“You’re talking to a born athlete. What we’ve done is nothing compared to the training I used to endure.”
“So, you still train even though you don’t play?”
He bends down to tie his shoelace, and upon closer inspection, he stills. I notice his demeanor changes every time I mention anything about him playing soccer.
“It’s in my blood.”
A long silence follows, and with my heart rate evening out, I suggest we stop for something to drink. There’s a small café, Sally’s Seaside Stop, overlooking the beach. It has a few tables, eclectic décor, with washed-out colors to blend in with the beach theme. Upon looking through the glass display, it appears they mainly sell fresh fruit, pastries, and various drinks. We order our fruit juices before sitting at a small yellow table out front.
People are coming and going, some walking their dogs, some in workout gear just like us. There are a few school kids and surfers in wetsuits—a mixture of people unlike the stuck-up socialites back home.
“I love people watching,” I say while eyeing an elderly man who pulls out a water bowl for his dog. It’s pink and bedazzled in jewels, and he’s filling it with a bottle of Evian. “I don’t get to do it back home, you know. But gosh, there’s something about watching people go about their daily lives that’s fascinating.”
“Airports are the best.” Oliver appears relaxed, taking a sip from his straw while eyeing the same man and his dog. This time, he pulls out some fancy blanket for his King Charles Cavalier to lay on. It’s also pink, has diamantes sewn along the edges, and embroidery which says ‘Lady Eloise.’ “You ever just sit and wonder where that person is heading?”
“Yes.” I smile, the feeling so familiar. “I don’t get to travel much, but when I get the chance, I could just sit in an airport for hours.”
“So why don’t you travel? Money?”
I’m a little taken aback by his forwardness, but considering he saw me empty my stomach into a random bush, we’re beyond that level of friendship. Talking about money is something my parents enjoy doing, but not me.
“I traveled with my parents and sisters. We did Europe, though my family’s idea of traveling is five-star hotels and dinners with the consulates.”
“So, you want to do it rough?”
“Excuse me?”
“Travel? Trek through the world with a backpack, I mean.”
“Oh, yes. It would be lovely,” I reply, wistfully.
He bursts out laughing. “Sweetheart, I’ve done the backpacking, and it’s anything but lovely. You share a shower with strangers, sleep in bunk beds, your clothes stink for days, and if you’re lucky, you don’t end up broke with some hooker running off with your belongings.”
I scrunch up my face unable to contain my amusement. “A hooker ran off with your belongings?”
“Not me.” He laughs, again. “A mate of mine when we backpacked through Europe. Let’s just say, a girl he picked up at the bar wasn’t quite a girl if you know what I mean.”
“No way!” I blurt out, covering my mouth to control my laughter. “You hear about these things, but you never actually hear of it happening to anyone you know.”
He nods, still grinning. “It was quite a loud scream to wake up to. And I’ve never heard a bloke scream like a girl.”
I twirl my straw around. “Lucky it wasn’t you.”
“I wouldn’t just bring a random woman back, especially in a foreign non-English-speaking country,” he affirmed, rather confidently. “Sex is great, but it’s even better when you’ve built it up in your mind.”
The linger of his words heat beneath my skin.
I blame the warm air or the run.
No, it can’t be anything else.
Oliver is an arrogantly good-looking man who just turned you on.
“Interesting perspective,” I say, unsure of where to go from here.
“So, the boys back home are what?”
“The boys back home?” I’m not following until he stares at me waiting for a response. “They’re not backpackers, that’s for sure. They’re more into stocks and bonds. Political race. You know, that world?”
“So, hookers and crack?”
“That’s a bit far-fetched,” I argue, taken aback. “Just because you have money doesn’t mean you’re into hookers and crack. Why would they pay someone when they can get it for free?”
“And what if they can’t get it for free? What if the person they’re desperate for has taken off to go find herself?”
Where is he going with this? His honesty is confronting, treating me like I’m his closest friend when, in fact, he is still a stranger to me. I feel compelled to defend myself and the life back home in which he has no understanding of.
“Sebastian is not like that. He understands I need this.”
Oliver leans forward, his eyes demanding I bring myself closer. Without thinking, my elbows etch forward. We’re inches apart, close enough for me to see the small freckles scattered on the bridge of his nose.
“Sweetheart, if you were mine, I wouldn’t let you walk away and demand a break,” he whispers, the sweetness of his breath lingering.
My heart beats erratically with so many mixed emotions, while the heat does nothing to cure the pressure mounting inside of me. His eyes are fixated on mine, a sultry stare drawing me in. A grin is plastered on his face, and although I never noticed before, he has one dimple that sits perfectly near his cheek.
I pull away, regretting my decision to go on this run. My desire to experience freedom is being overshadowed by guilt.
“It’s complicated, and besides, how could you even understand? I don’t have to justify my relationship to you.”
Oliver retracts, the grin disappearing from his face. The heat between us dying down faster than you can say fiancé.
“Right, I wouldn’t understand? I’m just the single boy next door looking to get laid. Obviously, I picked the wrong girl to play with.” And just like that, he’s turned back into his arrogant self, demanding we run back home.
This time, he doesn’t play nice, riling me up and pushing me the last mile until I almost collapse on the pavement. At my front gate, he pats my back hard, almost pushing me forward in my weakened state, calling me a ‘good girl’ as I almost faint to the ground.
Walking away, he pulls his white tank off, throwing it around his neck. His back muscles make it hard not to stare.
He will be the death of me.
As I shower, trying to rid myself of the guilt washing over me, it only makes things worse. I avoided brushing over my private parts, running the soap quickly because the pent-up frustration is turning into some sort of orgasmic finish. I am ashamed of how his words affect me, and how every time he argues and turns into the arrogant asshole, it becomes a breeding ground for my frustration which only leads to other mixed emotions.
What the hell is wrong with you?