A Sweet Life-kindle

by Andre, Bella

  It would have been nice to know an important little detail. The best friend, whose wedding I just inadvertently destroyed, is a girl. Furthermore, there was no way for me to know this girl was the love of his life, and I was actually going to a wedding to witness my date stand up in the middle of the town — mayor and everyone else I have known since high school — and say, “I object!”

  I can’t make this stuff up, not even if I tried. Naturally, the groom was a little ticked off. You could tell by the fact that his face and neck got so red his head looked like it was going to pop right off his body. Next thing I know, my ex-boyfriend was grabbing me, yes, GRABBING ME — by my dress strap, I might add — and tugging me to stand up with him. Sorry, but my loyalty didn't run that deep, asshole. Worst. Day. Ever. I briefly contemplated slamming my head against a wall and setting my dress on fire. At least then people wouldn’t feel sorry for me because my boyfriend was a deranged lunatic — but rather because I was hurt and clearly needed medical as well as psychological attention.

  You can imagine the ruckus he caused, since the bride not only fainted, but took all six of her bridesmaids down with her, simultaneously knocking over the giant candle which set part of the church on fire. The highlight of my day was watching the incredibly muscular fireman put the small blaze out. Sometimes my life is pathetic — but I try to find the silver lining.

  Firefighters? Silver lining, my friend, silver lining.

  But back to my snotty-nosed ex-boyfriend. Maybe if I sneak away quietly, he won’t notice I’m gone. I gather my purse and coat and walk toward the door.

  Sweet freedom.

  I can see it. I can smell it.

  Light pours through the windows. YES! Out of my cage! On with my life! Maybe I’ll just be done with dating for a while. I could get another cat!

  “Amanda?” Ugh, I knew I was lying to myself; I never made it out of my parents’ house back in high school. Why would I be able to sneak out now?

  Defeated, I turn around to see who had said my name and notice it was one of the firemen. Now I’m curious, but I see the ex-boyfriend slowly look my way as well. Oh no, this is not good. Doing what I do best, I smile at Mr. Hot-Fireman and say, “Hi.”

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” The deep voice sends shivers up my spine; it’s like hot buttered rum on a cold winter night.

  The ex-boyfriend has a crazed look in his eyes as he stands and runs toward me and Mr. Fireman. Next thing I know, Derek is on top of the fireman, and I’m on top of Derek, pulling him off. Derek, still snot-faced and angry, is throwing punches Ultimate-Fighter-style at the back of Mr. Fireman's head.

  “Derek! Get off of him, what are you doing?”

  “I’ll fight for you, Amanda! Don’t worry! I love you!” (Insert more crazy snot-induced sobs here.) Men. What the hellfire is his problem? Does he have a cold? Who has that much snot? And what grown man cries when he doesn't get his way? I’ll tell you, the ones I date. The definition of lucky is not Amanda. Believe me, I know these things.

  The poor hot fireman doesn’t even know what hit him; lucky for him he was still wearing his helmet, which blocked part of the blow from Derek. The unfortunate part is, although it did block the hit from Derek, the blow sends the hat flying off the fireman’s head into the giant cake, sending the bride yet again into hysterics and more judgmental looks my way. I feel the need to shout, This is not my fault! as I point in Derek’s direction. Damn wedding ruiner.

  Derek is finally thrown off the fireman, and I escort him outside amidst the entire town shaking their heads in disapproval. Thanks for the help, guys! No one even bothered to get up from their seats. Rude. Whatever happened to community involvement?

  “Derek, what the hell are you doing?” I just said hell on the steps of a church. Dear God, please don’t smite me, but I need a strong word!

  He shoves his — now I realize — small hands into his pockets and sniffs, “Well, I just thought… maybe… since things didn’t go well, you know, today, that we could try again.”

  Holy rainbow goldfish, is he for real? This cannot be happening. He’s actually serious. This is not his joking face. Is he drunk? He must be drunk out of his mind. It’s the only explanation I can come up with at this point. Maybe he’s one of those perpetual drunks; he does tend to carry around a lot of water bottles. Vodka. I’d bet my life on it.

  “Derek…” I try my stern voice, the one I use when I volunteer at the retirement home and Mr. Bluett steals his wife’s cookies. I hope Derek will get the hint without me having to slap him across the face. I don’t like criers. His tears must stop now. THEY MUST STOP, I TELL YOU! Okay, calm down and tell him how it is. “Derek, you’re an ass.“

  His lower lip trembles. Great, kick the puppy while it’s down, Amanda. Well done. Maybe that was too harsh, make it better. “So, please stop crying! I won’t try again with you when there was nothing to try in the first place. You took me as a date to your best friend’s wedding, then tried to ditch me to hook up with the bride, and now that it didn’t work out as you planned, you want to try with me?” The shrill pitch of my voice was rising and getting louder, but I couldn’t control myself.

  Tremulously, I try to reclaim some shreds of dignity, so I add, “I will have you know, there are guys who would kill for an opportunity to date me!” What? Just because they aren’t lining up doesn’t mean it’s not true. “How dare you think you can have a second chance with me! You’re lucky you even had a first.” My fists are clenched so tightly against my sides, I know if I breathe one more word, I will release all my pent-up hostility all over his face. At this point, it’s a toss up on whether it will be naughty words or a fist fight.

  The sobbing baby turns suddenly into a little monster and retorts, “Well, that’s not what I hear. Did you know they had to bribe me to even go out with you? I’m doing you a favor!”

  Where did that come from? Where is Mr. I-Cry-All-the–Time-and-Have-Feelings-Too man? My mouth drops open as I am rendered speechless. Then out of nowhere — like a flash of lightning — Mr. Fireman storms up to us and punches Derek straight in the nose.

  “Holy crap!” I yell at the strange; hot man and I lean down to see if Derek is okay. Wow, this guy is going to need therapy after today.

  “He’s an ass,” the fireman states truthfully as he rubs his large hands. Not even a scratch from that hit. Nice.

  The claim is valid; there’s no way to argue that point. Glad to know I’m not the only sane one here at the wedding.

  “Thanks,” I manage to mutter as I meet the craziest green eyes I have ever seen in my entire life. Oh good, the room is spinning now. Perfect. Maybe I’ll pass out on top of Derek, looking all kinds of inappropriate. The mayor would love that. Ten bucks the entire town would come out to help at that point, because that’s just my luck.

  “You’re welcome, Amanda.” Mr. Fireman grins smugly before he turns around and walks back into the church.

  “Who is that?” Derek is still whimpering on the ground.

  I feel like kicking him, but I’m not the violent type. I’m outside, so it is easy to make an escape. I’m sure not going to wait around.

  On the way home, I keep wondering about Mr. Mystery Fireman. He looked so familiar. Do I know him? How does he know my name? Our town of Melba, Idaho, isn’t very large; we only boast enough people for one high school. Then again he could have easily gone to school somewhere in Boise or Meridian too. But he was definitely a Melba fireman.

  ***

  I want to kiss whoever invented search engines. It may appear like I’m stalking, but I’ like to call it research. Yes! Found it. Melba Firehouse, click. Bingo. Wow. I should have majored in detective work.

  Oh be still, my rapidly beating heart. They have a calendar for a suggested donation of only ten dollars! Plus, it’s for charity! Who wouldn’t want to buy a calendar? Of course, he’s Mr. December. Merry Christmas, Amanda.

  My strict Nazarene grandma is probably rolling in her grave, not that I didn't giv
e her enough reasons to be in that grave while she was living. What with my dancing and going to movies. She was a dear, sweet lady who, I am thankful now, is with her Lord. Let him deal with her, am I right? Sorry God. But it’s true.

  I am silently praying to God that He is the only one Who can actually hear my thoughts. Amen. And girls, if you could see this… A-M-E-N.

  You could do laundry on his abs. Is he airbrushed? How can abs look this way? His chest is perfectly chiseled, like God cut him out of a mountain. I suddenly have the urge to go hiking and collect rocks.

  Crap, those green eyes aren’t even his best feature. His hair is so thick and glossy, it should have its own Facebook page, and I would easily be the number one fan.

  I need to focus. Where is his name? I scroll down to the bottom of the page and see Staff. I click and pray it will be the correct information. Moving down the page again, I see his picture and click on it. They have stats right next to the names. Wait.

  No.

  Well, I just almost swallowed my tongue — didn’t know it was possible, but here you see it documented. It almost happened to a perfectly healthy twenty-one year old, and my parents would have found me in my apartment, asphyxiated on the floor with my computer screen opened up to a hot fireman. The shame would be unbearable; my poor parents would be humiliated and have to lie to everyone about how they found me.

  Death by fireman porn.

  There is no way it could actually be him; the irony would be too perfect. I have to look closer to confirm my eyes aren’t deceiving me. With a sinking feeling, I remember him when he had braces, ugly sweater vests, and high water jeans.

  It is Preston, and the memories of egging his house more than once during high school hit me with full force. I remember him holding my hand with those sweaty palms as he asked me to prom in front of the entire town. Right now, the only one with those sweaty palms is me. Truth.

  Oh, no. I turned him down.

  The sad part is, if he would ask me now, I would say yes. At the time, it was more important for me to look cool, so I'd said, in front of everyone, Thanks, but I’m already going with my cousin. I DON’T EVEN HAVE A MALE COUSIN.

  Just wait.

  It gets worse.

  He showed up at prom with his sister, saw me dancing with and kissing another guy, and, I’m sure, assumed I probably wasn’t that close with my family.

  Ladies, let this be a lesson. People always say you need to be nice to nerds, because you might end up working for them some day. The same goes for nerdy guys who ask you out. You should be nice to them, because one day they might be smoking hot.

  Chapter Two

  As women, I am sure we can all agree that when we see a man who is gorgeous, cut, and confident, we automatically assume he’s an arrogant prick. So the natural road is to search for the one who is slightly unfortunate looking, with the hope that his personality makes up for any other deficiencies. We wouldn’t have this assumption if we didn’t have good reason. Few men are as attractive on the inside as the outside. And if you’re shaking your head, it’s just because you’re one of those horrible women who are actually blissfully happy with one of the few men who aren’t gay and actually hold your hand while you watch Up and bawl your eyes out. Oh and P.S., all women hate you. You’re welcome.

  One time I dated a guy who, for anonymity’s sake, we’ll call Bob. He was total eye candy: big biceps, tan skin, perfect smile, huge… hands. We met at the gym. Bob and I were running next to each other on treadmills. His towel fell off of the side of his treadmill, and I picked it up. It was love at first sight. Feeling rather confident, I struck up a conversation. He asked for my number, and two nights later he called.

  We went to a fancy restaurant that weekend, and I fell in love for about five minutes. He ordered for both of us, without asking. “Yes, we’ll get salad with no dressing, chicken with no gravy, and no bread. We don’t do carbs.”

  If you ever want to get in an argument with me, just tell me that I shouldn’t eat carbs. Be prepared. I will spit in your face. Maybe not, but the whole low-carb mentality is ridiculous, and for me, a deal breaker. When I heard him say that, I yelled, “But wait! I like carbs!”

  He gave me a look I’m guessing he only reserves for fat people and told the waiter that I was "confused" and "please proceed to hold the carbs.”

  Seething, I went to another table next to us, stole the bread, and ate it right in front of him. In hindsight now, I looked like an insane person. But for argument’s sake, let’s be clear: I like bread. So sue me.

  Bob smiled tightly and never called again.

  I may have sent him a freaking bread basket the next day with a card that said Bastard, but it’s yet to be proven. They totally couldn’t prove it was my handwriting in a court of law. Who gets the last laugh now, Bob? Hmm?

  At any rate, since Preston is hands-down the hottest guy I have ever seen, I doubt he isn’t aware of this fact and uses it with reckless abandon. Even though he was a good guy back in the day, how could he not know that mere mortals tremble in his presence? With this revelation, I’m bursting with nervous energy. I need a good hard run. Eight o’ clock p.m. usually means the gym is empty, and it is Saturday night.

  Who goes to the gym on a Saturday night?

  Me.

  I grab my workout stuff, not bothering to put on anything remotely cute, and run out the door.

  ***

  The dry air of the valley hits me as I get out of the car. A mixture of rain and cold hit my nose. It reminds me of a fresh start, which is exactly what I need. I already feel better. Melba may be small, but they have an awesome rec center. It's my haven, mainly because not only do I get to run while I watch HGTV, but also because there’s a coffee shop next door that makes the best mochas in the history of the universe. I'm one of those girls who needs rewards in order to run.

  Stop judging me.

  Walking through the doors, I inhale the sweet smell of sweat and chlorine and scan my card.

  Yes, this is where I need to be. There is only one other person running, and I think he’s going for some record. If he keeps running this way, he might actually wear the treadmill out. But something about him seems familiar.

  No, I can’t. Why would I go to the treadmill right next to him when there are twenty other ones that are open? We all know how things worked out with Bob. I do not want another man telling me I can’t have bread. I may go to prison. I move to a machine further down.

  But upon closer inspection, this man has the best legs I have ever seen. The formation of muscles that gather at his calf and weave together up to his — Whoops, he just looked this way.

  Look busy! Look busy!

  I glance up at the ceiling. Awesome. So if he does come over I’ll just say, what? Is that ceiling new? Idiot. I tugged self-consciously at my shirt. Why did I choose tonight to wear my old, ratty, high school cheerleading shirt? And why did I also choose to wear the yoga pants that I spilt paint on last year? I grumbled something out loud, not realizing it, and jumped onto my treadmill. Five miles, here I come.

  As I run, the anxiety of the day turns into fuel, pushing me harder and faster. No, I don’t need Derek, I don’t need Bob, I don’t — Wait a second. While closing my eyes, I missed something. Mr. Runner is walking toward me. Why? What do I do? Holy hot chili peppers, he’s getting on the machine next to me. Be still my heart. Those calves. Since when did I start obsessing over people's legs? Now, I say. Now.

  Competition. Whether he realizes it or not, he’s in for a race. Why? Because I can’t help it. I must win. It’s also why I never turn down dares, but that’s a different story. He starts running, and again I feel the pressure to win. Please… he may be a fine male specimen, but I am fast… ridiculously fast.

  I will end you. I chant this in my head over and over again.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a subtle smirk, but I still can’t bring myself to look at his face. I can only see out of the corner of my eyes. Focusing on my running, my
breathing, I keep my eyes trained ahead as I run. His continuing glances feel like silent challenges, so I hit the up button on my speed and go to eight miles an hour, then ten. Now I’m sprinting, and he’s sprinting. And still, neither of us is talking. He’s running faster, so I push mine up one more time before realizing that my balance was momentarily off, and yes, you guessed it, fly off of the treadmill and into the bench behind me. Oh, it’s a metal bench, FYI.

  “Amanda?”

  So this is what happens when you get knocked out. You see hot men in your dreams. Through the lust-filled haze I see a pair of stormy green eyes looking down at me. Dazed, I reach up to touch the face of my dream and come into contact with warm skin. My fingers tingle as the man’s face breaks into a gentle smile. Not trusting my own voice, I sit in silence as the fog begins to clear. The man reaches out to brush some hair from my face. The touch of his fingers sends my stomach whirling.

  “Wow,” I whisper reverently. To my horror I realize, within five seconds of opening my mouth, that I’m not unconscious and the runner next to me was, in fact, Mr. Fireman. Preston himself.

  “Wow? What do you mean wow?” he repeats, his face drawing together in concern and then irritation. “Am I supposed to thank you for complimenting me after you nearly killed yourself and took me with you a few minutes ago? Do you even know your name right now?”

  I didn’t realize I was still staring at his chest until he cleared his throat and sighed, “Are you okay?”

  NOW he asks!

  “I think so. I don’t see any blood.” Trying to cover my behavior, I quickly say, “I don’t know what happened.” Liar. Green eyes. That’s what happened Amanda. Well, that and calves, let's not forget those.

  “Oh, you mean you don’t remember challenging me to that race just a few minutes ago? Or how about the part where you watched me punch your sorry boyfriend in the face, or maybe—”

  I put my hand in the air between us to give him a signal to stop talking. I mean, come on now. He’s just being rude. And I did just hit my head.