The Match (It Happened in Charleston 1)

She laughs a little laugh that sounds borderline annoyed and pulls her legs up under her to face me. She’s wearing a long burgundy skirt today that’s kind of flowy and has a slit up to her tan knee. It’s paired with a fitted white tee, but about an hour ago, she got cold and pulled a gray crewneck sweatshirt from her bag and put it on. Her hair is down and wavy like she’s been swimming in the ocean today and then let it dry in the sun. She looks effortlessly beautiful, and YES, I realize I shouldn’t be noticing any of this, but I freaking am because I have no self-control.

“Alrighty then, Jake.” She says my name almost like she’s giving me a friendly shove to the chest. “Now I really want to know what we're doing out here. What’s happening right now?”

I like that she’s direct. I don’t think that’s a normal quality in women. I wouldn’t actually know because it’s been a minute since I’ve played the field (evidence being the fact that I just used the phrase, playing the field.)

“Well, Evie, this here”—I put on the same playful, sarcastic tone she’s wearing and gesture between us—“is called friendship. It’s a concept where two people—”

This time she really does shove me in the arm, and I break off with a chuckle. “I know what friendship is! I just want to know why you are suddenly feeling buddy-buddy with me when it’s been clear up until this point that you don’t want me around.”

It’s time for me to be direct too. I purposely meet her gaze. “I’ve wanted you around.”

That statement cracks through the air like a bullet from a gun.

She wants to smile; I know it because there’s tension at the corners of her mouth, but she doesn’t. “You have a funny way of showing that.”

I sigh and face forward. “You’re right. I’ve not been the friendliest. And the truth is, it’s because ever since my wife left, I feel a little hesitant around beautiful women.”

Oh, awesome, Jake! How about you just go ahead and tell her all your deepest pain, why don’t you?! Maybe she’d like to hear about how yo

u were pantsed in the hallway in the ninth grade and it’s scarred you ever since???

“You think I’m beautiful?”

I laugh and meet her sparkling eyes, glad to know she’s not making a run for it. “Oh, come on. I know you own a mirror. You don’t have to play coy.”

“But if I play coy, I might get more compliments from you.”

My heart flips over. She wants more compliments from me? Wants me to flirt with her? I think she realizes how that sounded, because she starts squirming in her seat. She shifts forward and then bunches her long hair up on her head and wraps a hair tie around it until it’s an oversized bun that somehow makes her look even cuter. “Okay, then, friend. Tell me something about yourself I don’t know.” She’s deflecting, but I can still tell that her face is flushed.

“I started my architecture firm five years ago.”

She scrunches her nose, and shakes her head, and then turns to fully face me on the swing. As she pulls both of her legs up under her, one of her legs brushes against mine. Her back is leaning against the armrest, and I couldn’t get away from her gaze even if I wanted to.

“I don’t want to talk work. Tell me something interesting about you. Like…what color Skittle is your favorite?”

“I don’t like Skittles.”

Her mouth falls open. I am a serial killer in her eyes now. “You don’t like Skittles?!” She shakes her head. “What’s wrong with you?”

I laugh. “Many things.”

“Wait. Do you not like all candy? Are you one of those guys who only eats lean proteins and greens? I mean, it would make sense based on the way you look, but…”

My smile is wide and cocky. “The way I look?”

“Now who’s being coy?”

I laugh fully and realize I could sit here and talk to her all night. That thought scares me as much as it excites me. “I like brownies—extra fudgy and with chocolate chips, slightly under-baked.”

Her blonde brow raises. “Really? Okay, I can respect that. I love chocolate.”

Are we really having this conversation? It's so casual and sweet and unimportant and…exactly what I’ve been missing in my life lately.

“What’s your favorite color Skittle?” I ask.

She lays her head on the back of the swing and pulls the sleeves of her sweatshirt down over her fists. “Red. Do you have any siblings?”

“Four sisters.”