An American Love Story (5 page)
Read An American Love Story Online
Authors: C. S. Moore
"I thought that too, but the amount of rain that it takes to make everything that green is insane. You get to missing the sun," he said.
It wouldn't bother me. The sun seemed too bright to my tired eyes anyway⦠and the rain would fit my mood; besides, I had never minded the rain. When I was a kid I used to run out of the house during thunderstorms when it was pouring. My Mom would holler at me from the door, but I wouldn't come in. Not until I was soaked and smelling of rain water. There was just something magical about the rain. Everything was wiped clean after a good storm.
I looked at Garrett who was stealing a sideways glance at me. He shined with a light of his own, and I wondered how anyone would even notice the sun's absence in his presence.
"My brother told me you were just visiting. So where do you live?" he asked.
"I'm in Salt Lake City right now," I said.
"So what are you doing down there?" he asked.
"I work at a shoe store." 'Running away from my problems' didn't seem like a good answer.
"No I mean, what are you doing down there. What took you to Salt Lake?" he asked.
"What took you to Washington?" I asked, deflecting the question.
"The Army," he said.
"And what made you join the Army?" I asked, getting the focus back on him. I wasn't fit for close inspection these days, and he asked questions that could unravel me.
"I wanted to serve my country since childhood, like most little boys," he said, looking over his shoulder to check the blind spot as we merged onto the freeway.
"How long have you been in?" I asked.
"Just a year and a half. I got trained, stationed to Lewis, and sent off," he said.
Six months of training before being sent to war didn't seem like enough; I had no idea the military threw recruits into the fire that quickly. "So when do you get out, or are you looking at a career in the military?"
"No, I signed four years over to them and that's all I'm doing â so I have about two and a half years left," he said.
"And after that, what do you want to do?" I asked.
"I want to be a farmer," he answered.
Was he serious? Farming was something the last generations did; I didn't know any young people that wanted to be a farmers. "Really? Why?" I couldn't think of any reason someone would want to work themselves ragged.
"My dad did a little farming when I was growing up, and it just stuck with me. Most people think I'm crazy to want to work from dusk till dawn doing something that won't make me rich, but it's what I want to do: get my hands dirty, plant seeds, care for fields. I mean there's no other job like it. You watch a bare field turn into sprouts that grow into something that will bring nutrition to the world. You get to create something real and viableâ¦" he trailed off and looked over at me apologetically. "You probably think that's crazy."
"No, I get it. Just change bare field to blank page, and that's how I feel about my writing," I said. Farming and writing couldn't be any more different as far as occupations went, but when he said it like that⦠it didn't seem that way.
"You're a writer?" he asked.
"I don't know that I can call myself a writer. It's a title I reserve for the greats. But I'm a storyteller. I like to create worlds with my words and see what happens in them." Why was I even telling him any of this? I never told any of the other guys I dated anything about me â at least nothing deep. Nothing that mattered, but this mattered to me. I was comfortable with him, my shoulders were relaxed. I was usually as tight as piano wire on a date. What was with this guy?
"That's amazing; I've never met a writer before. Writing's a self-motivating career, like farming. I like that," he said.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well⦠in an office, if you slack off for a day or two nothing changes. The office will keep turning, everything still functioning. But if a farmer slacks off for a day or two, his field is dead. And with your writing, if you aren't typing away at a story every day, then the story won't keep going. It won't get done unless you do it, there's something special about that."
****
When we pulled into the parking lot, I almost choked. We couldn't be there already. That was an hour long drive; I expected it to drag on forever, but it felt like we had just left the house.
Garrett put the truck in park and smiled at me, jumpstarting a forgotten part of myself. "Are you ready to get your redneck on?"
Butterflies tickled my stomach as I replied. "Sure."
We walked to the entrance, and I couldn't believe how hot it was. Why he had a jacket draped over his arm, I couldn't figure out.
"Two please," Garrett said giving them his ID for the military discount. "One of the only benefits we get," he said waving his card before putting it back into his wallet.
Shoulder to shoulder, we walked through the entrance, trying to avoid the throngs of people. The place was packed tighter than the clothes most of the girls were wearing.
Garrett stopped at the concession stand. "Do you want something to drink?" he asked looking at the sign listing the beverages.
"No, I'm fine," I replied. It was hot out, so I'd need to get myself something later, but I didn't want him wasting any more of his money on me. I could take care of myself.
"I guess mostly I was asking to be polite; it's too hot out here. You need a drink," he said.
"Then I'll get myself a drink if I need one," I said.
"Why can't I get you one?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I don't like people spending money on me. I'm super good at gift-giving, but I hate being on the receiving end."
"Well, I don't like my date passing out from dehydration. And since what I don't like is based in medical fact, I win." He turned to the waiting concession employee before I could argue more. "Can I get four waters and a nacho? You want anything else, Tessa?"
"I didn't even want that," I grumbled.
"I'll bet you're a sweets girl. A funnel cake too then," he said to the confused looking employee.
Somehow Garrett managed to carry all four bottles of water, the nachos, and the funnel cake. I asked him to let me take some of it, but he refused. Whoever said chivalry was dead had been wrong. Chivalry was alive and well, next to me balancing food like a waitress in a carnival. Maybe the saying had gotten confused over the years. 'Chivalry is deaf' must have been the original adage, because he definitely was that, or I presumed so for how little he listened.
He took us to the very top of the stadium, which was near deserted as it was one of the few areas not in the shade.
"Aren't we sitting by your family?" I asked.
He pointed down a couple rows. "They're right there," he said. "I just don't like that spot."
I looked at Eric and his family; they had chosen a nice shady spot. "Why not?" I asked. He said he wasn't a racing fan, so it couldn't be about seeing the cars.
"I wouldn't be able to relax there after all of my trainingâ¦" he explained.
I looked at him in confusion.
"See in the military if your back's exposed, you're vulnerable. Up here, my back's against a wall, and I can see everything going on. If something crazy happens, I can respond. I can protect you," he said handing me one of the bottles of water. "Be sure to drink that. We had more med calls for dehydration than anything else," he said.
I rolled my eyes but took a drink. "Well that was in Iraq which gets to what, one hundred and ten?" I asked.
"Yeah pretty easily, usually more than that," he said.
I'd never been able to handle heat. When it was ninety degrees I thought I was going to die. "So are you hot right now?" I asked.
"I'm extremely biased. What do you think?" he asked with a wink.
I blushed. "I meant temperature wise."
"Oh, my mistake." He grinned, and I tried to ignore how perfect his smile was. "No, it doesn't feel hot. This would be a very mild day in Iraq, and I just got back four days ago, so I'm still used to their climate. If it gets below eighty, I'll be cold," he said.
Now I knew why he brought a jacket. "You'll be cold, and I'll be grateful. I can't wait for the sun to go down," I said looking up at the bright sky.
"Are you in a hurry to see some fireworks?" he asked with an impish grin.
I bit my lip, I had a feeling this guy would have me seeing fireworks whether it was the Fourth of July or not. My stomach clenched at the thought, sending my dust covered butterflies back into flight. Adrenaline coursed through me as I was reminded that unlike the others, I wasn't numb to Garrett.
Something about him had me off of my game; I needed that blanket of numbness to protect me from my heartbreak. How could I pretend to be bulletproof when it came to men when I had butterflies floating around my stomach just because he smiled?
Garrett rested his hand in the space between us, brushing his pinky finger along mine for the briefest of moments. My heart pumped faster, and I didn't cringe from the minor touch. Instead, my skin tightened into gooseflesh, and I wished that his hand had lingered.
What was wrong with me? I had sworn off guys. I didn't want this right now. Damaged goods, that's what I was, and he didn't need that. I just needed to show him a good time and then go home. Scooting away from him slightly, how had I let myself get so close to him anyway, I tried to pull my security blanket of numbness back on, but I couldn't. The shock of his touch was like an electric paddle to my heart. My entire body was aware of the man sitting next to me; I couldn't deny that I was attracted to him. For the first time since my breakup, I noticed someone, and in a big way.
The speakers above us squealed for a second and then a twangy voice announced, "Start your engines."
Mine already was, apparently kick-started by Garrett. I hadn't even noticed the cars make their way to the track. Gulping against the lump in my throat, I tried to swallow the response that my mind had conjured up.
With the squealing of tires and roaring of finely tuned engines, the cars accelerated.
"So who's your money on?" Garrett asked.
I jumped. He had leaned in to talk into my ear over the noise. His breath warmed my neck. "What?" I asked.
"Which car is going to win?" he asked with a smile.
He was so close I could smell his cologne; it was a subtle and distinctly male scent. Nothing like the teenage body sprays Phillip wore. "Ummâ¦" I looked at the track and picked a green and purple car. "Number eight."
"You settled on that quickly." He looked out at the track.
"So who do you think will win?" I asked.
"I don't know if I dare bet against you. You seem so sure of number eight." He turned to me with a grin, dimples marking both of his cheeks.
Dimples belonged on chubby babies, not this masculine face with a strong jaw and cleft chin, but there they were, melting my heart. "I'm not sure it will win, I just think it has a cute paint job," I said feeling silly. Phillip would have told me how illogical that was.
Garrett laughed as the cars took the last corner and number eight crossed the finish line first. "Wow. If the next race has a pink car I'm going to choose it. Apparently the race is won with cuteness."
"I can't believe the race is over already. That was fast," I said.
"Is that a pun, or did I not tell you we would be watching race cars?" He asked offering me the funnel cake.
I took it and was surprised it was still warm; funnel cake was one of the only fair foods I enjoyed. "I thought that they went around for a hundred laps or something," I explained before taking a bite.
He shook his head slightly. "Each race will be longer, but this is short track racing so it won't be like NASCAR. I think the last race is the longest at twenty five laps. At least that's what Eric told me," he said, no longer having to raise his voice now that the race was over.
A slew of new cars took to the track, and we made our bets as to which car would win. I was having unbelievable luck guessing; the cars I picked were in the top three for the first five races. All of his were in the bottom three; it was easy and fun teasing each other.
At one point, he threw his arms up in the air. "That's it; I guess I'm no good at picking out the cutest car in the lineup. The cutest girl in the crowd, on the other hand, I've got that competition locked up." He winked at me.
I rolled my eyes; I had seen the flag girls. Comparing me to them was like comparing a designer wedding ring to one of the cheap things children got out of a quarter machines.
Garrett's eyes bore into mine, studying my reaction to his words. I didn't know what he saw or what conclusion he came to, but his lips formed a hard line. He breathed out and then opened his mouth to speak but shook his head and swallowed whatever he was going to say.
There was a bit of tension between us for a few minutes, but he quickly brushed off whatever had upset him. After I glanced down and noticed how close we had gotten, I scooted away from him for a third time. It wasn't hard for me to guess why I kept scooting closer, the noise of the races made it so I had to lean in to hear him â that had to be it.
The sun lowered in the sky, giving us a reprieve from the heat. As the day dwindled to an end, the stadium lights kicked on, illuminating the track. It was a good thing that I was having fun with Garrett; this date would have been torturous otherwise. The races were longer than a simple dinner, as they lasted hours, and more personal than a movie date, as we could actually talk through them. Garrett's laid back and friendly personality had me completely at ease by the time the last race of the night was about to start.
"Okay, this is the last race. My last chance to take you down," he said with a smile.
"Slim chance, Slick. Twenty-two is going to wipe the floor with whoever you pick," I said, betting on a sleek yellow number.
"You know that before I even choose?" he asked.
"I'm just making a prediction based on the trends of the last ten races," I said nudging him with my shoulder.
"Oh, I see. Well, I think number twelve is going to break that trend."