Page 12 of From Nowhere

“Lola, it’s not very dressy.”

“Why do you have to wear something dressy to go out with friends?”

She’s right. I’m riding my bike to dinner. A suit wouldn’t fit with my mode of transportation.

“The T-shirt it is.” I pull it on, and it looks pretty good with my dark jeans and boots. “Should I trim my scruff?” I rub my chin in the full-length mirror.

“I like it prickly.” She smiles.

“You do, huh?” I turn, resting my hands on the bed and nuzzling mypricklyface into her neck.

She giggles and squirms. “Stop!”

I fix my hair in the mirror, shifting my gaze to Lola, my wife’s mini-me. Will the day ever come that I see Lola as Lola and not Brynn’s reflection?

“Okay. I have to get going. Be good for Nana and Pa, okay?”

“Will you be home before I go to bed?”

“Probably not. So give me a hug and kiss.”

She stands on the bed and throws herself into my arms. “Look for a pretty woman who likes kids,” she whispers.

I chuckle, lifting her off the bed and onto her feet. “You don’t give up, do ya? Good night, pumpkin.”

When I reach the main floor, Tia ignores me while reading her book in Brynn’s cream glider.

“Have a good time,” Amos says, turning down the volume on the television.

“Thanks.” I zip my jacket and grab my helmet.

I hope Maren has a thing for guys with helmet hair.

Chapter Five

Maren

I arrive at the restaurant fifteen minutes early, just before the clouds open into a downpour. There was no rain in the forecast, and the sun’s still partially shining beyond that one angry cloud.

The young hostess with a full head of beautiful black hair and a warm smile seats me by the front window so I can watch for Ozzy. After a glass of wine, the rain begins to let up, and a drenched man parks his bike by the lamppost.

“Oh god,” I whisper. It’s Ozzy.

Is he this much of a tree hugger?

As he turns, we make eye contact. His shoulders lift for a second before slinking into a heavy shrug. I hold up a finger, leave cash on the table for the wine, and step out the front door.

“I’m sorry,” he says, with water dripping down his face. His soaked jeans sag from the weight of it.

I try not to laugh, but it’s hard, so I cover my mouth and shake my head.

“I’m an idiot. I didn’t know it was going to rain.”

“No.” I drop my hand and clear my throat. “I think it was a pop-up shower. Can I take you home to change?”

“No.” He rubs his eyes and exhales. “If I go home, the date’s over. But maybe that’s for the best.”

“Why does it have to be over? Because your daughter is at home? Or are you allergic to rain?”

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