by Willow Aster
I’ve never been on the back of a motorcycle. I’ve never had any desire to be. But when Ian and I ride through the steep, winding streets, I understand the appeal. Having an excuse to hold onto Ian is liberating; at first, I uncomfortably wrap my arms around his waist, but when we go flying around the corners and up and down hill after hill, I lean into him and hold on with all I’ve got. I love it.
We pull up to a stop sign, and Ian looks down at my legs and sees chill bumps. He rubs his hands together and then over my legs to try to warm me up. It just makes my chill bumps hot, but doesn’t actually make them go away.
“Let’s get you warm,” he says before taking off again.
We drive to Fillmore Street and park in front of Peet’s, home of my favorite coffee. He gets off first, still holding the bike up and watches as I hurriedly yank my dress down, grinning mischievously all the while. Either this man is seriously happy or there is something about me that cracks him up. I have a feeling it’s the latter and if I didn’t feel so happy myself, I’d want to put him in his place a bit more.
“Let’s check out this…” He’s stops mid-sentence, mouth slightly ajar, as I take the helmet off and shake my hair out.
“What? Is it bad?” I try to finger through my hair, smoothing out the tangles.
He clears his throat. “Uh, no. Not bad. At all.”
He looks unsure of what to do. For a minute, I think he’s going to take my hand, but he pauses and puts his hand on my back. The thought that he is withholding affection leaves me divided. I’m relieved because I know now more than ever that I have to settle things with Michael for good. There can’t be any question whether we’re together or not. Time won’t make me care more for him than I do now.
However … the ache that takes over my body from Ian’s caution becomes a weight the longer I’m around him. My hands crave him.
Instead of going to Peet’s, Ian leads me down the street to a cute boutique.
“Let me buy you something.”
“No!” I shake my head and look at him to make sure he’s listening. “You don’t need to buy me anything.”
“You were freezing on the bike. And I just … want to get you something,” he says, ducking his head onto my shoulder for the briefest second. He holds up a pair of wicked jeans. “Will you think of me every time you wear these?”
The jeans are fabulous. I’m swayed for a moment. “They’re great. But no! You don’t need to spend money on me.”
“I’m going to keep you warm. You may as well get the right sizes because we are leaving here with an outfit.” He rubs his hands up and down my arms. “See? You’re still chilly. And I don’t want to take you back to the house. Please. Unless you want to go back?”
“No … I don’t. But…”
“Okay, it’s settled. Will these fit?” He hands me the jeans and when I try to look at the price tag, he rips it off.
My mouth drops open. He laughs and lifts my jaw with the back of his hand. He picks up a fitted long sleeve shirt and holds it up to me.
“Yep, you are dangerous in red.”
“It’s really low.”
“I know.”
“You’re a sneaky one.” I accuse him.
“You’re a smart one.”
So far, he always has the last word. I kinda like it.
“Do you see something else you’d like to try?” He asks politely, attempting to look innocent and failing.
I’m not much of a shopper—I think we may have already established this, but when I have a day with Ian Sterling, I really don’t want to waste time shopping.
I shake my head and go into the fitting room. The jeans fit like a dream. I didn’t even know I had this booty. My legs look miles long. And well … the top … I’m speechless. This shirt makes me look like a sexpot. I have NEVER … I don’t know if I can do this.
I make one more attempt to adjust my cleavage and glance back in the mirror. My hair almost reaches the waist of my jeans and it’s holding up fairly well, considering the windy ride. I don’t quite recognize myself, but it’s a GOOD THING. Folding my dress, I take a deep breath and step out.
I hear him before I see him. He curses under his breath.
I turn around and raise an eyebrow. Do you like? My eyes ask.
“Hell, YES,” he says out loud.
He won’t even let me properly thank him, much less pay for any of it. I thank him anyway and he says, “No, thank you.”
We walk outside and I’m warm from the inside out now. Ian is quiet, but doesn’t take his eyes off of me. It’s disconcerting. He points to Peet’s when we get back to the bike. I nod and think this is the best day I’ve ever had.
As we drink our warm drinks, we sit and watch each other. Once I realize he’s not expecting me to say anything, I relax and stare back at him. So much is being said without a single word. I’m not sure how much time passes; at least long enough for both of us to finish our coffee/mocha.
Finally Ian breaks the silence. “What are you doing to me, Sparrow Fisher?” He says it completely serious.
I don’t know what to say. How do you answer that?
I’m not sure why or how the mood shifted, but it’s less playful and a dozen notches more intense when I climb onto the back of the bike this time. When I wrap my arms around his chest, he puts his hands on top of mine and holds them there.
He turns his head and says, “You up for a little adventure?”
“I’m up for anything.”
When we’re going up, up, up, I lay my head on Ian’s back and close my eyes. The bike finally levels out and when I open my eyes, we are at the top of Lombard Street, the crooked, brick street with eight hairpin turns in one block. I gulp.
“Do you trust me?” he asks over his shoulder.
“I think?”
He shakes his head. “Wise woman.”
“Let’s do it,” I say.
I’m a bit terrified as we pull around and get behind a couple of cars to go down the steep street. The view at the top is one that would be easy to take for granted when you’re used to seeing it all the time. There are almost too many scenic views to soak them all in, but we both fill our lungs with air and do our best. The billowy clouds are close enough to touch. Coit Tower is in the distance and the Golden Gate Bridge is way past that. I think I might even see Alcatraz.
When it’s our turn to make the gradual decline, I’m not scared, even though the bike feels like it could tip forward if we aren’t careful. We lean with each turn, laughing all the way down. At the bottom, Ian pulls over and we look back up the street.
“Let’s do it again!” I yell.
And so we do.
We’re headed back across town, closer to the water. It takes a while. We go the long way, taking detours to see the prettiest spots. We both know the city pretty well and keep thinking of one more place to drive past. Dusk is settling in and the lights are beginning to twinkle like thousands of lightning bugs. It’s becoming more and more enchanting with each further dip into twilight.
A twinge of remorse about Michael squeezes my gut as we near the wharf, but I try to shrug it off. We drive past the touristy areas and cross the highway into the land of the houseboats. I’ve always been intrigued by the thought of living on the water. I think I could do it.
Ian comes to a stop outside a quaint sushi place. “Do you like sushi? This place is great.”
“I love it.”
“Are you hungry yet?”
“I can pretty much always eat.”
His lips lift in his adorable grin. He turns off the bike and just sits there a moment with my arms around him. I realize I have to let go if he’s going to get off and so I reluctantly move my arms to my sides. He looks back at me, and I wish I knew what he was thinking. He’s gone all contemplative on me since the boutique.
We order like we haven’t eaten in a week, even though we both did damage to the steak at the Roberts’ house.
“So tell me something no one knows a
bout you,” Ian says.
“Hmm. Well, very few people know that I have a selective smeller. My nose has never worked properly. I’ve never even smelled a skunk. No one ever believes me when I tell them that, so I’ve given up talking about it. They will be holding their noses and gagging and I will do a heavy SNIFF and nada. Not even a faint whiff. But then, I can smell some things. Just here and there and enough to make me think it does work … until I go to describe the smell and realize I don’t have a clue—I can’t even begin to make a sensory comparison. So it’s usually a dumb reference. Like, that smells … good?”
He stares at me for a moment before letting out a huge laugh. “I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth. You’ve seriously NEVER smelled a skunk?”
“Never.”
“Crazy!”
“I know!”
Ian clears his throat. “Can I ask about your writing?”
“Sure.”
“What do you enjoy writing?”
“Well … I enjoy writing about simple things, really, but in a funny, honest way. I’m not too flowery or even deep. I mean … I can go there, but it’s most fun to put a twist on an every day subject. Or to write a love story that has real, flawed characters. I don’t like things to be wrapped up with a bright red bow. Life isn’t that way.”
He nods his head. “I know what you mean. Is it hard to write that way? Not everyone likes to hear the truth.”
“Yes,” I’m surprised that he gets right to the root of things. “This is a topic I think about often, especially with all the conservative people in my life. I don’t want to upset anyone, but I can only seem to spew out honesty.”
He lets out a choked laugh, mid-sushi bite. “How can that be wrong?”
“Oh, there are many, many ways,” I sigh. “I’m not published yet … but I’m trying to prepare my family that they might not like it when I am.”
“Never hesitate to tell the truth. It’s the only way it will be any good.”
After a brief pause, I think about how easy it is to open up to him. My writing is a topic I’m not comfortable delving into with just anyone. There’s something about him; he seems to pull all the vulnerabilities right out of me. It’s actually freeing to be this exposed.
“What about you? What is your writing process like?”
He sighs. “I have to fight to write an honest song. There’s a lot of fluff out there and the public seems to eat that up. I think my mission is to challenge listeners—I’ll never be satisfied to whip out a tune just for the sake of creating a hit. A good song has to be something that evolves, something that is birthed from an emotion, an idea … an emptiness that needs filling. And it’s not enough to just write it all at once and be done with it. I work and rework lyrics the way you probably do when you’re writing a story.”
“You’re so intense,” I tease.
“Ha. You … you’re … you’re one to talk.” He points at me and shakes his head. “You’re making me stutter like a schoolboy.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever stuttered in your life. And you’re like an overgrown schoolboy … so … I don’t think it’s me…” I laugh.
By the time we’ve finished every bite of food—seriously, how did we put all of that away?—I feel like I can tell him anything. While we wait for the check, Ian leans his chin on his hand and watches me.
“What?”
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he says.
“I’ve never met anyone like you either,” I reply.
“Yeah, but I suck and you’re wonderful,” he says without an ounce of irony.
I snort. “Nooo.”
“It’s true.”
“You barely know me,” I say.
“I know enough. You are … carefree, smart, really funny … honest.”
My new low-cut blouse is not helping cover the splotches that are taking over my neck. It’s my curse. I can’t handle all this praise. We thank the waitress as she takes our plates and leaves the bill.
He leans in even further. “And you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Okay, now my entire body is one enormous blotch. Color me red.
He points at my neck. “Keep that up, and I will have my way with every single one of those little blushes. I can’t be trusted.”
I’m not sure how long we’re there; both of us are so deeply in this conversation. I vaguely recall hearing Ian’s phone go off several times, but since he’s ignoring it, I do too. Finally, it lets off a continuous buzz. I guess someone really wants to get in touch with him.
He takes a look at it. “Sorry, I should take this, I guess. This is one aspect of cell phones I don’t like,” he whispers as he answers the phone.
“Hey … yeah. What? (Pause) (Sigh) Ask when they’re ready to go and I’ll have her back by then, how about that? (He smiles at me, eyebrows raised. I smile back in agreement) (Long pause) (Another sigh) God, Laila, relax. I’ll get her there. (Silence) I said I’ll get her there!”
He hangs up and frowns. “I think your parents are fine. I don’t know why Laila’s in such a snit. We’ll meet them at Caffé Greco and get dessert, if you’d like.”
“Sure. If I can fit in another bite of anything by then. Aren’t you full? This was so good.”
“Yes, it was. I think I would be saying that even if the food tasted like shit, though.”
I giggle.
“Your company, Miss Fisher … it is exceptional.”
I don’t even have to think about what to say to that because he stands up, holds out his hand and I take it. I would go wherever he wanted me to go.
The Roberts and my parents are sitting at a cute table outside with their lattes and cheesecakes when we pull up. My mom gets a look at my outfit and her eyes widen, but she doesn’t say anything. I’ll hear about it for the next couple months, I’m sure.
Ian and I are going inside to order when Laila grabs Ian’s arm and pulls him aside. They stay outside and I go in to order tiramisu. Who am I kidding? I can always eat. I glance out the window and watch Laila and Ian for a moment. She is doing the talking, and he is running his hands through his hair. They both look angry to me, but maybe I’m imagining it.
I step outside with coffee in one hand and my dessert in the other. Trying not to look Laila and Ian’s way, I sit down at the table closest to my parents. Mmm, tiramisu…
Ian walks away from Laila and walks inside. The waitress lights up when she sees him. My eyes narrow when she laughs at something he says. He turns and sees me watching him, and he turns back around and tugs his hair again.
Ian comes back out with coffee and stands while drinking it, looking down the street. He doesn’t look at me and if I didn’t know better, I’d think I had done something to make him mad.
“Would you like to try some of this? It’s delicious…” I hold my plate up and he glances over for a second before turning away.
“No … thanks.” His voice is flat.
Ian takes a couple more slugs of coffee and sets it down on my table. He bends down and looks at every inch of my face, almost as if he is memorizing it.
“Thank you for a spectacular day, Sparrow Fisher.”
“Thank you, Ian Sterling.”
He stands up, says his goodbyes to everyone, hops on his motorcycle and rides off into the night.
What happened? My heart starts pounding, and I am horrified when my eyes threaten to well up. I don’t DO the crying thing.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
I guess every perfect day has to come to an end.
- 5 -
Michael’s call wakes me up early the next morning. I barely slept. Scenes from the day ran around all night in my head, making sleep impossible. I lean up on my elbows and croak out a hello.
Michael is all sweetness and charm … until he asks what I’ve been doing, and I tell him I was in San Francisco yesterday with the Roberts … and Ian. He gets really quiet and then says he has to go.
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I fall back to sleep and dream about opening that wooden door. Ian is standing on the other side. It doesn’t open into the Roberts’ living room, but into the entryway of my house. The rest of the dream blurs into mush.
My mom comes in a couple hours later. She sits on the side of the bed and wants to know all about my time with Ian. I tell her the details—how much fun we had and how easy it was to be with him. It helps ease the despair I can’t shake, for at least a full minute, and then I’m back to thinking about how he left. Why did he suddenly go glacial on me?
I’m grateful that Charlie doesn’t try to convince me of all Michael’s wonderful attributes, but listens and seems excited in all the right places when I tell her about Ian. Perhaps the fact that he is famous gives me a free pass to have a date when I’m not fully broken up with my boyfriend/wannabe fiancé. Or maybe she took a genuine liking to him. I don’t mention how weird the end of the night was, and she doesn’t say anything about it either. I’m not sure she even noticed, since she didn’t see firsthand how we were with each other the rest of the day.
The sky is as grey as my funk. I have a hard time focusing on anything. I go through my desk drawers, organize what’s left of my closet, try to read a little, watch a movie … anything to distract me from thinking of any males whatsoever. I need a break from all of them.
My attempts don’t really work. My brain is on the menu setting of a DVD where it plays an endless circle of clips. My parents have always said I have a one-track mind. It’s another curse. Sparrow One-Track Splotchalot.
The sun barely sets and I’m already wishing for my bed. The stress of the week and the topsy-turvy day with Ian has left me exhausted. I shower and am just putting on my favorite sweats and t-shirt when I hear the doorbell ring. I don’t give it much thought until I hear Michael’s voice.
“Sparrow?” My mom knocks on my door and walks in. “Michael’s here,” she whispers.
I sit down on the bed and pull my wet hair on top of my head, securing it with a ponytail holder. “Send him up,” I sigh.
“He’s a wreck. Be gentle with him.”