss your date.”
I think he means that, so I offer him the smallest reassur-ance. “We already went out.”
“A daytime first date?” Elliott rearranges the chips in his basket and munches on one. “Bigger geek than I thought.”
“Takes one to know one.” Okay, sometimes our relationship is less obnoxious flirting and more grade-school insults.
“Or maybe he’s just not that into you.”
“Oh, shut up.” We might be alone, but I still want him to be careful about what he says.
Especially about Danny. Because I’d hate to have to punch Elliott.
Before he can launch another round of teasing my way, Elliott clears his throat and coughs — the signal. I turn back. Beyond the enormous poster of Galina and Vasily in full costume, beaming beside a trophy as tall as them, the real-life dancers are taking their shoes off.
Their work’s over, but ours is beginning. Elliott leaves a couple dollar coins (“loonies,” as they’re called) for a tip and starts for his car. I take a minute longer, hooking up my Bluetooth earpiece/comms cover so I can get away with talking to Elliott without looking like a crazy bag lady (been there, done that).
Inside the studio, Galina stands. Vasily gives her something small — a USB drive? The likelihood of them exchanging sensitive secrets that way might be low, but it’s so easy to dismiss the handoff with that reasoning that they might be able to get away with it. If it were anyone but me.
Spy Another Day Prequel Box Set: Spy Noon, Mr. Nice Spy, and Spy by Night in one volume (Spy Another Day Prequels clean romantic suspense trilogy) Page 22