Page 22 of Captured Heart

“I...I got drunk at a party once...” The words stumble out of me as I try to re-stabilize. “...and...and got a tattoo of a dancing bear. I regretted it the very next day, and my dad would kill me if he ever saw it.” My throat feels like sandpaper, and I swallow again. “It’s a little creepy that you study everyone with that level of detail.”

“No, those last few were just you.”

I suspect he regrets saying that because he immediately drops his hand and shifts back. His discomfort is so apparent that it stops me from probing further and asking him what exactly he meant by that.

I don’t have time to overthink it because he swiftly nudges the conversation in another direction. “So, what does a girl like you do for fun?”

I latch onto his attempt to lighten the mood and give him a teasing grin. “Honestly, I’ve given you so much information you should have figured it out by now. Maybe your profiling skills aren’t as good as you think.”

“Would you like me to guess?”

Maybe it’s because I’ve already been through one round of scrutiny, but it feels less creepy and more like a challenge to him. I accept it more openly this time because I know what to expect. “Sure. Why not?”

“You like skiing,” he says without hesitation.

“Snowboarding.” My mouth drops in shock. “Oh, my God! How do you know that?”

“When you paid for your iced coffee, I saw a picture of you and your dad in your purse. I caught snow in the background, and you were both wearing ski gear.”

“Wow!” I giggle. “I don’t know if I should be impressed or scared.”

“It’s not that impressive. I only figured out what you like to do in the winter. What about the rest of the year?”

“I like...watching old movies,” I admit sheepishly. “Sundays are my days to unwind, so I like curling up on the couch to watch a movie. It’s boring, I know, but—”

“It’s not. I like old movies, too.”

I shift, rolling onto my stomach. “Really? Which ones in particular?”

“Old Westerns.”

My eyebrows crease. “When I said old, I meant, like...the nineties. Westerns arereallyold, right? I don’t believe I’ve ever watched one before?”

His response is immediate, almost as if he’d been waiting for the opening. “Are you opposed to trying one out? I’ll come to your place, and we can watch one together.”

Again, it’s more of a demand than a request. When he made a similar demand last night in a darkened parking lot, it freaked me out a little. And I have the same small twinge in my gut right now. The logical side of my brain is telling me not to invite some random stranger over to my house. But the other side of my brain (the side that’s more emotionally charged and chemically imbalanced) sees no threat.

The truth is, after spending some time with him, I’ve learned that if I reject his offer, he’ll accept my answer without question. If I say no, that’s it. It’s done. He won’t ask again. He won’t eventry to persuade me, and that is why, against my better judgment, I relent.

“Yeah, that sounds like fun,” I say. “I’ll text you my address. Come by on Sunday at around two.”

He nods. “Two o’clock. I’ll be there.”

“So, any recommendations? Any favorites?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Unforgiven. It’s a Clint Eastwood movie. My mom loved Clint Eastwood, and that was her all-time favorite movie.”

The affection in his voice makes me smile. Based on his usual tone, it wasn’t something I was expecting. “So, your mom is the reason you have an acquired taste for old Westerns?”

“Yeah. Sundays were our movie days, too. It was the only day she got home before five. She’d be exhausted, but she’d tell me that she always had enough time in a day for the two men in her life. Me and Clint Eastwood.”

The affection slowly turns to sadness, and it makes me a little sad, too. “What happened to your dad?”

“He left when I was about five. Just fucked off. It was for the better, though. He used to slap us around a lot.” His jaw clenches, but that’s the only sign of emotion I see. “My mom raised me on her own. Worked two jobs, barely slept. She used to say that hard work would reap benefits, that being tired was a privilege because it meant she was doing something right.” He shrugs, looking down at the ground as he picks at the blades of grass. “But in the end, all that hard work was for nothing. No benefits were reaped. No privileges were afforded to her. She died alone in that hospital bed, and the only man in her life couldn’t do a damn thing to save her.”

My chest tightens at the vulnerability in his words, and his guarded expression has cracked just enough to let me see the person behind the mask. “I’m sorry.”

I reach out to touch his hand, but he yanks it away as if I’ve burned him. He stares at me, bewildered and unsure of what to do next.

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