And with my jaw hanging, I stared off toward the bar and watched the bartender, with his beard and ratty hair, stuff a towel inside a glass. Drying it. Making it sparkle. I stared at him performing this mundane task, and a revelation kicked in: “Well, feck … I think that was my moment.”
Lindsey clapped her hands excitedly, a pretty grin gracing her face. “I told you! Everybody has one!”
Then her enthusiasm faded, and her eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute … You said you were eighteen? And you’re thirty-one now?” I nodded. “That means you’re two years older than me, which means when you were eighteen, I was sixteen.”
“Lindsey,” I said, using her name for the first time. I enjoyed its taste on my tongue. I wondered if I’d enjoy the taste of other parts of her just as much. “I graduated Valedictorian at my high school. Simple math isn’t somethin’ I struggle with,” and I laughed, my cheeks flaming at the minor brag toward my intelligence.
“You graduated Valedictorian, and you’re selling mattresses?”
“I’m smart,” I said, pointing a finger at her, “but bein’ smart doesn’t automatically entail that I have grandiose dreams of becoming the next Einstein or sending rockets into space.”
“Touché,” she said with a smile.
“Anyway, as I was saying, if you were eighteen and I was sixteen, that means our moments happened in the same year. We’ve both been playing it safe, for our parents, for the same amount of time.”
And I drifted from the conversation to the song playing through the speakers: “The Sweetest Thing” by U2. The band from the homeland, singing about blue-eyed boys meeting brown-eyed girls and giving me the sensation of being in the setting of a 90’s chick flick. John Cusack was about to rush in at any moment and sweep Sandra Bullock off her feet, and I just sat in that booth, wondering if this was my Patrick & Kinsey moment. The moment I had envied, the moment I had coveted.
Lindsey’s eyes lit up the dim tavern. “I have an idea,” she stated, and without warning, she grabbed my hands between hers. The entire core of my being shook at how impossibly soft and warm her hands felt around mine, how small they looked in comparison. “Jack gave me the week to get out of his house, bless his cheating heart. So, what if you and I spent the next week doing something we’ve never done as adults?”
“W-what would that be?” Because sex certainly didn’t seem to fit that bill, but I was willing to feign the virgin if it would get her to sleep with me continuously for a feckin’ week.
Caution. Be. Damned.
“Living, Sean! Like, really living. You know, doing things we’ve avoided because they were risky. Doing crazy, stupid things just for the hell of it.”
I frowned, slowly shaking my head. “I don’t know …”
Her hands squeezed around mine and I lifted my head, looking into her eyes. “Sean, for fuck’s sake, you haven’t eaten ice cream in six years because you’re afraid your tummy will hurt.”
“Yeah, but I have to work, and—”
“Take off,” she blurted out, and bit her lip with hopeful optimism. “Come on. Please?”
Take off work? When was the last time I took off work? Patrick’s rehearsal dinner, maybe, and that had been a couple of years ago already. Even when I was sick, I came into work with a can of Lysol and zinc tablets to keep myself going and hopefully back to healthy in a couple days. Work was safe, work was routine. To take off on a whim seemed horrendously reckless and insane, and for how long? The week? I couldn’t do that. No way I could do that. Not when I had mattresses to sell, furniture to polish …
“I see the gears in your head turning, Sean Kinney. You’re trying to find every reason not to do it, and I know there are so many of them. You hardly know me, and we just met, and I’m asking you to go outside your little bubble to spend a week doing shit with me, but …” She pulled her hands away, and with them on the table, she picked away at her fingernails. Nervous. Asking this of me was stepping outside of her comfort zone. She had probably never asked a total stranger for a thing in her entire life, and certainly not something like this. “But I think I need this, you know? I think I need to spend a little while doing things for me, and I don’t think I could do it alone. I mean, what if this is the last chance for us to finally get to do the things we want to do?”
And with a deep breath, I released the heavy sigh that weighed me down. I sent my rules and inhibitions into the air, and I said, “Okay.” Because, despite the possibilities seeming dangerous and uncertain, how could I possibly say no to her?
I couldn’t. Not when she was talking about last chances, because really, what if it was?
❧
“So, Sean, what would you do if you weren’t afraid?”
Lindsey sat beside me on a bench outside of The Ol’ Tavern under a flickering lamppost. Our thighs and knees touched in a comfortable, platonic sort of way. I looked up to the sky, all sunset and beautiful, considering her question. What would I do if I wasn’t afraid? I had never thought about that. Apprehension had been such a way of life for too many years to wonder what I would’ve done had I lost all sense of fear.
“I have no idea,” I replied honestly, with a chuckle and a hand against the back of my neck.
“Start small,” she said gently, nudging my shoulder with her hand. “It could be anything … Like, jaywalking.”
“Jaywalking?” I laughed. “Whoa, really livin’ on the edge there.”
“Hey,” she said, and giggled. “For all I know, you’ve had this deep-seated fear of jaywalking, and that’s the one thing that you’re just itching to do.”
“Did I mention my brother’s a cop?” I raised a brow and my wrists. “He’d have the cuffs slapped on so feckin’ fast, just because he can.”
Lindsey threw her head back, sending a laugh up into the sunset-pink sky. I didn’t think what I had said was particularly funny, but I grinned nonetheless. I liked her laugh, boisterous and slightly edging on the brink of obnoxious. I could grow to love a laugh like that, I thought. The type of laugh that could always make me smile, encouraging me to do something, anything to hear it again and again.
“Your brother wouldn’t arrest you,” she protested, but when my smile faded, her eyes widened. “Oh, you’re serious?”
“Ehm, well, maybe not for jaywalking, but he’s arrested Ryan.”
“Wow … You’ll have to tell me that story.”
I shrugged. “Not much to tell. He was caught smokin’ weed right over there in the park. I don’t think Paddy would’ve arrested him, if he wasn’t with his partner, but at the time, he was under obligation to do the right thing.”
“Wow,” she said again. “That’s kind of shitty.”
“Yeah, well … Ryan put him in an awkward position too. He shouldn’t have been smokin’ in broad daylight. And then he refused to comply with an officer, just because that officer happened to be his brother.” I shrugged, looking out toward the park. The William Fuller statue seemed to wink at me, and I resisted the powerful urge to shudder. “Patrick was doin’ his job. Ryan was just bein’ an idiot.”
Lindsey nodded. “Fair enough. And you didn’t answer my question.”
Right. The what would I do question. My eyes wandered around the town square, taking in the mom and pop shops. The diner. The bakery. The delicatessen my sister-in-law owned.
And then, there was the ice cream shop.
A Dash of Sprinkles, the location for the Sunday treat when I was a kid, had been renovated and renamed, and now stood as The Polar Vortex. I hardly recognized its shining, electric exterior, but they still served ice cream. The sign said so, and I nodded with my decision made.
“I want to get ice cream,” I said. So determined, it disturbed me.
“Lactose intolerance be damned!” Lindsey shouted, jumping from the bench and pulling me by the arm. “God Sean, I’m impressed. I thought you’d pick something insignificant, but you went straight for home plate.”
I laughed. “Well, I figured if I’m goi
ng to put myself out there and ultimately die this week, I wouldn’t want to go to Heaven without havin’ ice cream one more time, ya know?”
Lindsey rolled her eyes up to me. “Oh, please. We both know there’s ice cream in Heaven.”
“And the clouds are made of cotton candy, right?” I jabbed with a smirk.
“Sean,” she said, suddenly serious. “It’s Heaven. Not Willy Wonka’s candy factory.”
“Ah, my mistake.” And I wondered if it was possible to smile too much.
We walked across the street together, arms linked. I felt like a million dollars, heading toward that door with the prettiest girl in town. The eighteen-year-old virgin me would have died, I thought with a smile, as we pushed through the door of the ice cream parlor. A kid I barely recognized stood behind the counter in some futuristic-looking t-shirt and a pair of reflective pants.
A real-life Jetson.
“Welcome to the Polar Vortex!” he exclaimed, putting too much emphasis on Polar and Vortex, like he were a movie announcer and I cringed. “Are you ready for the future of ice cream?”
“Yes!” Lindsey exclaimed, jumping headfirst into this whole living business, and I shrugged and said, “I, ehm … I really just want an ice cream cone.”
“Well sir, you are in luck. My name’s Chip, and I am here to cater to all of your ice cream cone needs. Let’s start with the basics, shall we?”
Chip rubbed his hands together like he were about to perform some crazy magic trick, perhaps with the rows of toppings, and I stuffed my hands into my pockets, glancing to Lindsey for reassurance. But she only stared, face full of child-like glee, and I hoped for her sake that this guy was going to make those sprinkles and gummi bears dance the feckin’ Nutcracker Suite.
“What flavor cone would you like?” Chip asked, gesturing with grandeur toward the double-stacked rack of cones.
Yep. Officially in over my head. “Uh … Regular cone flavor?”
Chip’s eyes grew to the size of baseballs and he blinked. Slowly. “Regular … cone … flavor?” he asked, as though the concept was something completely unheard of in the galaxy he came from. “Um, well, we do have your traditional sugar cone, although could I interest you in Birthday Bash? Or perhaps Razzmatazz Raspberry?”
“Sugar cone is fine.”
“What about, um, Va-Va-Vanilla? You seem like a vanilla type of—”
“Sugar cone. Just a sugar cone.” I sighed and glanced down to Lindsey, who had resorted to biting her lip in an attempt to keep from laughing. “This isn’t funny,” I growled, teasing.
“It’s a little funny,” she reasoned, bumping my arm with her shoulder.
I was about to disagree when Chip looked over the counter, cone in hand, and said, “We have 79 different flavors of ice cream, sorbet, and frozen yogurt. Which would you like?”
“Ice cream?”
“Great! That brings us down to 57 flavors. Do you have anything in mind? We have Madagascar Vanilla Dream, Chocaholic Delight, Boysenberry Brittle, Holy Hot Tamale, Rum-a-Tum Punch …”
“I, uh …” Oh God, this was too much. I glanced toward the door, and Lindsey tugged at my arm.
“Come on. You’re being a brave boy, remember?” she teased with a smile, and I sighed with a roll of my eyes and turned back to Chip.
“Do you have just plain vanilla?” I shrugged, surveying the limitless amount of flavors laid out in front of me.
“Are you sure sir? Because we have the Madagascar Vanilla Dream, like I mentioned, as well as Vanilla Vision, Mean Vanilla Bean, Vanilla Vortex—my personal favorite—”
“Please,” I interrupted. “Just, vanilla. Soft serve, if you have it, and nothing on it.”
“Oh, Sean …” Lindsey sighed, shaking her head. “Come on, do something a little different and not so, um …”
“Boring?” Chip offered with a shrug.
I lowered my brows at him. “Watch it, Chip.” He diverted his gaze. Smart guy.
Then I turned to Lindsey, and resigned myself to the inevitable. “Okay, how about you pick for me?”
Her jaw dropped. “Wow, that’s really brave. You mean it?”
“Yeah,” and I nodded while my intestines knotted around the terror of possibility.
“You have to wait outside then,” she said, poking me with one long finger straight between my ribs.
It took everything to groan and shuffle out of there, leaving the fate of my dairy-hating gut in the hands of a beautiful stranger. But I did it, and with my back to the window, I prayed she would be gentle and kind.
“Uncle Sean!”
Seeing someone I knew was a pretty frequent risk, living in such a small town, and I turned, knowing the voice belonged to none other than my niece Meghan. I smiled, relaxing at the sight of her and enjoying the feel of her arms around my waist. I looked up to see my brother’s ex-wife, and I smiled politely.
“Christine,” I said with a welcoming nod, and she returned the gesture.
“Good to see you Sean,” she said. “How are things?”
“Good thanks. You?” I asked, continuing with the mandatory pleasantries.
She smiled. “Great, actually.”
“Mom has a boyfriend,” Meghan tattled, and Christine shot her daughter a wide-eyed glare, and I just laughed.
“Hey, good for you Christine,” I said with a warm smile. “Really, I’m happy for you.”
Divorce was a weird thing, I realized, looking at my former sister-in-law. This woman had once been a part of my family, happily or not. We shared holidays, dinners, some semblance of a relationship. I had seen her breasts for crying out loud, in the most non-sexual situation imaginable, during a time when she struggled to get Meghan to latch on. Now here we were, small-talking, and sharing the obligatory smile on the sidewalk, as though none of that had ever happened. And when had that change happened? Was it the day Patrick had announced he was done and in the process of divorcing her? Just like that?
“Thanks Sean,” she replied, and her smile was shy. Perhaps afraid for me to know that she had moved on from my brother, as though I might have wished for her to pine over him forever while he remarried and had children with another woman.
“Yeah, of—” And it was at that moment that Lindsey walked out of The Polar Vortex with an ice cream cone in each hand. She handed one to me: some ridiculous abomination of a thing, with colorful candies sprinkled over the top like a kindergartener’s art project. I stared at the monstrosity, unsure of what to even do with it, let alone how the feck to eat it.
“What the hell is this?” I asked her, completely ignoring my niece and her mother.
“It’s their Pot O’ Gold Cone,” she said with a laugh. “Seemed appropriate.”
“Ha-ha,” I grumbled, catching the curious look in Meghan’s eyes. “Meg, this is my friend Lindsey. Lindsey, my niece Meghan and her mother Christine.”
Lindsey smiled with a shy wave and a quiet “hello.” Meghan cocked her head, long red hair cascading over one shoulder. She smiled, taking the blonde in and asked, “Are you on a date?”
“Oh Lord,” Christine groaned, smiling apologetically at us. “Meg, we have to meet up with Seth. Tell Uncle Sean you’ll see him in a few days, okay?”
“We’re celebrating your birthday this week, right?” I asked her, still keeping my eyes on the cone in my hand. Scrutinizing and sizing it up.
“Yep!”
“Great. I’ll see ya then, kiddo.”
Meghan turned to Lindsey and asked, “Will you be there too? You could teach my dad how to do that braid. I like it.”
Lindsey fingered the end of her long braid and smiled. “It’s called a fishtail braid, and if I’m … around, I’d love to teach him.”
Satisfied with the reply, Meghan and her mom left us with hugs and friendly smiles, and I turned my attention entirely to the cone in my hand. Lindsey was already diving into hers, smiling up at me between bites.
“She’s sweet,” she mentioned, and I nodded. “Was that your b
rother’s ex-wife?”
“The very one.”
“She doesn’t seem too terrible,” she said before taking a bite of her cone.
I shook my head. “Nah. I mean, it was messed up what she had done—she lied to him about being on birth control,” I divulged, and then shrugged. “But ya know, nobody was completely innocent. And their marriage sucked, but I guess she was just as trapped as he was, so …” I shrugged again, and Lindsey eyed me with a thoughtful gaze.
“You’re a really nice guy, Sean Kinney,” she said quietly. “And hey, I’m sorry about the, um, birthday thing. I didn’t know how to let her down, so I—”
“You can come if you want,” I blurted out, the words moving faster than my brain could think, unable to remind myself of all the reasons why I shouldn’t invite her.
“Really?” she asked, startled.
“Yeah, but I mean, only if you want to. Presuming you can get through a few days without hating me first.”
She smiled. “I’m already pretty sure that isn’t possible. And by the way, it’s soy.”
“Soy?”
She tipped her chin toward my hand, and feckin’ hell, I had forgotten all about the Pot O’ Gold. The ice cream had begun to melt a little, running over the sugar cone and down to my fingers. With haste, I licked my tongue over the rough and creamy surface of the cone, catching those runaway drops.
“Oh, hell, that’s feckin’ amazin’.” My eyes might have rolled back just a bit before I fixed my gaze back on her. “What did you say was soy?”
Lindsey giggled, and the lust flickering within her eyes was unmistakable. “The ice cream.”
“Get the hell out,” I said, and licked again.
“Chip said it was the future of ice cream, even though it’s been around forever in the grocery stores, but I didn’t bother rubbing it in his face or anything. I just thought you’d appreciate having dairy-free ice cream, and now, your precious belly can enjoy without fear,” she said, patting my stomach without the slightest hint of reluctance.
Last Chance to Fall Page 4