First Real Kiss

“Not enough to be in a small plane.” She frowned, and her mood changed; she became more focused and serious. It took me aback, and I listened rather than just staring at her with longing like a fool.

“Forgive me if the next thing I say sounds overly philosophical, but I don’t think life is about risking our bodies to chase a thrill. It’s about protecting them. It’s about safeguarding them, and then using them to lift others. Maybe it’s because once, someone literally lifted and protected me. I owe him everything.”

Her husband, obviously. “I’m really sorry for your loss.” As an experienced surgeon, I also knew that saying more or less than this was no good.

However, I had a thousand questions suddenly bursting like the Torrey Junction City fireworks finale over the ocean every Fourth of July. One of the biggest questions was how her husband had protected and preserved her—because it sounded like she’d been referring to a specific incident.

What am I, fifteen again? Should I seriously be jealous of her past and wish I’d been the one who was there for her when she needed protecting most?

“You changed the filter and everything?” She stepped toward the truck and looked inside the open hood. “That was fast.”

“For years, I worked on precision. Now, I’m trying to add speed.”

“Is that something you do as a surgeon? Or are we talking solely about your side business as Hotwell Mobile Oil Change Service?” Her smile washed over the world like a gentle wave. “What do I owe you, by the way?”

“How about another glass of lemonade and maybe a chance to wash up?” If I washed up, I’d see the inside of her house.

“Your rates are cheaper than I expected. Come with me.”

This was happening. I was going into the belly of my dream’s beast.

“Should I take off my shoes? I’m used to changing clothes between projects. Surgeon life.” I paused at the door.

“Keep your clothes on, please.”

Enough hesitation. It was time to make a bargain with myself. If I walked in, and the place was nothing like my dream, I’d walk away from this. No matter how attractive Sheridan was, if this dream thing didn’t gel from this point on, I was letting it go, putting the whole insane notion behind me.

Even if it means not feeling that incredible high again? Even if it means letting hair-band singing Sheridan—and whatever this is that’s growing between us—go? Yeah. Because … insanity. I shouldn’t feed it.

She led the way through the carport through a screen door.

“The sink is over there, soap to the right, paper towels on the left.” We stopped at a sink in the mudroom. It was an older home, but it had been remodeled. She said, “I have to admit, today’s been a lot more pleasant than I expected it to be.”

“What has?” I scrubbed my hands for a while. Grease was stubborn.

“I don’t know. Talking with you.”

“Because you only know me as a straight-shooting doctor when it comes to prognoses.” I shook my hands dry, but grabbed a paper towel to rub off remnants of the oil change.

“You’re … different than I thought.”

She went into the kitchen, and I followed—but I stopped short.

Photos hung on the walls, all in the same places from my dream, but they didn’t have the same subject matter. Instead, there was some landscape photography, a few pictures of Sheridan at scenic places like waterfalls or desert scenes in front of a cactus.

Nothing with me.

Well, duh. Of course not.

But then, there was the toaster.

“Chrome?” I couldn’t have been lamer as I pointed like a shock victim. “Your toaster is chrome.”

Sheridan set the lemonade glass on the counter since I was flailing too much to take it. “Um, sure. Do you have a problem with chrome?”

“I love old cars. Do you think I couldn’t love chrome?” But at the same time, there was the big, yellow smiley face sticker on its side. Smiling at me. Like it knew that I knew.

I whirled around to check out the fridge.