She laughs and raises her menu again. “I wish I had a handbook or something. The learning curve on this is pretty steep.”
An amused smile spreads across my face. “Nah. You’re doing great.”
The waitress arrives, and after some back-and-forth, we order cocktails and three appetizers and agree she should come back later to take our orders for the main course.
When we’re alone again, Iris and I chat about the hiking trail I’m taking her to this afternoon. But eventually, when that topic runs its course, I ask if she’s always wanted to be a teacher.
“I’ve always dreamed of working with kids,” she replies. “But not necessarily teaching in a classroom. Growing up, my best friend’s family owned a horse ranch near Orchard Blossom, and I worked there every summer and on weekends, mostly giving trail rides and riding lessons to kids. That’s when I started dreaming about one day combining my two passions—horses and kids—as an actual career.”
“In what way?”
“One day, I’d love to provide equine therapy to kids.”
I ask her to explain what that means, and it turns out equine therapy is exactly what the name suggests: therapy administered through the care and/or riding of horses.
“Why not get a job in equine therapy now? You light up when you talk about it. Life is short.”
“It’s hard to break into the field, and I’ve already got a great job I love that pays the bills. Maybe someday. I’m still in my twenties, so I figure I’ve still got lots of time to work my way toward that goal.”
“Of course you do.”
The waitress returns with our cocktails and appetizers, and we dig in.
“What about you?” Iris asks. “Do you have any ‘maybe someday’ dreams you’re still chasing, or is the gym your ultimate dream fulfilled?”
Shit.It was one thing to tell a simple lie about my profession to preserve my anonymity with a one-night stand I thought I’d never see again; but the more time I spend with this woman, the more I’m liking her as a person, which, in turn, makes lying to her harder and harder.
“I’ve still got some dreams I’m chasing. When a person stops dreaming, they might as well be dead. In my book, anyway.”
“I agree completely.” Iris looks at me expectantly, like she’s waiting on me to elaborate on my big dreams. When I don’t, she shifts in her seat and says, “Did you always want to own a gym and train athletes?”
Fuck.“No, I just kind of fell into it.” I clear my throat. “My biggest dream growing up, like every other kid who played football, was to play in the NFL and win the Super Bowl.”
Iris juts her lip in sympathy. “I’m sorry little Roman didn’t get to experience that. But at least you got to play in college, right? That must have been pretty close to the same thing for your inner child.”
I nod my agreement, feeling desperate to end this line of conversation—even though, in reality, as any NFL football player would undoubtedly agree, playing college ball doesn’t compareto being in the pros and couldn’t possibly fulfill any player’s dream of winning a Super Bowl. I mean, the Super Bowl thing is supposition on my part, due to my own three Super Bowl losses. But Marco’s won the Big Game, the lucky bastard, and I know for a fact my cousin feels like that win was the pinnacle of his long and storied career.
The waitress arrives to take the rest of our order, interrupting the current topic of conversation, thankfully. When she leaves, Iris asks, “Were you voted prom king in high school, by any chance?”
“Homecoming king. Why do you ask?”
She’s got a sparkle in her blue eyes. “You played football in college for a well-known school, so I figure you must have been a superstar player at a big high school. You give off extreme big-man-on-campus energy, and I’m dying to know if I’m right.”
I laugh. “Pretty close.”
“That’s how it always goes in movies: The star football player gets voted homecoming or prom king—although in movies, it’s always the star quarterback, not the star tight end, and ...”
She’s still talking, but I’m too freaked out by her sixth sense to hear the rest. As Iris’s mouth moves, I take a drink of my water and pretend to listen while trying to snuff out the pangs of guilt I’m feeling for lying.
“What about you?” I ask, when I’m able to regain my composure and it’s clear Iris has finished talking. “Were you part of this Hollywood script in high school, too?”
Iris snorts adorably. “Not even close. My high school was so small, we didn’t even have a football team or dances, let alone kings and queens.”
“No dances?” I ask, like it’s a mortal sin. “How are the kids supposed to know who’s crushing on who, then?”
“We had festivals where we figured that out. Not the same thing, but close enough.”
“Not close enough if you ask the kids, I’m sure.”
