Page 12 of Vipers & Roses

I raise my chin in pride. “No. I’m quite happy with the blood of my enemies on my face.”

He frowns and smirks at the same time. My comment was meant to be a turn-off, but he seems entertained by it. “Here,” he says, lifting the hem of his T-shirt, revealing his flat, glorious stomach, and wiping my face clean. “That’s better.” Then he inspects the green smear on his white tee and shrugs it off.

“That’ll never come out in the wash,” I inform him as I walk next to his towering frame on the path, letting him lead me to wherever he wants to go, which makes me nervous. But I suspect he’s reasonably harmless.

“I’ll buy another one,” he answers indifferently and glances down at my hands. “Are you going take your dirty gloves off?”

“Oh, right,” I answer, pulling them off and hurling them at the bucket, hoping they’ll land inside. Unfortunately, I missed, but Cowslick Cormac walks over to place them in the bucket like a good, decent man.

“My name’s Cormac,” he says, holding his hand to shake, and I take his large, strong hand.

“I know,” I answer without thinking, realizing I should’ve played dumb. Too late now.

“You know?” he asks as we stroll along the path surrounded by old camellias in bloom that were planted before they became known as ‘old lady’s plants,’ but I still like them.

“Yeah,” I think quickly. “Your face popped up when I did a search on swim team results. I used to be on the team years ago.”

“Years ago? How old are you?” It occurs to me that we’re still holding hands, or more accurately, he’s holding my hand, and I quickly snatch mine away.

“Nineteen. It was over two years ago,” I correct. “But I only swim for pleasure now.”

‘So…have you got a name?” he asks as he examines the hand I just shook with a frown on his face.

“Sorry, it’s Rae,” I answer as we come to a small kiosk that serves mediocre coffee, but this is where we stop and line up.

“Rae? Short for what?” he says, unzipping his bag and taking out a wallet.

“Just Rae. Is Cormac short for McCormac, good ol’ Scottishness?” I’m trying to ease my anxiety about being in close proximity to a man whose arm is grazing my arm.

“No, it’s Irish. Weirdly. Italian Dad, Irish Mom,” he states with a small smile that lasts only a few seconds before fading to sadness behind his eyes. It looks like Cormac has secrets.

Once he’s purchased two coffees and two oatmeal cookies, we find a green space and sit on the grass since all the seats are taken.

“So, will you tell me why you need to talk to me?” I ask, biting into the oatmeal cookie and wishing it tasted like the ones Mom makes from scratch. There is no buying cookie dough or mass-produced cookies in my family. I had a lucky childhood.

He lies on his side on the grass as I sit cross-legged, and he shrugs those broad shoulders. “I was just wondering what you were doing at the bottom of the pool that day?”

I suspect this is a lead-in question and not the real reason he asked me for a coffee, but I’ll answer it anyway. “Thinking.”

“Thinking? You were thinking at the bottom of the pool?” he frowns, and I’m slightly confused as to why this bothers him so much—apart from the fact that I interrupted his training for a second. “There are a hundred million places you could go to think, and you choose the bottom of a pool.”

“It’s quiet down there. Why? Why does it matter to you?” I ask, then take a sip of the mediocre coffee from the coffee cup.

“In an Olympic pool where several elite swimmers were training?” he adds with a hint of fury.

“Okay, I know it was stupid, but I just get…” I sigh and take another sip of my coffee. “It doesn’t matter. Just forget it.”

“No. You just get what? Finish your sentence,” his tone is demanding.

I’m uncomfortable opening up to this man I just met, but I guess he deserves an explanation. “Sad,” I finally answer.

His eyes soften, and it occurs to me that they are sky blue, like Det. Gabe’s. “You weren’t trying to…you know,” he flicks his hand, refusing to say it, but I know what he means.

“No,” I lie. “Unfortunately, my hunger for life exceeds my desire for death.”

“See, you’re a nihilist,” he mumbles before sipping his coffee.

“Probably,” I don’t care what he calls me.

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