I keep rubbing the spot in larger and larger circles, my hands caressing the thick cords of his back. “No. Just red.”
“Those things hurt!” he says, turning to me, still half-kneeling.
“I told you.”
Before I can form another thought, he lunges at me, tackling me to the grass and I feel a sweetgum ball pierce my spine from below. I grunt and curl up toward him as he wrestles me to the ground, pinning my arm down. I drop the handful of balls in the other hand and grab for his shoulder, flipping him onto the grass with a groan. I’m straddling both of his thighs, pressing his heaving chest down with one hand, fighting off his strong hands with my other arm. He grunts with a smile, and then one of his flailing arms grabs me around the shoulders like a hug, and he throws me over on the grass, pinning me to the ground as he straddles me. He holds both of my arms above my head. His face is inches from me and I watch his muscled torso heaving for breath where his shirt is still pulled up.
We’re both gasping for breath, and smiling. “I gotcha,” he heaves. Bits of spit hit me in the eye when he speaks and I feel his hot breath on my face. I feel his thighs flinch around my midsection and the warmth of his core holds me still. His puzzle piece necklace dangles near my chin, and I’m hypnotized by it. For being so pointedly defeated, I’m feeling a surge of joy, or something I can’t name, rock through my body. I relax into the comfortable warmth of it all, watching the puzzle piece swing gently, glistening.
Then, suddenly, he pushes off from where he’s holding my arms, and sits up straight, looking down on me, still straddlingmy torso. I try to focus on his face, but I think my eyes travel all the way down his torso, taking in all the heaving muscles of his chest, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, and the smirk on his face. I think he notices, but I have no control over my gaze. With a start, he hurls himself onto the grass next to me, laying his head near my armpit, almost on my bicep, and exhales.
I start laughing uncontrollably, and can’t stop. He’s laughing now too, and we turn our heads awkwardly to see each other’s faces, as we become hysterical. The laughter rolls on for what seems like eternity, until I heave a deep breath, spent and breathless.
“Liam, that was fun,” he says, folding his hands over his torso, sending his elbow into my side. The electricity of it against me is too much, and I turn on my side, propping my head up on my hand, trying to look him in the eyes.
“I feel like a kid again,” I sigh.
He turns his head to lock eyes with me and I see something trigger that I don’t understand, like I’ve just explained something meaningful. He stares at me for a long minute, then looks back to the sky, exhales deeply, and says, “Like a kid again. That’s how it feels.”
I lay back in the grass, making sure there’s enough space between us so whatever electricity is traveling between us will stop, and find the blue sky between the splotches of vibrant leaves overhead. We lay there quietly for a long time, with only the sounds of our breathing for a while. I feel like this moment could last forever.
Before we know it, the world is pinking up under a brilliant sunset and, with shoes fully tied and secured to our feet, I walk with Martin halfway back to his car before heading off to mine.
Days later, the journal is on the windshield of my truck. It has been a long day of meetings and spreadsheets and CADdrawings and I am just ready to get in my truck, grab dinner, and head home to decompress after a long day. And there it is. Tucked under my windshield wiper like a promotional flier. It’s still sealed in the white envelope with the blue tie-string and my name, still scribbled out, is where it had been before. I grab it, and climb into my truck, starting the engine so the heater can start warming against the crisp fall evening.
I sit in the driver’s seat, staring at the envelope, unopened, and then find myself looking around the parking lot like someone might be wondering what I’ve got. Each person I see has their head buried in their phone, or is focused on getting to their vehicle and getting home, seemingly on autopilot.
Matthew from diagnostics looks my way and waves. I wave back, and then before I know it, he’s heading over. I watch him for a minute as he makes eye contact with me and smiles, still heading toward the driver’s side window of my truck. It takes me a minute to realize he’s actually intending to talk with me. I roll down the window, as he grabs the door frame.
“How’s it going, Liam?”
I find myself tucking the white envelope between the seat and the middle console, like some kid trying to hide something. Do I look suspicious?
“I’m good. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. Haven’t been in the diagnostics building lately, I guess,” I say. He’s smiling broadly and the late afternoon sky is reflecting in the glint of his eyes. His short beard is curling around his smile, his curly hair rising with the muscles around his ears. I see his eyes wander to my hands on the steering wheel and then back again. My heart is racing.
“I know. It’s funny how we can work in the same place and feel like it’s a different planet.” He chuckles in a way that shakes his entire body, a low masculine growl that shakes the truck slightly as he pounds his hand on the window ledge. I can’t helpbut smile along. “Hey, several of the guys are going to Darby’s on Friday after work for happy hour. Maybe shoot some darts or pool or something. You should come with us.” The sides of his beard rise again under the growing smile, with the whites of his teeth showing. I watch his hand squeeze the window sill as his forearm tenses.
“Um, okay,” I stumble, catching my breath, trying to keep my eyes off the muscles of his forearm. “Maybe, um, sure. I think I, sure, maybe.”
“Liam,” he places his other hand on the window, “You should join us. It’ll be low key. Hey,” he adds abruptly, grabbing his phone out of his pocket. “Give me your number and I’ll text you mine. Then you can let me know.”
Before I know it, I’m rattling off my number to him and watching him type it in his phone. Then my phone rattles and there’s a message that says, “This is Matthew.” When I look back, he’s typing my name into his contacts and then looks at me, assuming I know he’s seeking my last name, which I guess I do because I’m telling him: “Everett.”
Instinctively, I’m mirroring his actions into my phone, typing his first name and “Gordon,” which he provides without asking.
He waves his phone at me. “We’ll be there right after work, I’ll text you to remind you.” Then, he stops fully, wraps his left elbow over my side-view mirror and stares at me for a minute. “I really hope you’ll come. I’ll buy you the first round.”
I find myself frozen too, watching his chest heave slightly as he breathes. Time suspends awkwardly until I find myself saying, “Sure. I’ll let you know.”
He smiles, pats the window with his hand and then turns to go. I watch him traverse the parking lot. He waves again when he gets to his car, and I wave back.
Still watching him, I blindly grab for the journal, until his car disappears around the corner.
I unwrap the blue string and pull the notebook out, drop the envelope in the passenger seat and flip through the pages. The section after my own entry is filled with my favorite sloppy blue penmanship, still avoiding the lines and ignoring the margins. I close the book partway, debating whether or not to read it now or wait until I get home to dig in. Who am I kidding? Of course I’ll do both: read it here and again at home—and maybe a third time in-between.
It seems my challenge has been accepted! What I have in front of me is the most open-hearted thing I’ve ever read.
“You ever been afraid of something? Well, that’s me,” the sloppy blue writing reveals from the start. “That’s what no one knows or could ever guess about me. I’m scared to lose everything for a chance at something that just might be better.”
