Page 12 of His Last Shot
Well, okay then. This I can handle. I flip on my side and tuck my arm under my head. A sharp pain shoots through my elbow with every bend, but I hide my grimace and push through the discomfort, not wanting to raise any alarms. Which would cause him to ask questions. And I’m not ready for questions.
I stare at him for a long minute. He gives me a side eye, and the corner of his mouth ticks upward playfully. “Is gawking at me part of the process?”
I chuckle. “It is.”
“Do you like what you see?”
Yes. Yes, I do.But I don’t say that out loud.
“Okay. I’m guessing you are in your mid to late thirties. You’ve never been married, and construction has been your only serious job. You use humor to cover up whatever pain you might have buried.” I pause as he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “No kids, but my guess is that with the right woman, that option isn’t off the table. I can’t figure out the coffee obsession, but I’m guessing alcohol isn’t your thing.” I lift the blanket to peek at his clothes again. “Your clothes are perfect. Too perfect. I don’t know any single guy that irons his clothes, but it’s obvious you do. So you are neat but yet also messy.” He grins. “Am I getting close?”
He pivots and sets his head on his hand, his elbow resting on the blanket, our faces inches apart. “You are about ninety-nine percent correct.”
“Ah, man. Do I get to learn about the other one percent?” Somehow, we’ve ventured even closer, his body heat surrounding me.
“Well, to start, my dad passed away when I was sixteen. Tragic car accident. I grew up in a not-so-great part of town. Scott—my best friend, cousin, and business partner—on the other hand, lived only four streets from me in a totallydifferent, fancier neighborhood. Train tracks separated both sides of town, so yes. I literally grew up on the wrong side of the tracks.”
I swirl a small circle on the blanket as I take in his story. “Is Scott the guy you were with tonight?”
“So you noticed me?” he asks with a playful grin, pleased that I asked because yes, Johnny, I did notice you.
I roll my eyes, ignoring his question. “Keep talking.”
“Hmmm, the lady is still interested.” He smirks, obviously pleased, then continues. “The street I grew up on was small, a major truck route that was busy yet full of families. On one end of the street was an old bar/pool hall called The Parlor. Like clockwork, I would get woken up at two am, closing time, to drunk people walking past my house after a night of debauchery. To this day, I still wake up in the middle of the night.
“On the other end was a huge factory. And sandwiched in between were fourteen houses, seven on each side. So, I’m grateful my dad taught me the game. Pool was my outlet and a way to stay out of trouble. It was where I came to grieve and heal after his passing. The focus that this game takes would push aside my anger and grief.” He inches closer to me. “It’s been healing me ever since.”
“Sounds like an interesting childhood.”
He sighs. “It was. But regarding your first assessment of me, I am single and have no kids. I never thought at forty-five I would be wifeless and childless.”
My heart plummets to my stomach. Forty-five! It’s worse than I imagined. When I got in the car, after sending the photo of his ID to my brother, I looked at it to get his age. Of course, I didn't pay attention and cut off the most important part. His birthdate. It's not my fault. He's so dang distracting! But yeah. Fifteen years my senior is a no-go.
And I was right, he's older. And rugged in that seasoned way. The way I like. The way that always gets me in trouble.
I sigh, the sound heavy in the surrounding peacefulness of the night, and I plop onto my back.
“What?” His curious eyes pin me in place.
I continue to have a staring contest with the stars. “You’re … forty-five?” I choke on the number.
“I am. Why? Is that not okay?” he asks with a chuckle. “I mean, I feel like I’m twenty-five, but some days my knees—”
“I don’t date customers.” Yep, I am putting a nail in this coffin right away, refusing to look at him as I deliver my final blow. “Or older men.” I need to hear the words leave my lips; I need to say that out loud. To reaffirm it to myself.
“So you’ve thought about dating me? Interesting.” He chuckles, completely unfazed by my coffin nailing. I won’t peer over at him. I can’t. It weakens my resolve. A lot.
Hell, looking at him is what got me here in the first place.
Only crickets and the light breeze fill the surrounding air. Now it’s his turn to sigh. His shoulders sag as he plops back onto his back. “How old are you, Rachel?”
I let out a long, shaky exhale before I answer. The quiet amplifies the potential death blow of my age, which threatens to extinguish a flame that had yet to be fully lit. But feels like maybe, just maybe, it would have sparked and burned through my life. “Thirty.”
He completely ignores my age confession as we continue to stare at the universe.
Lacing his fingers together, he rests them on his stomach. “I come here a lot,” he starts, “to clear my head of all the chaos that can exist in my thoughts. When you look up there”—he points to the night sky—“it helps with any pain we carry around.” He pauses. “There is always a certain quote I recite when I’m here.‘Only by contending with challenges that seem to be beyond your strength to handle at the moment can you grow more surely toward the stars.’”
His words float over me like a dream. I try to blink back the sting of tears as my chest flutters. Because I have no strength. I am weak. Body and mind both.
