Dating During Lockdown - Love Under Lockdown

Chapter One

Brigid

The sun has always made me happy. Even when I was a kid. I guess that’s because my name is Brigid which means “fire goddess.” I’ve always liked my name, even if it can be annoying to convince people that I hadn’t said ‘Bridget’ when introducing myself.

“No,” I would always have to explain, “Brigid, with a ‘d,’ not an ‘e’ and a ‘t’.”

‘That’s odd,” they would say, as though being odd were a bad thing.

“It’s Irish,” I would point out, as though this explained everything.

Of course I knew it was odd.

How could I not, with the constant reminders?

Throw in my last name – hilarious but very real – McHaggis. A gift from my Scots-Irish father. I was in for a right ribbing all through grade school. It only made me stronger, though.

The sun felt good on my skin today, too, as usual.

“Robin!” Polly exclaimed from her stroller, her chubby little finger pointing at a nearby bird.

“Very good,” I praised her.

She didn’t always get the names right, but my little one could identify twelve different types of local fauna and a good amount of the flora to boot. This education was a large part of the reason for our twice-daily walks.

That, and getting my ass back in shape after having a kid. Pregnancy had done wonderful and lasting things for my chest, though.

Not to mention that we were in the middle of a Coronavirus pandemic and the entire city was on lockdown. Walking around was my only way to get out of the house and my only form of entertainment.

The darned and dastardly stone came out of nowhere. I was usually a lot more careful when it came to stroller handling. One small mistake would spell d-i-s-a-s-t-e-r.

Once we hit the stone the wrong way, Polly seemed more stunned than hurt. The stroller went over onto its side, but its metal frame acted kind of like a roll cage in a race car, the grass on the side of the road also helping to break her fall. Thank mercy for green urban engineering!

After a moment’s silence, she started to giggle hysterically, as if she was watching one of her baby song and dance shows. At least she was okay. And seemed like she’d love rollercoasters when she got tall enough to ride them.

Getting the stroller righted was harder than it looked. For a frame of metal with some cloth stretched over it, the thing was bastard heavy, even with little Polly not adding all that much to the overall weight.

“Need a hand?”

I nearly fell over when I looked up at the stranger who had approached us. He was beautiful and built like a Viking, tall and muscled. His clothes trended toward punk: a leather jacket and dark jeans.

His light blonde hair was longish, reaching the top of his collar, but also well tamed, falling in two equal waves that framed his thin, chiseled face. He was riding a fixed-gear bike, like the ones favored in Williamsburg, though he looked to be the farthest thing from a hipster, the tin-can headphones around his neck notwithstanding.

“I-I-I—”

“Erudite,” he teased with a good-natured smile.

“I’m fine. We’re fine, right, Polly?”

“Wheee!” Polly burbled as I got the stroller upright again.

“Speaks French, does she?”

“And she can identify twelve different kinds of animal,” I boasted.

“Goodness!”

“I think she is going to be a zoologist.”

“Or a zoo-keeper. Either way, it’s great,” the beautiful stranger said, smiling in a way that made me want to plant my lips on his.

“I’m Brigid.”

“The Irish goddess of fire.”

“Among other things,” I said, unable to resist.

I was impressed that he knew about the origin of my name. But I was trying to act cool, calm and collected, especially since I had just taken a tumble from which I was trying to recover.

“I’m Leif.”

“Erikson?”

“Distantly related. And this is?”

“Polly.”

“Hello, Polly,” Leif said, waving from a distance, respecting the current COVID-19 suggested guidelines.

Polly gave a baby wave in return, somewhat to my surprise, because she didn’t usually like strangers. She was barely able to stand my sister, Meegan. Though that was far from unusual. My dear blood-relation had all the personal charm and social grace of a bog viper.

“I think she likes you,” I observed.

“Clever girl.”

“She is,” I confirmed.

“Is she the only one?”

“Who’s clever?”

“Who likes me.”

He smirked.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I said, still trying to play it cool.

“Fair enough. I have to be going. Can I get your number?”

My mind was screaming at me to say no. I didn’t know him. Yeah, he was hot, and I was really lonely and hadn’t touched a guy in longer than I dared think about, but he didn’t know that.

For all he knew I could be married. It took a hell of a lot of front for him to even ask for my number. Particularly so soon after meeting. So why did I still find him so fucking attractive?