Greg’s voice, a fading drone of football and lawnmower statistics, echoes in my head. The man’s safe, predictable, and mind-numbing.
Everything I’ve always insisted I wanted. Everything I’ve always hated when actually presented to me.
Kolya’s the opposite. So why…
The streetlights blur into orange streaks as I blink back confused tears. I jack up the radio, hoping the DJ can drown out my thoughts.
The tactic doesn’t work. Nothing could.
Kolya barely spoke to me. We sat together for the duration of a single glass of wine, and somehow, the world rearranged itself around his silence.
The way he stared at me. The way he leaned in, almost kissing me against my car, then pulled away at the last second, leaving me disappointed and yearning for more.
My stomach somersaults at the fresh memory. My body still hums from his proximity, every nerve ending awake and aware in a way they haven’t been in…maybe ever.
“He’s dangerous. He broke a man’s arm and knee.” I heard the other teachers gossiping today about how two known purse snatchers were “stopped cold” at the local farmers market. Saying these words out loud should sound absurd. I should realize how insane this attraction is.
Instead, my traitorous mind replays his fluid grace, along with his absolute control and willingness to hurt those jerks to protect me.
I grip the steering wheel tighter. My rational mind screams warnings, pointing out red flags big enough to carpet a football field.
The intense, unpredictable man shows up in places he shouldn’t be. He drove away my date with nothing but a glare, for heaven’s sake.
So why do I want to sail past all the caution signals?
The menacing vibe he exudes is real, but the wanting…the wanting is worse.
I turn onto my street, the familiar row of homes and bungalows calming my racing heart. My little blue-and-white house waits halfway down, the porch light cutting a weak yellow square into the dim evening.
My safe space. The place where I’ve built my careful, normal, quiet life.
I love everything about the cottage. The sagging charm, the brightly painted porch and railing, the way it sits on this mostly forgotten street while perfect cookie-cutter suburbs stretch away on all sides. My home is a tiny, unique island of character in a sea of planned communities.
The gravel crunches beneath my tires as I pull into the driveway. For a moment, after switching off the engine, I lingerin the car, gazing at my front door. At the welcome mat I painted with sunflowers last summer to greet visitors and the wind chimes my third-grade teacher gifted me when I got assigned my first classroom. The little ceramic gnome from Mrs. Perez after I helped her son overcome his fear of reading aloud squats in the flowerbed.
All normal things. Safe things. Teacher things.
Not the kind of items that belong in the home of a woman experiencing dirty thoughts about a man who breaks bones as casually as I cut doll chains out of construction paper.
I shake my head while gathering my purse and keys.
I don’t live in the wealthiest part of the neighborhood, but the community’s still safe enough. The neighbors here watch out for each other, especially for the children.
Mrs. Smithwick three doors down bakes cookies for the neighborhood kids at least twice a month. The retired police officer across the street keeps his porch light on all night.
I’m just rattled by Kolya. That’s all.
Inside, I drop my purse on the entryway table and kick off my heels with a sigh of relief. I flick on lights as I glide through the living room. The house envelops me like a hug. Mismatched furniture, bright throw pillows, bookshelves crammed with everything from mysteries to self-help books to the romance novels I hide from the principal when she visits… It’s all mine. Every last inch.
Even at night, the yellow walls have a warming effect. The tension bleeds from my shoulders as I pad barefoot across the worn hardwood floor of the living room.
The hall is a short walk to my room. My clothes come off piece by piece, discarded across the bed. The blue dress that I considered perfect for date night, the uncomfortable strapless bra, the silver necklace that kept snagging on my collar…
I pluck the hair tie from my ponytail, releasing the waves so they can tumble around my shoulders. My scalp tingles as blood flow returns.
I slide my pajama drawer open and hear that familiar squeak—the same one it’s had since I found the dresser on the side of the road. I pull out my favorite bottoms, the color dulled from too many washes, and a t-shirt with a sun that one of my kids drew for me years ago during my student teaching days. The soft cotton feels like home as I tug the shirt over my head.
This is the real me, not the woman in the blue dress who almost let a dangerous man kiss her in a parking lot.
