by Aven Ellis
I swear I’ve been pedaling forever.
I glance down.
One minute?
I will never last fifteen minutes.
I feel the resistance increase again.
I’m going to die.
Ugh, my legs are shot!
I’m huffing and puffing.
I’m supposed to do this for two minutes.
I might fall off and die from the physical stress before then.
No. I can’t die. I have a date with Brody tonight!
Brody, with his sexy dirty-blond hair and hot tattoo sleeve.
Brody, who has the most beautiful smile and raspy voice and wears Hermès that smells delicious on his golden skin.
Brody, who loves cereal as much as I do and wants to see me tonight after he plays . . .
I must fight through this. For at least ten minutes.
***
I trudge down the hallway to the apartment. I lived. I’m red-faced and sweaty and my legs are still shaking, but I did it!
I’ve officially taken the first bike ride toward solving my lose-ten-pounds problem. Check it off the list. Mark it down on the calendar. I’m progress in action.
My workbook was right. Setting a goal and taking action—as the author suggested—makes you feel empowered to keep going.
When I unlock the door to my apartment, I find the baseball pregame show is on and Katie is sitting cross-legged on the couch, typing on her laptop with a big book open next to her.
“Do you feel okay? You’re so red,” Katie asks, her dark brown eyes reflecting concern.
“I did it,” I say, putting my phone and wallet down on the kitchen countertop. “I did ten minutes on the bike!”
“That’s great,” Katie encourages. “The first workout is always hard. Just keep at it.”
“Oh, I am,” I say. I open the fridge and sigh. I did a menu plan for the week and tonight is grilled chicken. I’m so over chicken.
But I need to eat it.
Later tonight, I get cereal with Brody, which will make up for everything.
I pop my container into the microwave as Pissy strolls out to greet me.
“Hi, love,” I say, scooping up my grey fluffball and snuggling her to my cheek. “Did you greet Katie today when she came home from school?”
Pissy purrs loudly in my ear, her kitten motor running on high.
“Of course, she did, with a hiss and an arched back,” Katie says, not bothering to look up from her laptop.
I sigh. I don’t know why Pissy hates everyone except for me. I rescued her from the animal shelter in Bethesda, Maryland, where my parents still live, and she bonded with me immediately. Everyone else is public enemy number one in her jade-green eyes.
Katie picks up her highlighter, runs it over a sentence in her book, and looks up at me.
“Brody Jensen,” she says aloud as if she can’t believe it.
My already red face grows hotter at the mere mention of his name.
“Yes?”
“I have wanted to squee all day since you sent me that text. You have a mystery date with Brody freaking Jensen tonight!”
I nuzzle Pissy to my cheek before putting her down on the floor.
“I know! Today was kind of crappy at work, with the we-know-how-to-do-things-so-keep-your-ideas-to-yourself-lecture, but I will figure out a solution to that. Yet Brody made me so happy today, between our coffee conversation, his texts, and then the invitation to go out tonight. I’ve never been so excited to go out with someone. Ever.”
The microwave beeps. I wash my hands and dry them, and then I pick up my mini-grabber oven mitt. I safely retrieve my glass dish filled with chicken, brown rice, and zucchini.
I sit next to Katie on the couch.
“That smells good,” she says.
“Don’t lie. You get to eat leftover spaghetti and Barbara’s amazing sourdough bread, and that is infinitely better,” I say.
“Yes, but I don’t get to eat cereal with a sexy baseball player later tonight. Trade you.”
I grin. “Nope.”
I shift my gaze toward the TV, where they are talking about the pitching match-up for today’s game.
“Did they talk about Brody at all?” I ask, spearing a zucchini with my fork.
“They showed his triple last night that knocked in the game winning run,” Katie explains, going back to her work, “and his magnificent slide into third base.”
My brain turns into a sports highlights show on demand, and I see Brody running around the bases again. How fast he moved. How he slid into third base ahead of the ball and got up, covered in dirt from the field and moving to retrieve his helmet, but not before raking a hand through that thick, dirty-blond hair of his.
I also recall how he threw out that runner, using that powerful arm to rocket the ball to the second baseman with laser precision.
He’s totally badass on the baseball field.
And while that is hot, really hot, I find the man who wanted to know about Earl Grey and asking if I drank cereal milk even sexier.
“I don’t know what to wear tonight,” I say, thinking of my date after the game. “Brody said to dress for the outdoors.”
“I’m dying to know where he’s taking you,” Katie says, lifting her eyes from her screen. “Maybe somewhere like the Lincoln Memorial? Somewhere that is pretty lit up at night?”
“I have no idea, but I do know it’s going to be chilly,” I say, taking a bite of chicken. Ugh. I’m prepared with a closet full of professional clothing, but I have nothing for a date night.
Because I didn’t plan on dating anyone, I muse. I wanted to focus on my career and wait for a professional, thirty-something man to enter my life once I was settled.
Brody has turned my carefully planned world upside down.
Which should terrify me.
Except it doesn’t.
“Maybe my white, off-the-shoulder sweater and Topshop skinny jeans?” I ask, going over everything in my closet. “With my nude ballet flats?”
“That would be cute,” Katie concurs.
With that decided, I finish eating and head into my bathroom. I’m eager to get ready even though I know I have hours until I get to see Brody. I decide to soak in a long, hot bath first, hoping it will help my tired legs. I drop a rose bath bomb into the tub, watching it fizz upon contact, and slip out of my clothes. Then I sink into the fragrant water. Ooh. Nice.
I slide back and rest my head against the back of the tub, closing my eyes and thinking about Brody. I’m taking a chance on him. I know the reason why I am, and that’s because he’s different, in every way, from any man I’ve ever encountered. I open my eyes. I never even considered younger guys because I knew they couldn’t meet the expectations I held. I wanted someone who liked to talk about everything and anything, from what is going on in the world to the newest cereal that has come out. Who truly listened to what I had to say, even if I do go off into stream of consciousness speak, and contributed his own thoughts.
I also wanted to do more than hit the bars and clubs. I wanted someone who thought about their future path and had passion for what they did. Who wasn’t talking ad nauseam about networking and trying to climb the DC ladder. I kept all of them at bay during school, staying wrapped up in my studies and focusing on my life after graduation from Georgetown.
I figured an older man would be ready to have the kind of conversation I craved. He would be done with the weekend bar hopping and shot slamming. He’d be focused and have made his mark and planning for the next chapter in his life, like me. After all, I grew up quickly due to the family dynamic. I took care of myself. I’m ready for a serious, adult relationship. I just assumed after a few years establishing myself, I’d find that mature man to date and see where it went.
But then Brody came along and my instincts tell me he’s the one to take a chance on, to throw away my ideals about not wanting to date a guy his age and to dip into the dating scene. He listened to me. Engaged me. He was f
unny and flirty and so very different from anybody I’d ever met. All of my previously held ideals meant nothing once I started talking to him.
I absently watch the water in the tub, wondering how I feel so sure about taking this chance when I barely know him. We could go out tonight and once our conversation turns more serious, as I hope it does, it could all go downhill. What if we don’t have any other common interests besides cereal?
It could happen. I mean, Brody is a professional baseball player. He has a lifestyle that is foreign to me, and he has had a completely different experience pursuing that dream while I was studying for mine. We grew up on different coasts. He’s athletic. I’m not. There might be more differences than similarities between us.
But is that as bad as I always thought it would be? I used to see it as a problem to avoid. Again, I thought it would be easier to date an older professional. Someone established in a DC office career like me, with a similar education and life experience.
Now that I’ve met Brody, I’ve reassessed my position on this. And as my workbook said, it’s important to take a step back and assess how life experiences can change what you want and need in life.
Maybe our differences aren’t even a problem at all.
I reach for my grapefruit-scented soap and lather it between my hands. I’m overthinking this, I know I am. My whole life I’ve been an over-thinker and a problem-solver, which most of the time, serves me well.
But right now, I don’t want it to cloud my thoughts or take away from the excitement I have for the evening ahead.
I’m going to go out with Brody tonight, so I’ll see where our date takes us.
And in a few hours, I’ll know if he truly is the one I’m supposed to be breaking all my rules for.
Chapter Nine
“I can’t believe I’ve never done this before,” I say in wonder, stopping along the path next to the Tidal Basin, filled with white and pale pink cherry blossom petals at the peak of bloom. “This is breathtaking.”
I gaze up at the canopy of DC’s famous cherry blossom trees, impossibly beautiful in the darkness of night. The delicate flowers surround us, illuminated by the moonlight. I turn and glance at Brody, who is studying the branches with a look of amazement on his face.
“Pictures of the cherry blossoms in bloom don’t do them justice,” Brody says as he stares at the blooms cascading over us. “It’s a thousand times better in person, definitely a bucket list item.”
“I know. It really is something special about DC,” I say. “It’s an even more unique experience at night.”
I still can’t believe I’m standing under these trees with him. He picked me up after the game—it turns out he basically lives right around the corner from me in Arlington—in a beat up, old-school Jeep Wrangler. Not a flashy sports car, not a luxury sedan, not a ridiculously expensive SUV, but a Jeep.
Which tells me some very important things about him. He’s rugged, which I knew from him being a catcher, but this cemented it. The Jeep reveals that he’s not into the image of the athlete with the flashy car. Brody isn’t going to sink a ridiculous amount of money into a vehicle.
Combine all of this with how hot Brody looked while driving his red Jeep—well, let’s just say I swooned a bit.
When Brody drove us through DC, he would only tell me we’d be eating our cereal with a view. Now he’s taken me to the perfect spot, and I couldn’t be happier about his choice. We’re going to dine outdoors, underneath the beautiful blooms, with the water of the Tidal Basin shimmering in the evening night and the majestic view of the Jefferson Memorial across from us. I take in the view surrounding us, once again feeling incredibly blessed to have grown up in this part of America, in a place so rich in history and so important in the world.
“I’m realizing just how special DC is,” he says, his raspy voice interrupting my thoughts.
I look up at him and find Brody staring down at me. A chilly spring breeze sweeps across us, and a few petals fall from the trees overhead. He looks so beautiful standing before me with the petals falling around him. The cedar and citrus scent of his cologne drifts over me. My breath catches in my throat from the fact he’s saying these words while gazing into my eyes.
For once, I don’t speak. I don’t want to hear my own voice or focus on the thoughts in my head.
I simply want to exist in this magical moment with Brody.
“Come this way,” Brody says, moving up onto the grass.
I follow him underneath the trees, where he lays down a thick wool blanket he’s been carrying. I help him straighten it out, and then we both take a seat on it. Brody unzips his backpack, and to my delight, hands me a Fruity Pebbles cereal cup and a spoon.
“For you,” Brody says, smiling at me.
I’m about to melt from how cute he is.
“Thank you,” I say.
Brody reaches back in the bag and pulls out a carton of milk, setting it down next to me as I open my cup.
“This is one of the greatest inventions of all mankind,” I tease. “The portable cereal cup is life changing.”
Brody grins as he opens the top of his Cocoa Krispies cereal cup. “I think I can agree it’s life changing. Cereal is never wrong.”
I pour some milk over my cereal and set the carton back down. I wait for Brody to top his off with milk, and once he does, I pick up my spoon and take a bite, sighing happily as soon as I’ve eaten it.
“Comfort food,” I say happily. “Cereal makes everything better.”
“Do you want to talk about your day?” Brody asks, his light-blue eyes holding steady on mine.
I smile. “I’d rather talk about yours. You had quite the game tonight.”
Brody is about to take a bite of his cereal when he pauses. “You watched my game? Even though it’s painfully boring?”
Crap.
I feel my cheeks grow warm, and I’m grateful for the cover of darkness.
“Well, now that I know you, it’s more interesting,” I say.
Much more interesting.
Brody grins as he takes a bite of his cereal. “Tell me what you saw tonight.”
I laugh. “Is this a test?”
“Perhaps.”
I pause for a moment, mentally reviewing what I saw.
“I won’t explain everything in the right terms.”
“I don’t care.”
I clear my throat. “Okay,” I say, setting my Fruity Pebbles down on the blanket. “You caught a ball from some guy way in the outfield, and the Owls player tried to run you over but you got him out.”
Brody laughs. “Yes, I did tag him out, and the throw was from AJ Williamson, our centerfielder.”
Ah! AJ, the player Katie thinks is hot, I muse. Katie must have missed that when she locked herself in her room to study.
But I keep Katie’s secret and continue.
“If you say so. I won’t know if you are lying or not, but I’m going to trust you here,” I tease.
“I promise, you can trust me,” he says.
I do, I think, staring into the face I’m getting to know. I do trust you.
“You also scored,” I say proudly, remembering when Brody ran across home plate.
“Very good,” Brody says, smiling. Then his expression grows serious. “How many hits did I have tonight?”
“You had two,” I say.
“You did watch the game. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you,” I say, picking my cup of cereal back up. “So do you get sore when someone runs into you like that?”
“Yeah,” Brody says. “That one wasn’t so bad, but I had a guy hit me illegally when I was with Miami last year. They have rules to protect catchers, because we’re vulnerable in that position. I had a base runner go off the path to purposefully knock the shit out of me. I got hurt because of it.”
I gasp. “How bad were you hurt?”
“Bruised thigh,” Brody explains. “I left the game.”
I wince. “I always thought baseba
ll was the safe sport,” I say.
“All sports have risks,” Brody says, “but that’s what makes them fun.”
“I’m not a risk-taker,” I admit.
“I don’t know about that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Checking for panty lines in public is kind of risky.”
My face begins raging red-hot, and for once in my life, I’m at a loss for a comeback.
“I’m sorry, I keep doing this to you,” Brody says quickly. “I’ll stop now.”
I laugh. “It’s okay. You speak the truth. That was a risky move.”
“See? You take risks.”
“I guess I do. I feel rather proud of myself.” I put my cereal cup aside, as the excited feeling in my stomach is making it hard to eat.
I notice Brody does the same. I wonder if he’s as excited and as anxious as I am to get to know me like I want to know him.
He leans back on his arms, looking up at the branches of blossoms filling the sky above us.
“Did you ever lay under the Christmas tree as a little kid?” he asks. “And stare up at all the lights and ornaments filling the tree?”
“Oh, yes,” I say, filled with the memory. “I would creep downstairs late at night, move the presents aside, and look up at all the twinkling white lights. That was magical.”
“I always wanted to do that,” Brody admits.
“You didn’t?”
Brody is quiet for a moment.
“We never had a Christmas tree,” he says softly. “My parents thought the concept had become too materialistic, with elaborate lights and expensive ornaments, so they refused to put one up. They also didn’t like the idea of cutting down a tree in celebration.”
I furrow my brow. I get the impression Brody grew up in a very different household than mine. My mother actually flew in a seasonal decorator from Seattle last year to create a Colonial Williamsburg feeling in our Maryland home.
“You’ve never decorated a Christmas tree?” I ask.
“No, I never have,” he says slowly. “Guess I missed out on that part of childhood.”
“Lie back,” I say.
Brody looks quizzically at me. “What?”