Page 18 of Lovebug
Apparently, I don’t have an answer to that either.
She continues through my silence, just as I spot something—someone—in the distance.
“I rescind my ‘screw you’ comment. That was unnecessary and uncalled for. You are correct. Traditionally, Ralph is not the sexiest name out there. I confess that when I first met him, I was pretty opposed to the moniker myself. But then, I got to know him, and… damn! I realized that every single thing about that man is sexy. Even his not-so-sexy name. Know what I mean?”
“Well… yeah,” I say. “Because I, uh. I… feel… the same way about Bert.”
“No, you don’t,” she says bluntly.
“What do you mean?” I say on a sigh.
“Exactly what I said. You don’t feel the same way about Bert.”
“Calliope—”
“Uh-uh. No way. Don’t ‘Calliope’ me. Listen. What are you doing this Saturday night? Because I’m—”
I know that Calliope is still speaking, but I no longer hear her.
Every ounce of my awareness has shifted to the man I spot stepping out from a small wooden enclosure connected to his shack. He’s wearing only a pair of cargo shorts. His chest is completely bare and glistening with water droplets while he scrubs a towel over his head, ruffling his long, damp hair. Did I just witness this man exiting his outdoor shower? The same man who ignored me on the trail a few minutes ago. The one whose mere presence sent some wild, tingling, foreign feeling shooting through my body that I still haven’t processed and certainly don’t understand.
Hey, why do people say “mere” presence? Is anyone’s presence “mere?” There’s certainly nothing “mere” about this man. No, he’s not “mere,” he’s…more. He’s… gosh, he has this-this-this… largeness to him? And I’m not talking about his body. I’m talking about his energy. The space he takes up with his whole… Well, I mean, clearly, hisbodyis large too. He has to have at least six inches on me. And his chest? Woooo-eee. That is one broad, beautiful, bare chest. Oh bummer, he’s pulling a T-shirt over his head. Now what’s he doing? He’s… grabbing a long shovel. Is that why he was in such a rush to get back to his shack? He needed to cool off in his outdoor shower before doing some digging? Why? Is he tilling? Planting?Burying? Oh my goodness, what if April is right, and he’s burying a body after a morning of murdering?
Anything is possible, I suppose. After all, I know absolutely nothing about this man. What Idoknow is that his muscles are rippling with each jab he makes into the wet earth below him, and I’m—well… I’m having this undeniable urge to run up to him right this second, roll around in the wet earth surrounding him, smear the mud all over my body, smell it on my skin, then spread it all overhisbody, smellhisskin, and—
“Mabel? Mabel. Maaaaaaabel,” a female voice says from what sounds like very far away. “Hey! Mabel! Mable-syrup! Maybe-she’s-born-with-it-Mabel-ine!”
I realize then that Calliope’s voice is coming from the grass where my phone fell out of my hand without my even noticing it.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I say too loudly as I squat down to retrieve my phone. I brush a few blades of grass off her face.
“What the hell? You dropped me!”
“I know, I’m sorry,” I try to whisper, which is clearly too little, too late. “You know I’m clumsy, I just—”
A throat clears. A decidedly manly throat.
Mystery Man and I rise from the ground at the same time.
Totally in sync.
Total silence as we stare at each other.
I can’t stand silence, so after a few seconds, I break it.
“Why do people call you The Wall?” The breathy question slips out of me before I even realize what I’m saying.
“The Wall? What are you talking about The Wall?” Calliope is understandably lost.
He doesn’t answer me.
Not with words anyway. But he does take a single heavy step in my direction.
And what do I do when that happens? Well, I do what any rational person in my position would do when confronted with a possible killer.
I freak out.
“I’M TOO YOUNG TO DIE!” I yelp. Then I turn, and I run. That’s right, my wobbly ankles and I sprint up the trail as far and as fast as we can, not daring to look back.
