My alarm is the sound of a rooster crowing. It's loud and impossible to ignore. The annoying thing was Dad's gift for me and is a custom recording you won't find as part of the standard alarms on your cell phone. I turn it off on Saturdays—my only day with nowhere to be in the morning—but not today. I set it for an hour later than my usual six-thirty, but I wish I could've slept in, because the deep, restful slumber is a recent thing.
I'm freezing in my underwear in front of my bed that displays the options I laid out. Why did I delay until morning to choose my clothes? Oh, yeah. I hate choices. I pick up the next victim. Slacks and a blouse. Nah, that's too formal. Skirt? I know better. I'll manage to chafe my thighs in that thing without tights and tights on a walk? No, thank you. What do people wear for walks? Workout gear? Do I own any? Not that I remember. I circle back to my usual uniform of casual jeans, a V-neck T-shirt, and ballet flats. This shouldn've taken forty minutes. A smart closet that could pick clothes for me is a dream I'm not giving up on.
The debate over clothing leaves no time for breakfast or even coffee. I school my unruly waves into a loose braid and rush out of the door ten minutes later than planned. I'm sweaty, and we haven't started the walk. Traffic is light, and instead of running late, I'm a couple of minutes early. I'm either too late or too early—the story of my life. I get to the park in good time to find a spot in the open parking lot. Lucky me, parallel parking on the street isn't my strong suit.
Phone to the rescue. I remain by my car and fumble with it. Here it is: the latest text from Mom. Today's comes with a picture of my two half-brothers, Basil and Chris, and Rollo, the family dog, wrestling on the beach. I can't resist, so I zoom in. Blond and straight-haired the boys that are tiny copies of Manu, Mom's second husband. I'm the only one who got Mom's light brown curls. Their wedding eight years ago was the last time I spent a summer in France with Mom. Will I ever meet these boys? Should I choose to talk to Mom for this reason? For them? I wish I knew with certainty if they'd care.
I check the phone for any messages from Ben, but there are none. I shove it away, and as if on cue I see Ben jogging in my direction. No baseball cap, no hoodie, no sleeves of any kind, but it's Ben. And then there are his shorts. They end a good eight inches above the knee and give an ample view of the defined thighs. His shirt exposes his sinewy arms: way more revealing than his usual attire.
Ben gets closer and I put to rest my theories about him being bald or having terrible hair. He sports a long and shaggy dirty blond mop that can use a cut. It isn't long enough to put into a ponytail, but plenty long to get into his eyes from the smallest gust of the wind. Dark sunglasses hide his eyes, and his angular cheekbones create hollows placing the lips centerstage. Someone must have really enjoyed kissing those.
Man, I'm a sucker when it comes to attractive men. Every time one of them paid attention to me or made advances, I couldn't get past the handsome exterior. After we'd break up it became obvious there was nothing there between us to begin with, yet I kept settling for the same shiny apples with rotten cores. I straighten my shoulders. No more. Xavier was it. No more pretty but shitty men. Better yet, no more men. No more dating. I need to try this self-love thing Angie keeps shoving down my throat.
I keep my eyes on Ben as he dodges a small dog intent on capturing the squirrel. His shorts are nice. I roll my eyes. Who am I lying to? I am not looking at his shorts, and I'm already falling back into my old habits and using the cover of my sunglasses to take in his lean body. The fact that he's not that tall or doesn't fit the bulky muscled type I always go for doesn't matter. I tell myself to stop it and try to focus on his outfit. His clothes and mine are not meant for the same type of an activity. How sporty does he expect this walk to be?
I should've worn my sneakers, but the sad old things have seen better days. The one time I forgo comfort in order to look good—scratch that, good may be an overstatement—to not look bad, is the time I'm going to get sore feet. Or blisters. I'll be regretting this tomorrow when my poor feet kill me after standing on raw skin all shift.
Ben stops in front of me, takes his sunglasses off, and squints. His gaze roames across my body before it focuses on my face. Does he think I'm crazy for wearing this? Should I drive home and change? Reschedule our walk for another day? Maybe we should just sit on the bench and not walk?
"What's the story with not exercising for a long time?"
The airy bubbles in my chest disappear. Is he judging me? His words trigger the tripwire that lays buried deep inside. The lightness gives way to the 'not desirable' shit. So much for thinking I got over it.
Why didn't Ben say 'Glad to see you' or something along those lines, something to show I've been on his mind, maybe? Probably because I have not been on his mind. But a simple 'Hello' would've been better than his question.
"Why not straight up tell me I'd be more attractive if I only got in shape?"
What do you have to say to that, Ben-the-exercise-man? An apology would be nice. I wait for one to come, but all I get is silence. Ben does not hide his re-examination of my body, my face. I hope he can feel the scorn I'm trying to express with my whole being. Don't like what you see? I don't care. It's none of your business.
"I find you equally attractive now as on other days I've seen you."
What did he just say? And what does that even mean?
"Communication is not my forte." He goes on. "All I was trying to do is ask you about the reason for not exercising. Is there a story behind it? I should've worded my question in a different way. I didn't intend to offend you, and for that, I'm sorry. I just want to get to know you better."
My defensiveness wavers. Is he that good with words or is this honesty? He's not Xavier. I resist my first reaction to push him away, take off my sunglasses and consider what to do next. More silence lingers between us.
Should I tell him about Dad? About all my jobs, and the school, the lack of time to even sleep, and Xavier's celery juice book? Ben did sound earnest and he did sort-of-apologize. I didn't expect his words to cut me so deep, to bring up all the self-doubt and the insecurities about the weight I gained since Dad's death. I take a couple of deep breaths.
The vulnerability I see in Ben's eyes is the blanket that extinguishes the fire of my anger. My defensive walls lower. I want to tell him something, not everything but maybe give the real me permission to peek out from the dark corner.I look up at him hoping it'll persuade me to go ahead and talk, but he's looking at other cars around us. I duck back into the protection of obscurity. Not today. Maybe never. He was right, though, he needs to work on his communication skills.
"Let's walk," I say. "That's what we are here for, right?"