Conflicting Hearts

by J. D. Burrows

  “Yes, but you shouldn’t have.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, I don’t really know you, and I killed your fancy car this morning.”

  “Well, you know the rear end of my car, the interior of my car, the contents of my trunk, my driver’s license number, address, height, weight, color of my eyes, and location of my employment. I would say that you do know some things about me.”

  I try and stifle a girlish giggle, but it’s no use. Why am I having this conversation with this man? I ask myself.

  “So, what about dinner, Miss Hayward? Can I pick you up at five?”

  “I don’t do dinner out,” I reply in a sheepish voice.

  “Why not?”

  “Because.” My eyes close. I’m such a ninny.

  “I’m not sure I understand. Can you explain the ‘because’ statement?”

  The reason is childish and silly, but I might as well tell him the truth. Maybe he’ll go away. “I get nervous when I’m with strangers, and I can’t eat. And if I do eat when I’m nervous, I get sick to my stomach. So I made a pact with myself never to eat out with strangers. Saves the hassle.”

  He pauses for a few moments as if he’s digesting my stupid explanation. “Then how about drinks?”

  “You’re not giving up are you, Mr. Richards.” I state it as a fact and not a question.

  “Well, I don’t want to pressure you into anything.”

  Oh, yes, you do, I think warily to myself.

  “Do you need to pick up a rental car after work?” He continues his questions.

  “No, I couldn’t get one until tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, then how will you get home?”

  “Bus.”

  “Have one drink with me, and then I’ll drive you home.”

  Boy, this guy is pushy. I hesitate and then continue. “How do I know you’re not an attorney during the day and a serial killer at night and on weekends?” My tone is dead-serious. “You did have duct tape in your trunk.”

  I’m not joking, and his breathing gets heavier at the other end. Maybe he is a serial killer, and he’s thinking how to do me in even now because I’ve annoyed the hell out of him.

  “You’ll have to trust me that I’m not.” His voice is calm and unnervingly even.

  Trust. Oh, sure. A concept that for me doesn’t exist, my brain reminds me. “It’s hard for me to trust,” I admit, clearing my throat.

  “Look, Miss Hayward,” he says, slightly annoyed. “I have no intention of harming you whatsoever. I felt sorry that you were spending your birthday alone. Since we met during unpleasant circumstances, I just thought I’d offer you a chance to celebrate. Nothing more.”

  I’ve offended him. Guilt washes over me and anxiety gnaws at stomach. I hate it when I’ve annoyed people, especially when they are trying to be nice. It’s not my intention to make him dislike me. Rejection hurts, even from strangers. Perhaps I’m reading way too much into this, like I usually do, so I relent.

  “Okay, then.”

  “Five o’clock? I’ll meet you in the lobby of your building?” He sounds as if he’s about to spring out into a chorus of Hallelujah.

  “Okay.” I’m feeling the usual deer in the headlight syndrome. I can’t think of anything to say, because my brain is frozen. He gets what he wants, and I can’t say no.

  “Okay, five o’clock in the lobby,” I repeat.

  “See you then,” he replies and hangs up.

  Immediately, I feel like I’m on the verge of a panic attack. I hate doing things I don’t want to do. Now I’m mad at myself for giving in to his offer and want to throw up.

  I wander back to my desk clutching my phone with a death grip. I don’t want to do this, I moan again to myself, but now I’m committed. Stand him up, the cowardly little voice inside suggests. No, I can’t, I dismiss the taunt. He’ll sue me if I do.

  For the next hour I can hardly work, stewing over what’s ahead. Time ticks toward the hour of doom. At quarter to five, I run into the ladies’ room and powder my nose. My dull blonde hair is in disarray. Thank goodness I find a brush in the bottom of my purse. I try to untangle the strands, but I don’t have any hairspray to make it stay. A quick freshening of my lipstick, a mint to suck on the way down to my rendezvous, and I think I’m ready—for what, I have no idea.

  As the elevator descends to the ground floor, so does my self-esteem. Why is this man insisting on taking me out for a drink on my birthday? He’s way out of my league, and I question his motives. I’m beginning to wonder if he thinks I’ll sleep with him so he won’t sue me.

  When the elevator door opens, my brick wall is stacked high. After inhaling deep breath, I turn the corner and enter the lobby. He’s standing by the front door with his hands in his pockets. For a minute, I think he looks worried and uneasy too. Maybe he’s having second thoughts. It helps with my jitters.

  I walk toward him, and he turns around at the sound of my heels clicking across the lobby floor. A smile spreads across his face, and he suddenly looks relieved.

  “Rachel,” he says, flashing a smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  I stop a few feet away and release a coy grin myself. “Did you think I’d stand you up?”

  He tilts his head and glances at the floor. “Oh, the thought crossed my mind.”

  “It crossed mine too,” I admit to my shame. “But I’m here.”

  “Yes, you are,” he says with a smirk.

  He gazes intently at me, roving his eyes up and down my frame. Is he undressing me in his mind or something? I’m a bit miffed.

  “So, what’s next?” I eye the revolving door, wishing I could make a quick escape.

  “I thought we’d have a drink down the street at a small Italian restaurant that I like. They have a cozy bar where we can talk, if you’re sure you don’t want anything to eat.”

  “I’m sure,” I say, feeling my stomach growling. I can’t eat next to this man, or I’ll be running to the ladies’ room every five minutes. Nervous heebie-jeebies and humiliation come in all forms when dealing with my anxieties. It’s not worth the risk.

  He walks alongside of me and makes no attempt to touch, for which I’m thankful. I try and give him the benefit of the doubt, that this is a friendly birthday drink and nothing more. I can do this¸ I tell myself, as he holds the door open for me to enter. A hostess quickly greets us.

  “Table for two?” she asks, grabbing the menus and standing at attention.

  “No, just drinks,” he replies. He sounds disappointed.

  He nods toward the bar entrance and leads me into the dark lounge. Immediately, I see the romantic surroundings. The easy-listening music is playing low, small candles illuminate the center of the tables, and a dark mahogany bar with an ornate mirror and liquor takes up a long wall.

  Ian, whose name I’ve been trying to get used to, chooses a table off in the corner and pulls out a chair for me. All this polite masculine treatment feels bizarre. I obediently slip myself onto the seat and try to act natural. My hands are sweating, and my heart is in my throat.

  He sits down across from me, and a waitress quickly approaches to take our orders.

  “What can I get you?” The server asks me first.

  “Uh, Coke,” I respond, looking up at her hovering over us.

  “No wine or maybe a mixed drink?” His eyes are wide with surprise.

  Alcohol will make me turn red as a beet. I’m already self-conscious as it is, and I don’t need to make myself any hotter. Especially around him, as I melt into his mesmerizing gaze.

  “No, Coke, is fine.”

  “Okay,” he says, turning his head toward the waitress. “Coke for the lady, and a Bud for me.”

  He’s a beer drinker? I thought for sure that he’d be drinking some expensive wine that has a name I can’t pronounce. The waitress puts two white napkins on the table, and scurries off to get our orders.

  “Don’t you drink alcohol?”

  “Um, sometimes.” Not wh
en I’m on anti- depressants, I think to myself, but I’m not going to tell him that.

  “Interesting,” he replies.

  Instantly, I think he’s disappointed that he can’t get me drunk, so he can get in my pants.

  “I’ve never been much of a drinker. I don’t like beer or the taste of hard alcohol. A Merlot once in a while is okay, but I buy the cheap brands. You know, the $3.99 bottle specials at the grocery store.” He laughs, and I wonder what’s so funny—the fact that I don’t drink or my $3.99 cheapo comment.

  The waitress returns with his beer and my pop. As soon as he takes the glass in his hand, Ian lifts it toward me. His dark and expressive eyes flash me a sincere look that just about melts the ice in my glass.

  “Happy thirtieth birthday, Rachel Ann Hayward. May you have many more.”

  My mouth falls open. I’m flabbergasted. His glass is extended toward me, and he wants me to clink it in return. Nobody has ever toasted me on my birthday, and I’m red-faced over his kind gesture.

  Regardless, I raise my glass in my shaky hand and quickly give it that one-time clink and take a sip through the straw. It tastes fantastic. The cold liquid slips down my throat helping to move the lump that’s been there for the last fifteen minutes.

  The usual speechless mode takes over as I look into his blue eyes. Suddenly, I’m thinking thoughts I shouldn’t be—like what he looks like without that suit. The dark atmosphere and the romantic background music play havoc upon my female psyche. He watches me intently in return, while he takes another sip of his frothy beer.

  “Thank you for the toast. That was nice,” I blurt out.

  “Hey, you’re thirty. Great time to be alive. I think the thirties are the best years.”

  “Why?”

  He lowers his head and looks inside of his beer glass as if he’s looking for the answer, then shrugs his shoulders.

  “Oh, I don’t know about you, but I feel like I understand my life, where I’ve been, where I’m going, and what I want.”

  His eyes darken into a sexy stare, and I’m dumbfounded that I’m picking up vibes from the guy that I rear-ended this morning. Is he my birthday present from heaven or something? I smile at the thought and then slap my foolish, wandering mind back in place.

  “I’m not quite sure that I feel like you do.”

  “How do you feel about being thirty?” He leans forward.

  Lonely, pathetic, loser, doomed to die an old maid.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Unsettled, I guess is the only word I can think of at the moment.” I take a long sip through my straw and soak up the sugar in the glass.

  “How so?”

  “You mean unsettled?”

  “Yeah. Sounds like you haven’t found what you’re looking for in life.”

  Well, that’s obvious. Look at the lack of a ring on my left hand, I think to myself.

  I suddenly wonder why he’s not married. Of course, I’m assuming he’s not married, because I don’t see a ring, but that doesn’t necessary mean a hill of beans these days. After all, he’s thirty-two years old, smoking hot, and probably has plenty of money. If he’s unattached, maybe he has a girlfriend or maybe he’s gay. God, I hope I got that wrong, I silently muse for my sake.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Whoa! I flinch, wondering if he’s reading my musings over him. “Nope,” I say, curling my lips in a circle and smacking them together.

  He reaches over and grabs my left hand and thumbs my ring finger. “Nothing there, so I’m guessing you’re not married either.”

  “Nope.” I take a sip of Coke and look at him. I’m sure he figured that out this morning. My tongue is twisted and tied at the end, and I’m back to a one-word conversation.

  “You?” I gulp.

  “Nope,” he answers, smacking his lips, too, sporting a grin.

  We both laugh, and then I realize he’s still holding my hand. Suddenly, I feel uncomfortable. Very gently, I pull it away and grab my Coke glass to cool off. I’m scared.

  “You sure you don’t want dinner?”

  He looks over his shoulder into the inviting restaurant. The aroma of food is tempting. My stomach growls, and I’m afraid he’s heard it. I cough to cover up the sound.

  “Uh, no, that’s okay. No food.” My mouth is drooling, but I know it will be a disaster if I agree to dine with him.

  Ian takes a sip of beer and glances around the bar. He suddenly seems awkward and ill at ease, and I wonder why. Perhaps he thinks my spurning his dinner invitation means that I’m not interested in him. The way I feel now, I certainly don’t want to leave that message, especially if he’s interested in me. Then again, maybe he’s figuring out he’s not that into me. I wish I’d stop trying to analyze everything. It’s exhausting.

  “So, tell me about your job.” I grin with a bit of enthusiasm to see if I can bring him back. “Do you like what you do?”

  He returns his gaze and parts his mouth with a small smile. Once again, he looks into his magic glass of beer for the words. I’m surprised that I’m sensing a bit of shyness, and it makes me feel more relaxed.

  “Yes, I like it. Hate the time I have to put in, but that’s law firms.”

  “Do you keep long hours?” I try and sound interested.

  “Yeah, sometimes fifty to sixty a week, maybe more on important deals.”

  “Gosh, when do you have time to unwind and have a life?”

  “Well, I don’t have much of one right now, but I don’t have anything else to occupy my time.”

  “Yeah, me either,” I admit.

  “One of these days, I’d like to change jobs and work as an in-house counsel at a large corporation. Usually, those types of positions are a little easier on the hours.”

  “Oh, are you looking?”

  “Not seriously.”

  He takes a sip of beer and keeps looking directly into my eyes. I wonder what’s going on underneath that thick head of hair that I’d love to run my fingers through. For some reason, I think he’s reading my thoughts again, when a suggestive smile curls his lips. No, he’s thinking about sex, I quickly conclude. Men, I inwardly grumble. Every twenty seconds, or is it every twenty minutes, they’re thinking about screwing someone?

  Of course, I should talk. It’s on my mind constantly. There are times I think I’m a nymphomaniac, but since I haven’t had a good lay in over five years that probably doesn’t qualify, or maybe it does. My thoughts are running amuck, and I’d wish he’d say something.

  “So, what do you do for fun?” He breaks the awkward silence.

  “Uh, fun? What do you mean fun?” I sound like I don’t know the meaning of the word, and I don’t. Think of something, I urge my blank mind.

  “You know, hobbies. How do you spend your time on weekends? Things like that.”

  “Oh, catch up with life. Go grocery shopping, to the bank, get an oil change. I take care of the things I don’t have time to do during working hours.”

  He shakes his head and sports a half-frown. “No, I mean fun and relaxation, Rachel.”

  Boy, this guy is persistent, but I like the way my name sounds when he says it. I think for a moment and then answer.

  “There are things I’d like to do, but I don’t because I’m alone. You know, take a hike down the Columbia Gorge, go camping at the beach, and travel overseas.” I drop my gaze into my dwindling Coke glass, searching for the next words. I’m as guilty as him now.

  “I’m careful, though, about doing things by myself as a single woman, like hiking. It can be dangerous.” I’m feeling like a rascal, so I look him straight in the eye. “You never know when you’ll run into a serial killer in the Pacific Northwest.”

  He lowers his head and snorts a laugh. Then Ian’s eyes turn dark, and he gives me a startling gaze that scares the crap out of me. His mouth opens, and a sexy drawl leaves his lips, which sends shivers up my spine.

  “That’s probably wise, Miss Hayward, because you never know.”

  His hand reac
hes across the table. He swallows mine in his broad palm. It’s warm—very warm. Hot, in fact, like my body from his touch. I feel my neck burst out in red blotches, and my cheeks flush.

  “Sounds as if you need a strong male to protect you and take you hiking. Mind if I apply for the job?”

  “Huh?” I blubber, with my eyes bulging out of my head. Is he asking me out? “Uh, I don’t know what to…what to say,” I stammer.

  “Well, what are you doing this Saturday? How about I pick you up, and we take a hike.”

  I giggle. “Take a hike. That sounds funny.” Now I am acting like a total nervous ditz. “Let me think about it.” My eyes are pleading for him to back off. “It’s only Monday, and you never know what the week will bring.”

  “Okay, I’ll let you think about it. If you say no, I reserve the right to ask again.”

  “Or what, you’ll hire a personal injury attorney? That was extremely funny, by the way.”

  “Well, Rachel, being turned down by a beautiful girl like yourself could cause any man personal injury, I would think.”

  He speaks the words with such heartfelt earnestness, I actually feel flattered. Once again, I’m back to the thought that he wants to get in my pants. Compliments are an excellent way to get in there, and maybe he senses my vulnerabilities.

  “You’re embarrassing me,” I whisper and lower my head to the table.

  “You should learn to take a compliment, Rachel. I tell it like I see it.”

  I shove the straw in my mouth and suck, but the bottom of the glass just gives that empty slurp sound.

  “Want another?” He waves the waitress over to our table.

  “Better not. I think I should be going home.” I can’t drink another if he’s driving, or I’ll need to stop and pee somewhere between downtown and home.

  “So soon?”

  A flash of disappointment spreads across his face. He wants me to stay. I want to stay. My fears tell me to go.

  “Yes, my cat…he’s probably hungry.”

  “Okay, then. You’re still going to let me drive you home, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Beginning to trust me?” He sounds anxious for me to do just that.