Everest

by S. L. Scott

  When I dare take a look his way again, my shoulders drop a little. “I get tired of the practice.”

  “I look at it like baseball.” He glances to the TV again.

  “Like a game?” I ask, following his gaze, then back to him. “I think most men do.”

  When his green eyes meet mine, he says, “No, not a game, but the practice. Practice is just warm-up for the game. A few great games lead to the playoffs.”

  “And the playoffs lead to?”

  “The World Series.”

  I smile. “So every date moves you toward The World Series?”

  Laughing, he says, “Well, no guarantees with that. I’ve been stuck in the minors for a few years.”

  With a new perspective, I realize just because the dates are bad doesn’t mean they aren’t valuable. I need to look at dating like this and put the fun back in fun and games when it comes to dating. “Maybe it’s time we’re recruited into the big leagues.” I tap my glass against his this time and take another sip.

  Our eyes stay connected over the lip of the pint glass. When he lowers his, his smile is broad and mischievous. “I’m kind of pausing my personal life for now.”

  “Why?”

  “Things are complicated.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  Chuckling, he adds, “So I do.”

  I don’t bother filling in the blank space. I want him to expand on that last comment, but his interest in the topic seems to have faded. His interest in me, seems to have picked up. Leaning a little closer, he asks, “How old are you, Singer?”

  Taken aback by his question, I rest back, scoff, then laugh. “Wow, umm—”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just curious.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  I know it shouldn’t matter, but I like that he’s older than me more than I should. “I’m twenty-five.”

  “You look younger.”

  “Is that why you asked me to hang out instead of go out?” I choose my words carefully even when joking.

  “Ha! No. I’m glad you’re older.”

  I burst out laughing. “Man, now I’m older?”

  He’s chuckling harder. “I’m screwing up here.”

  “You’re doing better than you think, but I’m still curious to why you asked me here.”

  Our gazes hold a beat, then another until his lips rise up on the sides. “Our paths kept crossing—”

  “Then maybe it was meant to be,” I interject with a little grin of my own.

  His smile remains, and if I’m not mistaken, maybe a little wistfulness is seen in the upturn. “Do you believe in destiny?”

  “I don’t believe in something controlling our lives. I own every bad decision I make.”

  Ethan chuckles. “Do you make many?”

  “Enough to know that if destiny is in charge, she’s out for revenge.”

  “If this is revenge, it sure is sweet.” The bar crowd gets louder again, and he swears, “Shit. Tied game.” He tops off our glasses and turns away from the TV as if it’s offended him.

  The other team scores again, dragging our attention back to the large screens hanging over the bar. “Are you into all sports or just baseball?”

  “I like most sports, but baseball is my favorite to watch.”

  I twist the glass around in my hand. “Why is that?”

  “I admire the patience, the skill, and the grace of the game.”

  I admire him.

  I think I expected Ethan to be more arrogant and self-important, but he’s not that. This Ethan is kind. Attentive. Charming. Well, I knew he was charming, but he’s kind. He’s so kind. And I find that I’m content.

  I’m relaxed and having fun. It’s easy to spend time with him because I don’t believe I have to put on a charade. He asks about me, his interest genuine by his attention when I answer. I sigh quietly, still confused by what today is about. Is it a date or two friends hanging out?

  Conversation doesn’t lag and my enjoyment of the game has developed as he explains some of the plays.

  By the eighth inning, we’ve worked our way through nachos, two hot dogs, and a bowl of popcorn when Ethan stands. “This game is over. Want to get out of here?”

  “Sure. Where do you want to go?”

  “Want to walk and see where we end up?”

  After paying, we land on the sidewalk, and he lets me choose which direction. I’m not familiar with the area, but I know we’re walking south. “Singer is an interesting name. What’s the story behind it?”

  “It’s my mother’s maiden name. She wanted to represent her side of the family, so they split the difference. First name from her side. Last name from my dad’s. I wish I had a more interesting story.”

  “You make up for it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you’re interesting all on your own.”

  My instant reaction is to want to look down, but I don’t. I hold my chin level and keep my eyes on him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I have another confession.”

  I clench my hands, bracing myself. “Okay.”

  As if the whole world is weighing him down, he sighs. “I probably shouldn’t admit this.”

  Feeling antsy all of a sudden, I run my hands covertly over my jeans, nervous what he’s going to say. “Ethan, just say it.”

  “I read your book.”

  “What book?” I ask, but quickly answer my own question. “The book in the park?” The romance novel? My eyes go wide.

  His laughter is light, but it still gets my attention. “It was a little mushy in parts, but it was good overall. I bought the next one in the series.”

  With my hand to my chest, I feel like my heart might burst wide open from swooning, all because he read the whole book. “I haven’t even finished that book. How did you?”

  “I’m a fast reader. My time is limited so fitting things in for pleasure has become a struggle. I also might have stayed up late reading it to impress you.”

  “You wanted to impress me?”

  “Sure,” he replies, shrugging. “Did it work?”

  Laughing, I reply, “It did, but I bet your date didn’t like that.” Fine, I’m testing the waters. I’m interested in him and nosy about his personal life.

  “What date?”

  “Last night.”

  “I didn’t have a date, Singer, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Dropping my gaze to the ground, I’m not smooth. That much is obvious. “Sorry. I should have just asked.”

  Lifting my chin, my eyes meet his again. “If you want to know something, anything, ask me.” He looks down the street and nods for us to keep walking, so we do. “Anyway, I stayed home. I had some work to catch up on and then I read.”

  “But you’re”—I wave up and down his body—“you. You didn’t go out on a Saturday night?”

  “Now I feel like a disappointment. Is it sad that I ordered pizza and stayed home?”

  This news fans the flame of my staying-home-loving heart. “Not sad. I enjoy nights in. Pajamas, candy, and a good movie. That’s a good night.”

  “Is that what you did last night?”

  “I got takeout and watched a movie.” Walking next to him, I ask, “Why did you really read the book?”

  “You want the truth?”

  Tilting my head, I deadpan, “No. Lie to me.”

  He has a great laugh. I let my gaze slide from his smile to his neck. He’s so tempting to touch. I don’t, but the desire is definitely there.

  Still grinning, he replies, “I was intrigued by the part I read in the park. And, because I wanted to be able to talk to you about something you enjoy.”

  “So you really read it for me?” Trying to calm my crazed heart, I fail, and it begins racing anyway.

  “I did.”

  Emotions for this man begin to bloom in my chest. “That’s really sweet, you know that?”

  “You
’re really sweet, Singer. I think that’s why it’s going to be difficult not to practice with you.”

  “Practice?”

  Appearing shy for the first time in all the times I’ve seen him, he looks away. “Bad reference to our dating conversation earlier. Anyway, I liked the book.”

  Although he’s quick to divert the conversation, I catch on to what he’s really saying. He can’t practice . . . can’t date me. As much as I want to ask more about practicing, I don’t. The mixed signals jumble my thoughts, and my stomach ties up in knots.

  No dating. But he wanted to impress me?

  He’s said it, but why don’t I believe him? Was he not flirting with me before? While his face is angled away, I stare at him, hoping to find an answer. His jaw ticks, his eyes focused on something in the distance.

  I refuse to show him my disappointment, so instead of taking the time to untangle my emotional mess, I ask, “What was your favorite part?”

  We stop at the corner in front of a colorful window display. Standing with our arms pressed together, our eyes meet in the reflection, and he says, “Her heart. Her heart pulses in her chest, every beat an answering response to my own throbbing question.” My lips part and my breath catches as I listen to the lines of the book recited from memory.

  My whole body heats, my feelings flamed by the words as I dare to look at him as he continues, “I want to kiss you until the clouds disperse and the sun sets. I want to hold you until the moon disappears into the morning light. I want to”—his eyes meet mine—“make love to you until your body falls apart and then piece you back together with the emotions I feel for you.”

  Hearts. Roses. A gamut of romantic feelings erupt within my soul. I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him until the clouds disperse and the sun sets. I want to touch him the way his words have touched me—heavy and deep. But hope is not something I can feel with Ethan. He’s made his intentions clear.

  No practice.

  I start to think back at all the lost opportunities that seem too far gone to give us a fresh start—from last year on that balcony when he was so easily distracted to today’s invitation to hang out.

  Maybe we’re not meant to be. All the questions start popping in my head, little light bulb moments reminding me to protect myself and my heart. Why is he taunting me with pretty words when he’s certain he’ll never act on them?

  I can’t let myself get sucked into another relationship that won’t lead anywhere, no matter how attractive Ethan is, how he makes me laugh, how he brings out a smile just by smiling, or causes my body to react from only a glance. He’s smart, charming, and attentive.

  Damn him.

  Deep inside, hope starts to frown.

  Damn it.

  I want to ask why he doesn’t want to practice with me. The more time I spend with him is going to be detrimental in the end. I can’t subject myself to the scrutiny of my contrary inner thoughts, so I pop myself in the forehead dramatically. “I just remembered. I need to wake up early tomorrow for a meeting. I need to go. I should get some sleep.” I peek over at him to see if he’s falling for my abrupt excuse.

  His brows are bent in confusion when his eyes land on mine. “It’s only five thirty.”

  “I have laundry. Lots of laundry.” Which is the truth, though I have enough clean clothes to get by for a few days.

  “Okay.” His eyes narrow, and he looks perplexed as I start to back away. My hand is up to wave, but I stop when he asks, “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No,” I reply, honesty getting the best of me. “You’ve done everything right.” He has, which makes walking away that much harder, but what’s the point in staying if he doesn’t want to go out with me again?

  Perplexed deepens into true confusion. “But you’re leaving, and that’s so wrong.”

  I now know that Ethan Everest is definitely someone I could fall for if I’m not careful. I can’t fall in love with someone who doesn’t want love in his life. Doesn’t want me. And I must leave before more damage is done. “I need to go. I’m sorry.”

  Tucking his hands in his pockets, he nods. “Can I call you a cab?”

  “I’ll take the subway.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. Thanks.”

  The early evening sunlight filters through the buildings as if seeking him out to shine down on. He carries a small smile on his face and stormy-green eyes that reveal a circle of gray at the moment. Gorgeous. “I enjoyed spending time with you, Singer.”

  “Me too.”

  “Maybe we can hang out again sometime?”

  I take two steps back. “Maybe,” I reply with hesitation. There’s no crime with him being upfront on how he sees us. Thinking back on the last few hours, I did enjoy our time together. “Thanks for today.”

  “Thanks for coming.”

  More steps separate us, but the fun banter continues, “Thanks for inviting me.”

  “Can I ask you a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t google me.”

  I pause, my eyes locked with his. Asking me not to makes me want to more than I did before, but I promise anyway. “I won’t.”

  “Thanks,” he says, sheepish. “Be safe getting home.”

  “I will,” I reply, dashing off.

  He says loud enough for me to hear despite the distance, “I’ll call you.”

  Waving overhead, I keep moving toward the nearest subway station.

  My first thought is that I forgot to ask how he knew my name last year. My second is how’d he get my number? But when I look back at him standing so strong in his stance, I realize I’m okay not having all the answers to this man just yet. Part of me looks forward to unraveling his mysteries, but the other part continues to be wary.

  Why can’t dating ever be easy?

  5

  Singer

  With my head bowed and my hand cupped over my mouth, I whisper into the phone, “First, you don’t come home until after midnight. Second, you avoided all the details. It must have been a great date.”

  Melanie laughs but catches herself and stops. She really does have an asshole of a boss, so she has to be careful about personal calls at work. “I’ll tell you over drinks later. How was your time with the infamous Ethan Everest?”

  “Is he infamous now?”

  “Famous. Infamous . . . both work.”

  “What do you mean famous?”

  “Stop holding back. Cough up the details. I have to go soon.”

  “Fine.” I roll my eyes, but those pesky tingles take over and my excitement bubbles up. I have no idea why I torture myself like this over a guy I won’t have a future with. “Sadly, it was better than any date I’ve been on in a long time. We laughed. We talked a lot. It was fun. Different.”

  “Why sadly then?”

  My bubbles . . . every last one of them pop. “He only wants to be friends. He made it more than clear. He’s on a love embargo, so things were left simmering after the boil of the first few hours.”

  “Oh, honey. Men don’t know what they want. You’ll just have to show him.”

  The door to the break room opens, and I whisper, “I’ve got to go, but text me later?”

  “On it. Bye.”

  “Bye.” I tuck my phone back in my pocket and push the espresso button on the fancy coffeemaker.

  My boss walks into the break room—mid-twenties, manicured beard, and a custom suit I’ve not seen before. Chip Newsome’s suits cost two months’ of my rent. He oh-so-kindly let me know that once when we accidentally bumped together in the elevator after it jolted and my coffee spilled a drop or two on him. He’s not hideous, but he’s definitely not the type I’m attracted to.

  Two things determine his Monday morning mood: if he got laid over the weekend and if his sports team won or lost. He can be a total asshole or a great guy. So I never know what I’m walking into until I’m already knee-deep.

  “Good morning, Singer,” he chirps.

  He got laid
.

  He hands me my freshly brewed espresso and asks, “How was your weekend?”

  His team won.

  “It was good. And yours?”

  “Fantastic! The Red Sox won, and I ran into an old friend. Someone I haven’t seen in a while.”

  I almost giggle. I’ve got him nailed—well, I guess he got himself nailed—but I keep the inside joke to myself, not wanting to ruin his good mood. I also note the order in which he described his weekend—sports before pleasure. “Oh really? That’s great.”

  He pours a cup of coffee and dumps in three packets of sugar along with two creamers. With both of us mesmerized by the stirring of his coffee, offhandedly, I say, “Sounds like a dream girl.”

  “Yeah.” He keeps his eyes on the cup in front of him. “Let’s hope we make it to playoffs.”

  “Yes. The playoffs indeed.” I don’t even know what I’m saying, but men are obsessed with sports, and he’s making me think of Ethan with this sports talk.

  He walks to the door and with his back to me, says, “Make sure you’re ready for the meeting at noon.”

  “Will do,” I reply not as chipper. As I burn holes into his back, I have no idea what meeting he’s so not thoughtfully scheduled at lunchtime. No wonder I’ve lost ten pounds since starting this job last year.

  When I return to my desk, a package sits squarely on top of it. I’m about to take it to Chip’s office since packages that come to this department are for him, but I’m stopped when I see the name on top: Singer Davis.

  My gaze darts to the return address first. It was sent from a store here in the city, but I don’t recognize the name. Grabbing my scissors, I cut the seal. As soon as I lift the flaps, my smile is instant. Inside the box, covered with tissue paper is a navy blue hat with the Astros emblem on the front. Smiling too wide to hide my happiness, I sit down, rest the hat on top of my head, and pull the card out to read:

  Singer,

  Saw this and thought you could use the upgrade.

  See you around,

  Ethan

  I’m not sure what to make of this present, but it makes me smile even bigger than I am already. I text Melanie: I just got a gift from Ethan. A baseball hat.

  She replies: Told you so.

  Me: Nope. Just friends. ‘I can’t practice with you’ = Only friends.