that
asshole had managed to pull this off.
Jesus, the moment he
realized he was seeing Leah, that it was Leah out there hurling red balls and
dodging even more of them, his heart had stopped beating and had
climbed right up into his throat. When their eyes met, and she was
hit broadside with a dodgeball and lost her balance, falling in one
ugly sprawl of arms and legs, all he could think about was whether
she was all right, and he had rushed forward without
deliberation.
Myriad thoughts raged through his head as
he’d sat next to her, thoughts he couldn’t quite grasp or put into
words. All the things he’d wished he’d said the night he’d ended
it, all the things he’d wanted to say over the last five years, how
incredible it was to see her now. He tried to make conversation,
tried to at least say hello without sounding like an idiot, but
frankly, when Leah had half-trotted, half-limped away, Michael had
felt relieved.
He wasn’t ready for this
at all. He needed time to get his thoughts together, to figure out
how to proceed, but it was proving impossible with her in the same
room. Hell, the same state . He couldn’t keep his eyes off
of her, and he watched her at the other end of the gym talking to
some women, her hands flying. He wondered where she’d been, what
she’d done . . . who she was with now.
His torch for her had never died. The very
moment he’d seen her and knew it was Leah, he’d felt a rush of all
the loose and fuzzy things that he used to feel for her bubbling up
inside him again. It was weird and intense—a feeling he’d only
experienced a couple of times in his life. At thirteen, he’d felt
it for Candace Flores, who was two years older than him and never
noticed Michael at all—except to call him a major geek one day in
front of several other kids and then laugh.
After that spectacular put-down, Michael
hadn’t felt this way again until he’d met Leah at a happy hour one
night in New York. There was something about her that felt familiar
from the very start, something that had caused the first ribbon of
desire to curl around his heart with no more than a hello from
her.
And here he was five years later, having
been the one to have ruined everything, feeling it all over
again.
She looked so good. The image Michael had
carried around all these years hadn’t done her justice. She’d let
her hair grow out—it was below shoulder-length now, but still the
color of corn silk. Her eyes were large and crystalline blue, and
her mouth still made the man in him squirm. She’d always had that
effect on him—when he saw her, the guy instinct in him wanted to be
with her, in every way possible.
She was wearing shorts and a tight T-shirt
that outlined her near-perfect shape. Her legs were long and
athletic, and she looked healthy, not anorexic like so many others
in the gym. She looked absolutely fantastic.
Get it together,
man , he chastised himself. He couldn’t
stand at one end of the gym ogling her all day. They had a lot of
work to do, and this wasn’t exactly the time or place to pick up a
relationship he’d broken in half with a single blow to the gut five
years ago.
He made himself turn away, made himself
work, and somehow he managed to get through the morning session. He
took girls aside and tried to teach them how to play team dodgeball
by complimenting them and getting them to lighten up a little, to
laugh. His efforts, as usual, made him more than one friend among
his group.
He even chatted with one of the women he’d
once dated, Jill, and had her laughing and looking a little too
hopeful at the end of their chat.
He did not, however, look at Leah if he
could help it. He just couldn’t. If he did, he would want to talk
to her, and if he talked to her, he’d want to explain everything,
and then maybe even beg her forgiveness, or do something equally
wimpish. Besides, he had an instinct that the time for explaining
himself had reached its statute of limitations.
But
asshole had managed to pull this off.
Jesus, the moment he
realized he was seeing Leah, that it was Leah out there hurling red balls and
dodging even more of them, his heart had stopped beating and had
climbed right up into his throat. When their eyes met, and she was
hit broadside with a dodgeball and lost her balance, falling in one
ugly sprawl of arms and legs, all he could think about was whether
she was all right, and he had rushed forward without
deliberation.
Myriad thoughts raged through his head as
he’d sat next to her, thoughts he couldn’t quite grasp or put into
words. All the things he’d wished he’d said the night he’d ended
it, all the things he’d wanted to say over the last five years, how
incredible it was to see her now. He tried to make conversation,
tried to at least say hello without sounding like an idiot, but
frankly, when Leah had half-trotted, half-limped away, Michael had
felt relieved.
He wasn’t ready for this
at all. He needed time to get his thoughts together, to figure out
how to proceed, but it was proving impossible with her in the same
room. Hell, the same state . He couldn’t keep his eyes off
of her, and he watched her at the other end of the gym talking to
some women, her hands flying. He wondered where she’d been, what
she’d done . . . who she was with now.
His torch for her had never died. The very
moment he’d seen her and knew it was Leah, he’d felt a rush of all
the loose and fuzzy things that he used to feel for her bubbling up
inside him again. It was weird and intense—a feeling he’d only
experienced a couple of times in his life. At thirteen, he’d felt
it for Candace Flores, who was two years older than him and never
noticed Michael at all—except to call him a major geek one day in
front of several other kids and then laugh.
After that spectacular put-down, Michael
hadn’t felt this way again until he’d met Leah at a happy hour one
night in New York. There was something about her that felt familiar
from the very start, something that had caused the first ribbon of
desire to curl around his heart with no more than a hello from
her.
And here he was five years later, having
been the one to have ruined everything, feeling it all over
again.
She looked so good. The image Michael had
carried around all these years hadn’t done her justice. She’d let
her hair grow out—it was below shoulder-length now, but still the
color of corn silk. Her eyes were large and crystalline blue, and
her mouth still made the man in him squirm. She’d always had that
effect on him—when he saw her, the guy instinct in him wanted to be
with her, in every way possible.
She was wearing shorts and a tight T-shirt
that outlined her near-perfect shape. Her legs were long and
athletic, and she looked healthy, not anorexic like so many others
in the gym. She looked absolutely fantastic.
Get it together,
man , he chastised himself. He couldn’t
stand at one end of the gym ogling her all day. They had a lot of
work to do, and this wasn’t exactly the time or place to pick up a
relationship he’d broken in half with a single blow to the gut five
years ago.
He made himself turn away, made himself
work, and somehow he managed to get through the morning session. He
took girls aside and tried to teach them how to play team dodgeball
by complimenting them and getting them to lighten up a little, to
laugh. His efforts, as usual, made him more than one friend among
his group.
He even chatted with one of the women he’d
once dated, Jill, and had her laughing and looking a little too
hopeful at the end of their chat.
He did not, however, look at Leah if he
could help it. He just couldn’t. If he did, he would want to talk
to her, and if he talked to her, he’d want to explain everything,
and then maybe even beg her forgiveness, or do something equally
wimpish. Besides, he had an instinct that the time for explaining
himself had reached its statute of limitations.
But
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