Page 49 of A Class of Her Own

I grabbed the shovel. “This is for Hazel, who can’t afford an injury if she’s going to get your new sweater knitted by Christmas.”

“I asked her for stripes this year. They’re such a classic look.”

He moved to the porch stairs, and I found the distance helpful. I was used to him giving as good as he got, but I wasn’t used to enjoying it. Other men hadn’t wanted to spar with me—they’d wanted to break me down and win a battle. It was never fun or clever, and it was always painful. I was used to banter with my friends, but Brooks was the first man to banter with me who seemed to enjoy my sharpness, and it was throwing me into a tailspin.

While I thought about that, I finished shoveling a few stubborn spots on the walkway that had been flattened underfoot and turned to find Brooks standing at the end of Hazel’s driveway, simply watching me.

“Good, you’re done. We’re going to the Parker’s house now. Keep up, and don’t slip in those shoes.”

He turned and walked down the street, his dark coat and hoodie helping him blend into the darkness. He was being bossy, but I didn’t argue -- just fell into step a few paces behind. The Parkers lived the next block over, and Brooks wasn’t slowing his pace for me even if his legs were longer. I didn’t hustle to keep up. I’d been walking around all afternoon and evening and didn’t feel the need to tap into my nearly depleted reserves.

For the next hour—for no good reason I could decipher—I followed Brooks from house to house in some order only his brain knew. My shoes were soaked, my hands were cold, and my nose was beginning to drip when we finished the last house. I felt good tired, like the mindless exertion had helped me let go of the unpleasant day. It was nice.

“That’s it,” he said as we stood at the end of the Brown’s driveway and looked at their festive home.

I wondered, out of the blue, how many times my dad had shoveled snow for others or even known someone else might need something from him. Yet, here was this man, wandering about after dark, secretly serving people. It tugged at my emotions, so I focused on the white lights sparkling on the roofline and the full evergreen wreath on the door that added a beautiful last touch. It was all so classy and well done that I once again had to face how over-the-top my own inflatable decor had been.

“What a boring holiday display,” I joked, gesturing at the house and breaking the comfortable quiet.

“Agreed. How is the International Space Station supposed to see it?” Brooks replied in a dry tone.

I chuckled as I spun to hand him his shovel so I could head home. Unfortunately, I hit a patch of non-melted ice and reached for his coat with my free hand, hoping to stop my fall. It was total instinct, because if I’d thought it out, I would have simply let myself fall rather than take him down, too. Brooks, not expecting the sudden tug on his torso, grunted as we landed with a thud, the air knocked out of my lungs as my arms flopped to my side. I was slow to register the weight of him on top of me and the way his beard was tickling my cheek as our faces pressed close. When I did process it, heat crept along my skin and over my frozen nose. Our eyes caught for a split second before Brooks shifted, pushing up onto his arms until he could roll off me.

“You okay?” he asked as we both looked up at the night sky.

“I’ve breathed better,” I replied, trying to ignore the way my senses were still filled with the scent of peppermint on his breath and that particular smell that woodworkers carry with them always. It was at once familiar and new. “That’s the second time I’ve fallen today.”

“Really?” He sat up and looked down at me.

“Yep. The other one involved a candy cane hat and an attempted murder by hanging,” I replied.

“There’s a story there.” He continued to watch me, but I kept looking straight up, too scared to meet his eyes.

“You’ll have to wait for the full-page spread in the Washington Elementary School yearbook this spring.”

He smiled softly. “Ah, so it was public.”

“They usually are.”

We were silent for a beat before I sat up, too. He jumped to his feet and reached down a hand, which I took. His grip was strong, and he pulled me up quicker than either of us expected. I came up hard against his chest, my hands pressed between us. The very moment I’d been trying to avoid happened as I tilted my head back to find him looking down at me. The dark hid some things, but not his curiosity as his eyes skated over my face. I didn’t want him to be curious about me, and I sort of hated that I’d become curious about him. Curiosity killed the cat, if I recall. I pressed against his chest, and he released me quickly.

I tucked my hands in my coat pockets and made a face. “So . . . you going to find a new snow removal company?”

He nodded and a smile peeked out. “Sure am.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The reasoning behind a bachelor or bachelorette party has always been lost on me. If you want to party with your friends before your wedding, that’s great. Do it. But to plan something for the express purpose of celebrating your ‘final night of freedom’? If going into marriage feels the same as going to prison, then you may want to rethink the situation.

Also, does life really change that much after getting married? I understand the concept of pledging yourself to someone as far as loyalty and a commitment to support each other, but I do not remember anyone ever pledging to give up their entire self for the other person. If your fiancé is like, “Hey, hope you can squeeze out that last drop of fun tonight before we say our vows tomorrow, because after that you can plan to say goodbye to life and stare at me on the couch for the next fifty years,” well, that’s a hard pass for me.

Don’t even get me started on this idea of two halves making a whole. If you are only half a person, you have no business entering a marriage. I’m certainly not interested in schlepping around that kind of mess for the rest of my life. If, and I meanif, I ever consented to get married, we’d have to be real clear about the fact that I would still be me and he would still be him and no one would be suddenly expected to change entirely.

This entire principle of mine is probably a big factor in why I’m not married nor looking to be. It may also be why my few attempts at a relationship never really worked. Guys say they like independent women, but, in my experience they actually like women who put on a good show but are happy to follow their lead in the end.

These were the somewhat inappropriate thoughts I was having as I slowly swirled a tiny cocktail straw around in my drink at Lizzie’s bachelorette party. One of my hands propped up my head as I did so. There was a lot of laughing going on around me, but I didn’t bother to look away from the soda I was nursing along. My bare shoulders were chilled in the hotel bar area, where we were kicking off what promised to be a somewhat unappealing night.

Because I’d thrown the bridal shower, I had not been required to help plan said party, so I couldn’t say for sure it was going to be horrifying. I was simply going off past experiences combined with my current setting. I was in a bar, wearing a slinky black dress, swirling a non-alcoholic beverage. According to my fun rating system, where bars and dresses receive a zero and mystery activities get a two, well, I don’t really need to expound.

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