Page 93 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
I ride fast, with no destination in mind. There’s a bike path off the main road that I never noticed from my car. I pedal so hard my thighs burn, the humid evening air like hot breath on my face. The pounding of my heart distracts me from the racing thoughts in my head, until all I’m thinking about is breathing in and out. Sothisis why people exercise.
Without warning, the sky breaks open. At first, the rain pounding against my cheeks and my bare arms is exhilarating. But it quickly becomes too much. The rainwater thuds deafeningly against my helmet and streams into my eyes too fast for me to blink it away. The path in front of me is blurred and filling up with puddles quicker than I would’ve thought possible. My bike tires splash through puddles that soak through my sneakers and socks—within minutes, I’m completely drenched from head to toe. Another biker passes me in the other direction, his headlight glaring into my eyes, and I have to swerve to avoid a collision. I pull over to the far side of the trail and steer my bike under a tree. This doesn’t do much to protect me from the rain, but I can’t keep riding in this. A huge clap of thunder makes my teeth vibrate, and I know I made the right decision to pull over—although I can’t remember if it’s a good or a bad thing to stand under a tree during a lightning storm.
The tree I stopped under is right next to the canal. The normally calm water is choppy and dark. The houseboats rock hard enough to make me wonder why anyone would choose to live in one. I shiver; the air is still warm, but I’m so soaked that I’m chilled all the way through.
Staring out at the canal and the lightning flashing between heavy,purple clouds, I tell myself that everything will be okay. Gramps will be fine. So he seemed put out by the news that I’m leaving. It would have been strange if he’d been happy about it, right? He has Wally. I’ll call him every week. I can even teach him how to FaceTime.
The thunderstorm moves on—the rain slows to a drizzle and the thunder rumbles faintly, miles away now. I look around, shivering, and realize where I’ve been heading. My subconscious led me to a three-story white building on the beach. I wheel the bike across Gulf Boulevard and right up to the door. I don’t try to talk myself out of it as I jab the button to dial Daniel. Waiting for him to answer gives me time to regret this choice slightly, as I catch sight of my reflection in the glass door: I look like I swam here. But he answers and rings me up with no questions asked, so I don’t have time to change my mind.
“Mallory.” He opens the door to his condo, his expression alarmed. “Are you okay? Come in.”
I follow him in, embarrassment surging through me as my clothes drip onto his floor, forming a puddle underneath me. I step out of my sopping sneakers with difficulty.
“What’s going on?” he asks, taking in the state of me.
“I…” I start, not knowing what I’m about to say. But then I stop, forgetting my embarrassment and the fact that I need to explain my waterlogged presence somehow. “Wow.”
He follows my gaze—I’m staring into his living room slash kitchen area.
“This is…”
“What?” He gives a little laugh that betrays his nervousness. He’snervousabout what I’m going to say about his place. This delights me.
“Not what I expected,” I finish. It’s not, not at all. I mean, forstarters, there’s no galloping horse print anywhere. Maybe there’ll be one in the bedroom—I’ll hold out hope for that.
“What did you expect?”
A black leather couch, a bar cart… my imagination stops there. Whatever I had in mind, it wasn’t this. Daniel’s living room is like something out of a Scandinavian design magazine. It’s gently lit by well-placed globe lamps. There’s a light-gray sofa that’s all soft angles, a modern bent-wood coffee table with two magazines and a black knot sculpture artfully displayed on top. A black-and-white rug that looks extremely soft and extremely expensive.
“A plant!” I point out a graceful potted tree. I don’t know what kind it is, but its pointy leaves are a gentle green with almost gray undertones. He must have chosen the type of tree as carefully as he clearly chose everything else here.
“And you thought I wouldn’t have one.”
“What’s that?” I point at the painting above the couch. If I could have guessed, based on the rest of his decor, I would have imagined a monotone work of inscrutable modern art. But it’s a sort of impressionist painting in pale pinks and blues, so pale they’re nearly white.
“Beachgoers,” Daniel says.
I can see it now, the forms of two people sprawled on the sand, the effervescent sea in the distance.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I thought so, too. I found it at a gallery downtown.”
I beam up at him; I can’t help it. It’s so endearing to think of him browsing art galleries and choosing this painting.
We seem to realize at the same moment that my teeth are chattering.
“God, you’re soaking wet. Let’s get you dry.” He pushes one handinto the small of my back, guiding me across the living room and toward the hallway.
He ushers me into the bathroom, which is right next to a little laundry nook with a stacked washer and dryer.
“We can put your clothes in the dryer,” Daniel says, handing me a neatly folded, fluffy white towel.
“Um, okay. Sure. Thank you.” I look at the towel in my hands; I guess I could wear this while we wait for my clothes to dry. Because it would be weird to ask to wear a T-shirt of his, right?
He starts to close the door of the bathroom to give me some privacy, but then he stops. “Then you’ll have nothing to wear.”
“Ha. Yeah. But I’ll just—” I hold up the towel.
