Dart Number Two: Cupid’s Cringe
What do humiliation & passion have in common? Either can make you blush.
If my consumption ofDart One, Cupid’s Clash, was the feast of feasts, my approach toDart Twois more like a family-style potluck. You put some of everything on your plate so as not to offend anyone, and you force it all down for the same reason, savoring the good stuff and gulping down the unpleasant partswith an extra grain of salt on things like grandma’s flavorless steamed peas.
Again, Lovely gives prime examples from both literature and cinema to demonstrate just how impactful a slice of humble pie can be. Anne of Green Gables, proud and lovable as she is, slips and falls after accepting a dare, enduring deep humiliation in the process. But does this deter her admirer, Gilbert Blithe? No, siree. She gives other references, too, like when the cocky jock shows off to get a certain cheerleader’s attention and makes a fool of himself instead. But it doesn’t turn the reluctant cheerleader off; on the contrary—she’s endeared to him instead.
We’re flawed, Lovely points out, so being around flawed people appeals to us. Perfection is as unattractive as it is unattainable. If you endure a significantly humiliating event under the gaze of a potential suitor, you might just be one step closer to finding love that will last a lifetime.
I hate to admit that my skepticism is trying very hard to rear its ugly head. I’m bitter after my attempts to devise somecupid’s clashencounter, even if Lovelydidsay the darts can’t be contrived.
After reading the chapter a second time, I move into a state of acceptance.Fine, I’ll take a hot dish of humiliation for one, please. So long as I don’t close myself off completely. I’m determined to break that pattern. I read the following two chapters, both of which expound on the topic, and it’s not long before the angst vanishes.
Who knows? Maybe my attempts to forcecupid’s clash—all of which ended in varying degrees of embarrassment—willinevitably lead to something more. Not withClassy Produce Guyfrom the store, but I wouldn’t mind ending up withGorgeous Goatee Guyfrom the gym.
It rains hard on my way to work, steady thuds on my windshield that only grow more rapid the closer I get to the beachside strip. On rainy days like this, my trusty car, Sunny, beams bright and happy against the gray day. I left my umbrella in the shop yesterday, so I resigned myself to having frizzy hair, which sucks since tonight I have to get on that stage again and play improv storyteller with what’s-his-tool because—surprise—we were voted into the next round.
I can’t explain how awkward it’s been since Braxton painted me as some ogling perv who’s been checking him out and liking my “caboose” smacked. Now, I barely dare step foot in the caboose to see how things are coming along. The better part of me knows he was only joking, creating a good story and making them want more. And who wouldn’t want more of such a ruggedly handsome, charming specimen in a toolbelt?
Idon’t find him charming, of course, but after his performance on stage, I saw far too many flushed cheeks, bashful grins, and fluttering lashes. The guy practically had his own fan club vying for his attention as he exited the Coffee Loft.
Windshield wipers squeaking, raindrops pelting, I pull into a far-off stall beside Braxton’s work truck. I like that he seems to know that the spots closest to the entrance should be reserved for guests. And even on days he’s loading and unloading, he never keeps his truck next to the caboose longer than necessary; I appreciate that. Jeb Nobly’s beat-up truck sat parked in front of the first addition from sunup to sundownuntil he was through. Not that I blame him, of course. But keeping the storefront clear of that construction-related clutter is better for business.
Since the rain doesn’t let up, I force myself to make a run for it. Yet, thanks to my pencil skirt and heels, it’s more of a shuffle.
Hands poised overhead to shield me from the storm, I glance briefly toward the caboose. Hopefully, Braxton’s almost done. Maybe he’ll finish up before tonight’s event.
I’m halfway to the door when something about my view changes abruptly. Suddenly there’s a bluish tint over the ground. I sense something above me and glance up, gasping when I see my floral print umbrella hovered over my head.
“Here, go ahead and take it,” comes a familiar voice. “You left it in the caboose yesterday.”
Ah, thatiswhere I left it.
I spin to see a dripping wet Braxton holding the umbrella over my head, his hair drenched with rain. A dark lock falls to obscure one eye a moment before he rakes a free hand through it and shakes his head.
My breath hitches.What in the taste of manly perfection is happening right now?My gaze traces over the drops that trickle down the flawless planes of his handsome face, some hugging the chiseled cut of his stubble-covered jawline, others gathering at the corners of his full lips.
My mouth actually waters at the sight. I’m flooded with feelings of desire, longing, and even envy—what I wouldn’t give to be the rain right now.
I force my hand to lift and take hold of the handle but flinch when Igrab his hand instead.
Braxton steadies the upper part of the pole with his other hand before removing the one beneath my loose grip. “You got it?” he asks, through an amused grin. A grin that says he just might know the effect he is having on me.
I clear my throat. “Yeah. Yes. Thank you.” I nod at him, a cue that I'm good and he can go back to the train car. But he doesn't go just yet. Instead, he searches my face, then fixes those mocha brown eyes on mine.
A rush of bonfire heat roars through my chest, warming my neck and cheeks as well.
“You look...” He pauses, gulps, then grins sheepishly. “You look nice today. The rain looks good on you.” And then he's turning away and rushing back to the caboose.
Tingles whirl low in my tummy, the pleasing sensation fanning clear to my toes.Holy smokes!That was a moment, wasn't it? It was for me.
Braxton Wheaton is good. He is very good, and not just at his craft.
Once inside the warmth of the busy Coffee Loft, I plunk the umbrella in the stand, trade my rain-splattered trench coat for an apron, and help Chantel with the line of customers up front. All I can do is hope that no one sees the extra warmth in my cheeks as I relive that moment with Braxton again and again.
He brought the umbrella to me, I remind myself. Braxton Wheaton, who happens to be a fifty on the one-through-ten scale, saw me pull up, then raced out to bring my umbrella to me. Had he been waiting for me? Watching the lot, knowing I’d be missing it?
I can’t help but be warmed by the chivalrous gesture.
