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Ren Bergman is too damn happy. In the three years I’ve known him, I’ve seen him not smiling twice. Once, when he was unconscious on the ice, so I hardly think that counts, and the other time, when an extreme fan shoved her way through a crowd, yelling that she’d had his face tattooed on her lady bits because, and I quote, “a girl can dream.”
“True.” Leaning in, he lifts one eyebrow and says conspiratorially, “This is the locker room, you know.” I resist the fierce urge to tweak his nipple.
On a chorus of “Yes, Frankie” echoing behind me, I shove open the door, buoyed by the satisfied purpose of a woman whose life is ordered and predictable. Just how I like it.
Unfortunately, I usually only recognize in retrospect when I’ve monologued. I swear, I’m not making that up. I cannot tell when it’s happening. Everyone knows the saying “time flies when you’re having fun,” and that’s the only way I can explain how my awareness works when I’m in a groove, talking about something that I like—I have no sense of how long it’s been.
My burger catches in my throat. What a terrifying possibility, to find yourself so attracted to someone you can’t help but love them. I try to smile to show her I’m okay, but I’m incapable of an involuntarily grin. Every time I try, I end up giving the impression that I’m about to throw up.
“No, I’m not, Matt. I run as consistently frigid as a high-end freezer. Don’t put this on me. Just because I’m a female who’s regularly in your vicinity and not fangirling over you like the many troubled souls who buy your jockstraps on eBay does not mean I secretly desire to screw you into next week.” Matt frowns. “You don’t?” “I don’t.”
Ren Bergman is really not smiling. And not-smiling Ren Bergman is a whole new animal. No, man. Move aside, Erik the Red. There’s a new enraged ginger Viking come to slay, and Lord help me, cinnamon sexpots are my weakness. I’ve been relying on the fluorescents we work under to dull Ren’s hair to burnished bronze. I tell myself every time I see him that he’s not actually a ginger god of ice hockey glory. He’s a brassy blond god of ice hockey glory. It helped.
Dammit, this is sexy, and my body knows it. I can’t deny it any more than I can deny my Harry Potter panties are now as wet as a rainy day at Hogwarts.
I recognize Ren’s posture as signifying defensiveness and immediately feel bad for opening my mouth. This happens sometimes. I ask a question, and people hear . . . more than a question. They hear criticism or judgment or teasing. I’ve given up trying to explain that my brain isn’t wired for that subtlety, that I couldn’t imply those kinds of layers of meaning if I wanted to, because one too many times, people haven’t believed me. They hear excuses rather than context. So I stopped trying and told myself to quit caring when I’m misunderstood.
“That’s an evasion if I ever heard one. The point is you made time to date. Or, shall I say, for the benefit of your Renaissance romanticism, thou didst woo and court.” I roll my eyes. “Forsooth, Wilhelmina, sometimes ‘I desire that we be better strangers.’ ”
Ren’s smile is so bright, its voltage could power a city block. He cranes his head toward Amy. “Hear that, Dr. Amy? She thinks I’m cute.”
And while most of us like to comfort ourselves with the delusion that love is bliss, it’s not called falling in love for nothing. We love, entranced by the breathtaking view, and we fall, not knowing where we’ll land.
A beat of silence holds between us. He leans in and wipes my lip clean. “Ketchup,” he says quietly. Then he sticks his thumb in his mouth and licks it clean with a pop. Preschool Jesus with a Carpentry Awl, my wires are crossing. And as he leans close, he hits me with his spicy, clean scent. I stare into his kind eyes, absorbing his sheer size and proximity. I decide Ren is living temptation. I want under him. Yesterday.
“You’ve seen me work every moment I have under the lights, Francesca. I plan on being similarly dedicated when the lights are out.” Holy soaked panties.
“Is that really all?” She reaches for my hand and pats it. “We can talk about him now. We’ve passed the Bechdel test.”
“Little aggressive of a curse, right out of the gate, don’t you think, Francesca?” Annie shakes her head. “You don’t know the half of it. When she and Tim get drunk, she calls Imperio and he follows her orders. It’s like sick, twisted, Pottermore charades.”
“You are hot.” Willa sighs. “Is there no faithfulness anymore?” Rooney blows her a kiss. “You were my first, honey. But you chose Ryder over me. It’s time for me to move on.”
‘To dare is to lose one’s footing momentarily. Not to dare is to lose oneself.’ ”
