Page 16 of Against the Clock

Trying to convince myself that I shouldn’t do anything about the way he’s making me feel.

“The front of the garden is all flowers, and then around the dining area are all vegetables, though I pulled most of them out already. There are some winter squashes nearly ready to be picked, and I have one tomato plant that’s still soldiering on.”

I sniff the air delicately. It’s like a different world out here. There’s no relentless traffic noise, no scent of diesel and garbage and the other scents of the city.

It smells like rosemary and the air is crisp, cool on my flushed cheeks.

“It’s beautiful,” I tell him, and I mean it. “I think it’s awesome that you garden.”

“I love it,” he says, and damn, his honesty and unpretentiousness are so refreshing after some of the other guys I’ve dated. “It’s really rewarding. Here we go.”

He sets me down on a circular paved patio, and the twinkle lights illuminate a table and chairs, enough to seat twelve.

“Do you have dinner out here a lot?”

“Not as much as I’d like to,” he admits.

“It’s really nice. You should,” I tell him. I can see it, a bunch of friends gathered around the table, surrounded by the greenery.

Overhead, stars twinkle brightly in the darkening night sky.

“I forgot how bright the constellations are away from the lights of the city,” I marvel. “It’s so strange how we’re so close and still feel so far away.”

“That’s why I wanted to be out here. I’m tired of city living. I like it, don’t get me wrong… but I wanted something different this time around.”

I pick the closest chair and he sits opposite me, handing me a butcher-paper-wrapped sandwich, still warm.

“How many different places have you lived?”

“A lot,” he says grimly. “I played with the Denver Mustangs the longest, seven seasons. I liked it up there, too, and it really felt like home. I grew up in Southern California. Played in New York, Florida… and now I’m here,” he says. “And I want this to be home.”

His eyes hold mine as he says it, and it feels like he’s admitted something important.

I don’t know what to make of it, so I take a bite of my pork and long hot sandwich, and immediately groan as flavor bursts across my tongue. The meat is succulent and perfect, the bread crusty and fresh, and the long hots —a pepper I didn’t even know existed until I moved to Philly— have the perfect amount of spice.

“What about you? Where have you lived?”

“I grew up in West Texas,” I tell him. “Small town.”

“Football town,” he says knowingly.

I nod. “Football and oil,” I agree. “I went to school in Dallas and was lucky enough to land on my feet up here with USBC-Philly a couple years after graduating.”

Somewhere in the distance, frogs take up singing. We chew in silence and his gaze keeps darting to me, like he wants to ask me more, but doesn’t.

“Are your parents in oil, then?” he asks.

I shift on the chair, uncomfortable, the way I always am when someone brings up my parents.

“No.”

He watches me carefully, waiting for more. I don’t intend to elaborate.

“This sandwich is really good,” I say instead.

“Isn’t it? Told you Louie’s is life-changing.”

I laugh through another bite, covering my mouth with one hand. “I’m not sure about life-changing. That might be a bit of a stretch.”

---