Page 213 of Love in Riverbend
“Marilyn?”
I swallow. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Nodding, I exhale. “See you Thursday. No strings,” I say, reminding him of his proposal.
“No strings.”
I hang up the call before Ricky can say anything else, close my eyes, and tip my forehead to the surface of my desk. What the heck have I just done?
My first instinct is to call Jill, but the tiny clock on the bottom of my computer screen tells me it’s about time for my upcoming meeting. All work and no play have most definitely narrowed my perspective on life and love.
No.
These two evenings with Ricky aren’t about love.
Friendship. Yes.
After all, friendship would be better than despising him every time we’re forced to see each other. Time heals wounds—that’s what my mom always says.
Could it be that I don’t hate Ricky Dunn, but hate that he hurt me? If that’s the case, perhaps my loathing has been my defense mechanism, my go-to in a way, to avoid future disappointment.
Or maybe taking a few psychology courses throughout my college career has me overanalyzing. It could also be that I have too much time on my hands, time to be rational.
That reasoning is well and good on a Tuesday at work or even during Wednesday night when home alone. However, as I park outside the restaurant in City Center with my heart thumping a rhythm in my ears and the difficulty I’m experiencing filling my lungs with sufficient air, I’ll go out on a limb and hypothesize that rational thinking has left the building and irrational thinking has taken over.
I take one last look at my reflection in the rearview mirror.
“This isn’t a date,” I say audibly as I dig in my purse for my lip balm. Yes, it’s slightly shaded, but only a little. My eyeliner from this morning is mostly gone, and I’m still wearing my slacks and blouse from the office.
While I’d toyed with the idea of going back to my apartment for a refresh after work, I ran out of time. My last two meetings went longer than planned, and now, I find myself sitting in my car, condensation forming on the insides of the windows as I regret my acceptance of Ricky’s request. A quick look at my watch tells me I’m already five minutes late.
Not enough time to cancel.
Taking a deep breath, I open the car door. Over the last few days, the temperatures have risen to the comfy upper thirties. After the earlier cold spell, as I step from the car, the air feels almost tepid.
I take in the surroundings. During the warmer seasons, people would be out and about. The fountain outside the front doors is dry. In the summer, it’s filled with water, illuminated by colorful lights. High above, darkness fills the winter sky, making the sign above the restaurant bright against the building.
When I open the front door, the sound of voices fills my ears as the aroma of delicious food tickles my senses, causing my stomach to rumble. The salad I ate for lunch seems like a long time ago. I scan the front room, looking for the boy from my childhood.
My breathing hitches and my focus narrows as I take in the man he’s become. It’s not that I don’t recognize Ricky; it’s that since Devan’s wedding, he’s changed, matured, aged—like a fine wine.
No longer perpetually tousled by the wind and elements, his light-brown hair is longer on top than I recall and styled—wavy on top and short on the sides. A shadow of beard growth lines his chiseled jaw, neatly trimmed, leaving his cheeks and his neck smooth. His wide shoulders are covered by a white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled near his elbows. My gaze goes to where the shirt is tucked into a faded pair of denim jeans. Not the kind he used to wear while working on the farm. These appear better fitting, as demonstrated by the way they hug his ass.
“May I help you?” the hostess asks, bringing me back to reality.
“No, I see my…”
Date?
Friend?
Person I swore to hate forever?
“…my friend,” I say, swallowing, despite the sudden dryness of my mouth. The hostess nods, allowing me passage.
As I walk into the bar, Ricky turns. There’s a glint in his brown eyes. Small lines form in the corners as his cheeks rise and lips curl into a grin. Stepping from the barstool, he comes toward me.
