Can I See You Again? (15 page)

“Go on.” He laughs.

I wrap my ponytail into a tight bun, stuff the hem of my top into my capris—which is not my best look—suck in my stomach, tuck my tailbone, and squeeze my shoulder blades.

Last obstacle. Beer at the end. For Jo, for the book, for the house.

I slink between a couple of wires. No shock. Relief surges through my body. I slip through a couple more. Nothing.

I glance back at Nixon. “Hey, you're right. This isn't so bad.”

“Told you.”

A breeze kicks up.

The wires sway.

My elbow is zapped.

“Aagh!” I jerk away from one cable only to throw myself into another. A sharp pain zings deep inside my thigh. “Ouch!” Another strikes my belly.
Help! Help!
I'm being attacked!

The smart thing is to remain calm, take a moment and settle, then tiptoe my way toward my celebratory beer and laugh,
Ha-ha, that was close
. But as a cable sparks my ass, I panic and bounce from one hot wire to another, flailing through the obstacle like a fish trapped in a net.

I'm going to die. Die!

Nixon dashes toward me. He grabs my hand and presses it against his back. “Stay behind me.”

I clutch his shoulder with my other hand.

Nixon shields me with his body. We plow through the wires, passing other runners dropped to the mud in agony. But, like a friggin' bad-ass, Nixon doesn't stop, even though, every few feet, his body flinches and his neck muscles bulge.

I'm no longer getting tagged, but there's a spark firing up my arm from Nixon clasping my hand. My gaze is on the finish line, but my focus is on his fingers, laced within mine . . . wondering why it feels so
right
.

We reach the other side and cross through the final arch.

Victory.

We're handed orange headbands with T
OUGH
M
UDDER
embroidered in black.

Nixon snatches mine and slides it onto my forehead. “You did it.” He grabs two beers and we cheer.

“I did it.” Not gonna lie, I feel damn good about myself. Sure, my Nike seventy-dollar Dri-Fit shirt is snagged from the barbed wire, chunks of ice from the Arctic Enema are still frozen between my boobs, my knee caps and elbows are bloody and bruised, I nearly died from electrocution, and I'll be sore as shit tomorrow, but right now, I feel great.

“Over here,” Candace calls us over. “My goodness, you two are quite a sight.”

Dried mud cakes my biceps and thighs. My calves and shoulders are scraped and scratched as if someone dragged me through the bushland. Ah . . . who cares. I sip my beer. I'm a freakin' Tough Mudder.

“Congratulations,” Randi says.

“Shoot.” Candace shakes her head while reading a message on her phone.

“Something wrong?” Randi asks.

“Scotty just texted me. There's a broken-down semitruck slowing traffic on I-5. He's not going to make it and he's got the camera.”

I'd forgotten all about the picture.

“Use your phone and e-mail me a photo, otherwise we'll never make deadline.” Candace reads Scotty's message aloud. “Well, I've no other choice.” She points at us. “Stay right where you are, with the Tough Mudder sign in the background.” She snaps the picture before I have the chance to block Nixon's face with my beer.

“No pictures, remember?” Nixon warns in my ear.

“Um . . . Candace? Mind if I take a peek at the photo? You know us girls, always want to make sure we look okay.”

“You look fine, a little dirty, but fine.”

“Let me see.” I nearly rip the phone from her hand. “Oh, darn. I accidentally deleted it.”

“How the heck did you do that?” She frowns as I return the phone.

“Trembling fingers. I'm still jacked up from the race. Take another?”

“Guess we'll have to.”

“I said no pictures, not
two
pictures,” Nixon says.

“I know.” Before she clicks the shot, I hurl a glob of mud on Nixon's cheek.

“What the hell?” he says, trying to wipe himself clean. It doesn't work. He smears the sludge, masking the side of his face.

I scoop another handful and fling it, covering his eyebrow and forehead, caking his skin. A chunk of mud falls from his nose and plops into his beer.

“That's it.” Nixon tosses his cup onto the ground. Beer splashes my shins. He scoops two fistfuls of mud and whips them toward me. I duck, but some of the goop catches in my hair.

“What are you two doing?” Candace says.

“Bree?” Randi scolds.

“Oh, yeah. Come here.” Nixon grabs my wrist and holds it behind my back, pulling me into his chest, smothering my face with mud.

I wiggle and squirm, trying to break free from his grasp, but he clutches me tight against his body.

A hard body.

I scrape sludge from his shirt and arms, careful not to reveal his race number, and smear the sticky goo along his chin and jaw.

After a minute, both of us covered in muck, he says, “Truce?”

I'm out of breath from laughing and fighting. “Truce.”

Nixon lets me go.

Mud coats his face. Chunks have hardened in his hair and blanketed his lips.

I blink dirt out of my eye.

Candace gasps. “Good Lord. You two are hardly recognizable.

That's the point.

“But I need a picture for tomorrow's installment. Guess this'll have to do. C'mon, now. Get closer.”

Without hesitation, Nixon drapes his arm across my back
and draws me near. I slide my arm around his waist. My head nestles comfortably against the little indentation between his shoulder and chest.

Whenever Sean and I posed for pictures like this my hair often caught underneath his armpit or his arm would lie heavy on my shoulders, kinking my neck at an uncomfortable angle. But with Nixon, it's different. It's coherent. Just like when he grasped my hand in the shock obstacle, our bodies fuse together like two pieces of a seamlessly cut puzzle. He squeezes me closer and I'm struck by the ease of our bodies sided together. We . . .
fit
.

Breaking the charm, Nixon flicks a piece of mud toward me after Candace snaps the picture and whispers, “Nicely done, Bree.”

“Yeah, you, too.” I stare at him. Maybe longer than I should.

Endorphins. Nothing but endorphins.

After Candace and Randi have left and we've rinsed off at the makeshift showers, changed into the clean clothes Nixon suggested we bring, donated our shoes to the race, and grabbed a burger, he pulls curbside to my house.

“Looks like you have a broken sprinkler valve.”

I glance at the water spraying my porch steps. “Yeah, I do.”
I've got to get that fixed.
“So, anyway, don't tell anyone, but I think I had a good time today.”

“Did you?” He hands me my phone and grabs his own. I'm certain his inbox is flooded with e-mails, urgent voice mails from anxious people, desperate for his answers, a few moments of his time. But he doesn't click it on, he doesn't check his messages. He places the phone in the cup holder between us. He listens to me.

“Yeah, well, I mean, the creators of the course should seek medical attention because they're sick and twisted. And the whole
I overcome all fears
thing is a joke because I discovered about ten fears I never knew I had. But all in all, a fun day. So, thanks.”

“You're welcome. Now get out of here. You stink.”

I climb up the porch steps, hopping over the water spray with a smile. I like getting up at five a.m., starting the morning with exercise, challenging my body and mind.

And the best part: I didn't think about Sean all day.

“Don't you just love this time of year?” I say to Andrew, standing in line the following morning at a neighborhood café known for their spinach frittata. “Women wear scarves, even though it's seventy-two degrees in Southern California. Pumpkins and fall leaves decorate people's porches. And look at the acorns colored on the menu board. Aren't they cute?”

“You're in a good mood.” He plays with a strand of hair hanging above his eyes, curling from the moisture in the air. “Come to think of it, I haven't seen you smile like this since you found those Vera Wang heels for eight bucks at the thrift store. Fun yesterday?”

“You know what? It was. The Tough Mudder was actually . . . not awful. I got electrocuted.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep. I belly-crawled through muddy, gravelly trenches, scrambled over fifteen-foot-high walls, and got this.” I point to a zigzag scrape on my bruised knee.

“Is that mud in your hair?”

“Oh, God. Is it? My arms are so sore. I can't lift them. Get it out, will you?”

We order our coffees and two spiced gingerbread muffins, then sit at a window-side table.

“How'd it go with your parents?”

“Not bad, actually. It was semi-awkward when I got there, like a first date, but after a few minutes they lightened up and I suppose I did, too. We even laughed a few times.”

“That's great. Are you going to see them again?”

“Mom asked me over for lasagna next week.”

“Gosh, Andrew.” I squeeze his hand. “That's really good.”

“Yeah, well, her lasagna is terrible. But, you know what isn't terrible?” Andrew slides the article toward me.

“Is it? I didn't have the strength to yank free the rubber band.”

He laughs and flips open the paper.
“The love-duo—”

“Wait. It says that?” I find the quote in the article. “Love-duo, huh? That's funny. I mean, it's—”

Andrew stares at me like I have underwear on my head.

“Shush,” I say, “keep reading.”

“
The love-duo set out yesterday to donate their time, sweat, tennis shoes, and smiles to raise money for the Wounded Warrior Project. Can they get any more adorable?”
Andrew rolls his eyes.
“And trust me, readers, even though Nick's face is obscured—a rousing game of mudslinging between the two, which I imagine is their idea of foreplay—I'd say Bree's a lucky gal to be snuggled beside this man.”
He sets down the article. “So, are you? Are you a lucky gal?”

“Oh, stop. It's just for show. I told you, Nixon needs me to attend a wedding, so he's helping me out with this interview stuff. It's a business arrangement.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Shush,” I say again, smacking him on the arm.

“Hang on a second.” Andrew answers a text, holding his phone under the table.

“Who are you talking to? And don't pretend it's another telemarketer.” I lean over the table, trying to sneak a peek. “Why are you hiding it? Let me see.”

“Go away, it's nothing.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it is.”

Is it? We tell each other everything, so all this secrecy has gotten me worried. I settle into my seat but can't focus on my article. The rest of the
National Tribune
lies on the edge of our table, folded open to the unemployment ads. I can't make out the job descriptions, but several posts are circled.
Circled.

Oh, God, is Andrew looking for another job?

Has he grown tired of matchmaking? Is he seeking a job closer to his interests? A teaching position? Something with summers off and benefits? Now that I think about it, it must be the reason he's been tightlipped, the reason he suffered through a lunch at Ryoko's. It wasn't a date with a friend. It was an interview. “Andrew—”

“I didn't know Sean went on a date already. With Sara?” He sets his phone down and points at a picture in the article.

“What?”

Andrew continues reading.
“Seems our guinea pig, Sean, might be heading down the same path as Nick and Bree. He met and enjoyed his date with Sara, an art gallery owner, last Friday night, calling her ‘a breath of fresh air.' We chatted with Sara and here's what she said about Sean. ‘He took me on a drive up PCH to a charming beachside bistro in Del Mar with the most amazing mahi-mahi. We talked the entire time. I never knew tax codes could be so interesting. And he's so funny. He told me this one joke about getting rid of his vacuum—'”

“Because all it does is collect dust. Hardy-har-har.”

Andrew reads more.
“‘Then right before the sunset, we strolled along the beach, kicked off our shoes, and built a sand castle. My goodness, I had so much fun.' Though their relationship is new, one can't help but wonder: With Bree's successful track record, could Sara be the one for Sean? Between the two happy couples, it might be a race to the altar.”
Andrew sets the paper down again, studying my face. “You don't seem totally freaked out by Sean's date.”

“Because I've given it some thought and like you said, he's trying to get me jealous. Plus, it's only one date and hardly an original one at that. We've been to that bistro a hundred times. The mahi-mahi isn't that good. We've built a zillion sand castles. And that joke? He tells it every chance he gets.” I reach for the article and check out their picture. Sara's peach sundress complements her skin tone, and Sean's dressed in his jeans and a loose ivory button-down shirt. The wind kicks up tufts of his hair. “Besides, their body language speaks for itself.”

Andrew peeks over.

“Sure they're close to each other, but see here, Sean's shoulder is leaning away and his smile is about as forced as I've ever seen.”

“Yeah? What about you and Nixon?”

I glance at our photo. Slime coats our bodies and clothes. Mountains, obstacles, and a sea of orange-headband-clad racers decorate the background.

Though I try to hide it, a smile inches its way across my lips.

It's then I notice my feet.

Angled toward Nixon's.

His toward mine.

I toss the paper aside. “Body language isn't an
exact
science.”

“Uh-huh.” He pops a chunk of muffin in his mouth. “Well,
all for show
or not, I'm surprised to hear you're going camping. You hate camping.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It says right here.” He follows his finger along a sentence at the end of the article. “‘
Next week we'll read about Nick and Bree's romantic camping trip.
' So, let's talk about what you're wearing. You'll need something rugged but adorable. I'm thinking—”

“Let me see that.” I snatch the article from his hands. Damn, he's right. Camping. “Where did Candace come up with this idea? I've never camped a day in my life. Nor do I intend to. There are noises, and spiders, and creepy things scurrying around. There are squirrels.” A shiver runs along my spine. “I will never—oh, shit. Hide.” I raise my napkin like a barricade and shield my face.

“What are you doing?”

“Get down.”

He crouches low. “Why am I hiding?”

“Look behind you. No, wait. Not yet.”

“This is crazy.”

“Okay, now.”

Andrew peeks over his shoulder.

“See him?”

“Who?”

“Sean. At a table on the other side of the cafe.”

Sean's sitting at a table for two in dark jeans and a Padres black polo—his go-to Sunday shirt—which I know has a tiny hole in the left armpit. He slides the pepper shaker back and forth between his hands. His copper-rimmed Ray-Ban aviators reflect the sun, and his teeth shine white.

Seated across from him is a woman with thin arms and brown hair. A tailored jacket is folded on the chair behind her.
Sara.

“What's he doing?” I ask.

“Eating breakfast.” Andrew sits up and yanks the napkin away from me. “Stop acting like a lunatic.”

“He's on another date with Sara.”

“I thought you weren't fazed.”

“I didn't know they were going on morning dates. You only go on a morning date if you're totally secure with one another. When you don't care if the sun highlights chin hairs and stuff. Plus, he's wearing his Padres shirt, Andrew.”

“What does that mean?”

“He's comfortable. Are they holding hands?”

Sean looks in our direction.

I force Andrew to his knees.

“Quit it, Bree. Why don't you just go over and say hello? Be friendly.”

“Walk over there and be friendly?”

“Yeah.”

“What's it like to live in la-la land? Should I bring my unicorn?”

“Listen, you little smart-ass, show him that he's not getting to you.”

“He is getting to me. Why do you think I'm hiding behind this menu?”

Their waiter presents a bottle of Cristal. He offers Sean a taste for his approval, pours two full glasses, then slips away.

Sara sips her bubbly as Sean rolls the sleeves of his shirt to his forearms.

“Look at him. Acting all macho. ‘Hey, check out my strong arms. Want to watch me chop down a tree?'” I say in a deep voice.

Sara laughs, lowering her head and looking sideways toward Sean, exposing her neck.

Casual. Sensual. Inviting.

Andrew wrenches his hand from my tight grip.

“Oh, God, Andrew. What if this isn't a
morning
date? What if this is last night's date still going? What if they . . .
they . . . slept together?” I squint, examining the back of Sara's head. “Is that a flat spot in her hair? You know, from a pillow? Sean's pillow.”

“C'mon, sweetie. Let's get out of here.”

I swallow hard, allowing the truth to settle within me. Sean ended our relationship. But he's not wallowing in remorse, hollowed and ashen like I hoped. He's laughing and flirting. He's moved on.

Why am I watching this?

“You're right. This is stupid. Let's get out of here.”

So much for my good mood.