Extended Summary: Ariella Kinsey was raped and impregnated. Her husband's immediate response is to get an abortion, but she steadfastly refuses to give up the baby...until he leaves. And then the prospect of raising a monster's baby becomes more terrifying, and she's not sure having that particular baby is worth losing Garrett. Is there a real choice to be made, or is it easier than it sounds?

If you take the time to read this, thank you.

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Maelstrom
Only stand beside me if you can withstand the tidal wave

Sunday, February 6, 2005
-Ariella-

I walk into the grocery store, repeating my mission to myself. Straight to the drinks, straight to the line, straight out. There is no way I’m going to get sidetracked by the makeup or hair care products or purses. No, no, no. It always happens, so my friends are in the car, counting the minutes, testing me.

We’ve been planning this anti-Super Bowl party since football season kicked off and Chrissy’s boyfriend started talking about nothing but the Super Bowl and its contenders. So, the four of us—Chrissy, Stevey, Mason and I—are having a girls’ night in while George goes to his friends’ big blowout.

Back in the drinks section, I scan the shelves for Lipton green tea, mixed berry and citrus. While the rest of the country gorges on chips and salsa and nachos and other such hors d'oeuvres, we are going to stick to fruits and vegetables and wholesome foods and drinks. Besides, in our opinion, that sort of stuff tastes so much better than greasy, fatty acids.

We usually think that, anyway. We are girls. “Comfort” food is not just for depressing times in life.

I balance the two twelve packs in the handheld basket that I’m carrying and turn my head away from the cosmetics and healthcare products as I pass the section. On the other side of me are cute baby clothes however, so before I can “aw” at the clothes, I stare straight ahead of me. So far, this is working. Good.

At the front, I finally turn my head to look for the shortest service line and realize that the Super Bowl could possibly be a major grocery shopping holiday. Sighing, I try to choose which line I want.

Well, I may not have been allowed to look at girly stuff, but I was allowed to look at a guy. So, the line I choose has a guy at the end. He’s about a half a foot (six inches) taller than me, not that it’s too hard for men to reach that status. I stand at a mere five feet and six inches, and that’s pushing it. Dark hair, almost black. Currently, his only facial feature that I can distinguish is a chiseled cheekbone. He’s looking at the magazine shelf, so my view of him is strictly profile. Following his gaze, I find a Mustang magazine in the front.

I turn my eyes back to him, and at nearly the same moment, his eyes land on mine.

Wow.

His eyes are an intense smoky (blue) hue, dark eyelashes making them even smokier.

Isn’t it only a sick joke of God that men get all the eyelashes? They who do not try to have or may not even want thick, dark, long eyelashes naturally have them. And we who try so hard to have said eyelashes aren’t blessed with them. How is it fair?

I guess I’ve been luckier than most girls in that department, but his eyelashes are still more than what I could ever hope to have. I stopped hoping for them a long time ago.

A small smile brightens his face, and I’m sure I’m blushing. The heat has definitely risen to my cheeks, at least.

“Hi,” I try to greet as calmly as I can with his eyes boring into mine, hating my hormones immediately. I’m nineteen years old, and I still can’t smile at a guy without getting the butterflies. What does that say about me? Well, at least he doesn’t seem to notice. Guys are pretty ignorant at times. Or maybe I’m just a wonderful actress. You never know.

“Hey,” he slightly nods his head.

With much difficulty, I manage to tear my eyes off him to look in his buggy; he has several bags of chips, several cartons of dip, hot dogs, hot dog buns, hamburger meat, hamburger buns, coleslaw, cans of beans. Apparently he is having his own party.

He eyes my twenty-four bottles of green tea and chuckles. “You cannot be serious.” I would embarrass myself ‘til the end of life if it made him laugh forever.

“Serious about what? About my health? About my job? About my education? About my life? My family? My future? What can’t I possibly be serious about?” I ask playfully. Forgetting my nervousness, flirtation makes its way out.

“You’re drinking that much green tea at a Super Bowl party?”

Normally, I would probably be offended by a stranger questioning my purchases, but this guy is downright gorgeous.

“I’m not going to a Super Bowl party. I’m going to an anti-Super Bowl party. Girls’ night in. You know how it is.”

“Actually, I don’t,” he admits as if this is world-breaking news. He steps forward a few paces, and I follow behind him.

“That’s a shame, really,” I shake my head in mock dismay. “I mean, it’s a lot of fun.” Then, feigning an epiphany, I exclaim, “You should totally come. I mean, we’ll do each other’s makeup and paint nails and talk about hot guys,” wait? Did I just say that? “and what we would have enhanced,” I cannot believe I just spewed that either, “if we could handle plastic surgery. Yep. You would totally fit in.”

He laughs some more and nods. “I would come if I didn’t already have previous engagements. Sorry.” A shrug.

“Football gets in the way of everything,” I snap.

“It certainly does. Otherwise I would be knocking at eight.”

“Starts at six.”

“So, I would be fashionably late. Isn’t that what girls do, anyway?”

“Two hours is not fashionably late.”

“Huh. I didn’t know…” he continues, still playing.

We laugh some more and move up a few more steps. Taking in his apparel, I realize he’s wearing a sweatshirt that sports the emblem for the Philadelphia Eagles.

“I hope your team wins.” I nod at his sweatshirt.

“Thanks. So do I,” he grins. “But I didn’t know you were allowed to say something like that when you’re avoiding the Super Bowl.”

“Well you know,” I shrug quasi-carelessly, “what my friends don’t know won’t hurt them.”

“Oh, is that your motto?” he chuckles. “So, are you in college?”

“Yep; a junior. You?” He doesn’t look like a college student.

“Oh, no. Not anymore. I graduated in 2001…from Columbia,” he explains.

“What would possess you to go from New York City to Oregon? Did you used to live here?” My exasperation is apparently not totally unreasonable because he starts nodding in concurrence.

“Yeah…” he starts slowly, “no.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t choose to come here,” he explains more quickly. Oh. “I just finished my FBI training, and this is where they based me. So, voila, here I am.” He mocks a gracious bow. A proud smile crosses his lips, and I can’t help but feel proud for him also. Getting into the FBI can’t be an easy feat.

“What do you do in the FBI?” My curiosity grows as we step forward in the line.

“Well, I’m a special agent, which goes out and does the dirty work…most of the time. I don’t want to undermine the efforts of the office guys. But anyway, I hope to get into the NCAVC eventually.” Then, seeing my pseudo-understanding nod, he laughs and explains, “It’s the department that handles profiling…and other services, but that’s what I’m especially interested in. However, I have to wait quite some time before I can actually get there. They say it’s like three years, but three means at least eight, usually.”

“Well, maybe you’ll be an exception,” I offer cheerfully.

“That’d be nice, but I’m not counting on it,” he sighs. “So, what’s your plan so far? Or do you not have one yet?”

I study his face for a moment, trying to decipher any underlying meaning. He’s a stranger in a grocery store; how much can either of us look into this conversation? “I’ve been thinking about opening a restaurant.”

“Business major?”

“Actually, Poly-Sci.”

“Those have nothing to do with each other,” he laughs, leaning on the handlebar of his buggy.

“No, you’re right, they don’t,” I join in his humor. “But I’ve heard that your background doesn’t really matter. It’s really your experience. And I don’t have any faith in the legal system anymore, so I’m not going to attempt law school.”

“Yeah, that’s happened to a lot of people lately,” he agrees. “Are you gonna go to a culinary institution after college?”

“I’ve been taking cooking classes since I was in elementary school, and I’ve been cooking with and for my family since middle school. I don’t really think I need to go to a special school for it. Honestly, I would find that a waste of time, effort and money. I guess I should switch into business management, but…I don’t know. I’ve heard that it is unbelievably boring.”

“Yeah, I heard that too…when I was in college.” He smirks innocently, and the butterflies take flight once again. “Where do you want to intern?”

“Have no idea yet,” I sigh. I hate planning this stuff. I mean, it’s so close so I need to get a move on, but it’s terrifying as hell. “Some restaurant,” I kid and he chuckles some more.

“Good choice,” he smiles at me and then starts placing his items on the conveyor belt. As he does so, he looks up at me periodically, I watching him with an amused grin. He’s extremely careful with each bag and carton and package. As his eyes fall on me once more, I look up at him. “I’m Garrett, by the way,” he finally introduces himself to me. And it is now that I realize we’ve been talking for a couple minutes and even without knowing his name, I am completely comfortable.

“I’m Ariella. And if you’re going to make any mermaid jokes, let me remind you that the Disney fish is named Ariel, not Ariella. And I was born before that movie came out.” And even so, I was still named after the stupid Disney princess. I don’t like telling people that though because then they think my parents are nuts and it gives them this image of me that I’m a snobby brat or something.

In 1985—the year that I was born—the movie idea was developed, and an extended family member was working for Disney at the time so the name got out and to my parents who still needed a name for their second daughter. However, they didn’t want the name to be the exact same, so they added the ‘la’ at the end. It hadn’t saved me much in elementary school, much to my despair.

“Well, darn. Now I don’t have anything to say,” he snaps and kicks the ground. And just as quickly as his eyes lit up with a laugh, they change to an intense gaze.

“Well, that’s too bad. I’m sure you liked middle school. Otherwise you would have grown up faster,” I counter.

“Gotten a lot of crap about your name, haven’t you?”

“Moreso in elementary school, but I still get it sometimes.”

The cashier finally starts scanning his groceries, and I have to admit, I’m disappointed that this encounter will have to end. But maybe we’ll see each other again.

“So, are you free after the Super Bowl?” he asks suddenly, almost trying to rush through this part of the conversation. His hastiness makes me laugh some more, but seeing his embarrassed expression, I try to calm down. “I mean…an anti-Super Bowl party can only last as long as the Super Bowl, right? Otherwise its name would be pointless.”

I shrug. “We’re watching movies until we get tired of it.”

“Can I call you after the Super Bowl to see if you’re tired of watching movies then?”

Man, would I love for him to do that, but even as I tell him my number and he punches the digits into his cell phone, I feel like I’m betraying my friends. “If I’m not tired when you call, don’t think I’m blowing you off. Try again if you really want to. But only if you want to,” I add slyly, and he nods with a gentle chortle.

“Oh, I’ll want to,” he smiles. “Don’t you worry, Princess.”

And for some reason, Princess no longer bothers me. I’ve heard it in so many derogatory ways that I’m surprised I’m not offended, but…you know, if a hot, older man is calling you something that’s not blatantly demeaning, then you’ll take it. Bitch and chick and babe and whatever else goes around these days wouldn’t fly, but…Princess? Where’s the harm in that?

He waits with his buggy full of bags even while I’m checking out. He hadn’t given me any warning, so I feel badly that he’s standing there, but he looks patient. And he’s still smiling. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he offers as I grab my two paper bags. He even takes them and puts them in his buggy.

“So, what movies are you girls watching tonight? Disney movies?” he laughs.

“Clever,” I mockingly compliment with a straight face, only to break out in a smile seconds later. “But no, we’re watching Stay, Garden State, and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. And if we happen to be in the mood for more—though I doubt it—we will probably end up watching Mean Girls.”

“Wow,” he guffaws once more. “That is nothing like the first three. Go from three intense dramas that involve a lot of thought to a brainless comedy.”

“We’ll need something to lighten the mood, but like I said, we most likely will not get that far.”

“Because you’ll be hanging out with me, right?” he wiggles his eyebrows flirtatiously and winks once. I cannot help but grab my sides as I crack up. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he remarks with a puff of the chest.

“Sure. Okay.”

“Well, I can take it however I want, whether it’s accurate or not.”

“There yah go.”

“So, are you trying to say that we’re not hanging out later tonight?”

I slow my pace to a stop as we get nearer to Mason’s car. I nonchalantly look in the direction of the car and see that they’ve already spotted Garrett and me. I can’t make out any features or looks or gestures, but I know that they see us. So I turn back to Garrett. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but…if my girlfriends think that I have an obligation to them because we’ve been planning this night forever, they’re not gonna be happy to hear me say that I’m going to ditch them early to hang out with a guy I met in the grocery store.”

“But if you guys aren’t going to be watching movies anymore…”

“There’s more to it than watching movies. I mean…and you’re having your party anyway. People aren’t going to leave right after the game.”

“It’s not at my house. It’s at a co-worker’s house, so I don’t have to worry about that.”

“Then why are you buying so much?” I glance to his cart again.

“Because he asked me to. I’m being reimbursed, so it’s not a huge deal. And isn’t it amazing that he did? Otherwise I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of meeting you.”

“I must say, I only got in that line because I saw you.” I will my body not to heat up and flush as I say it, but how can it not? When I know that I’ve just admitted something that I never would have under any other circumstances, I cannot help but blush.

“Don’t say things like that. It’ll boost my ego way too much. I’ve been trying this non-cocky persona since New Year’s. Knowing that I was what made you get in that line will make my resolution much harder to keep.”

“Well, we all need tests of our strength of character,” I remind him with a lower tone. “So, are you going to walk me the rest of the way to the car? Or do I have to go there by myself?” I ask, heading to the car once more. He strolls alongside me, pushing the buggy in front of him.

“Which one is it?”

I point to the mint green car with the three girls looking out the back window, trying to act like they’re looking up at the sky. “Just so you know, they’re looking at us,” I inform him with a sigh.

“Guys have a reputation of being slow, but I know when girls are staring, just so you know,” he beams down at me as we stop at the trunk of the car. Trying very hard not to grin girlishly at my friends, I turn to them and knock on the trunk door. It pops up, and Garrett and I each grab a bag and put it in the trunk. While it’s still up, so we’re not seen anymore, he leans in closely to my ear and places a strong but gentle hand on my back, sending chills down my spine.

“I won’t call you tonight, but how ‘bout I call you tomorrow?”

“Don’t guys think less than three days is desperate or something?” My breath catches in my throat.

“Well…desperate, maybe. But only desperate to know you better.” I laugh at his cheesy line, and he joins in. “Okay…so that was dumb. Don’t hold it against me, please. I just want to hang out. If nothing else, at least as friends.”

“Okay. Call me tomorrow then. Bye, Garrett.”

“Bye, Princess,” he practically whispers before backing away and dropping the hood. “So, where are you sitting?”

He follows me as I walk to the door, and very gentlemanly, opens it for me. Standing in the doorway, we both can hear the stifled giggles of my friends. You’d think girls would act mature at nineteen and twenty and twenty-one. But apparently not. Even still, a hot guy flirting with your friend is a major event. I shake my head in quiet embarrassment and get inside after saying goodbye one last time. He shares the sentiment and then closes the door.

Inside the car, I have to endure countless questions and comments and squeals and compliments. They could not be more embarrassing at a time like this. So, I tell them all about our conversation in the line, and they squeal, aw, laugh and squeal some more at all the right parts of the story. Sinking back into the seat, I sigh, focusing on the vision of his eyes in my mind. He may not have been Hollywood hot, but his eyes were remarkable, and that was the part that a lot of girls see before anything else on most guys. I mean…if he had just gotten out of the water, there may have been an initial attraction to the body and hair, but…up close and personal and clothed and dry, the eyes stand out before anything else on most men. Garrett’s just happened to outdo any other guy’s.

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-Garrett-

Sitting on the couch, surrounded by other agents from my field office, I try to focus on the game that has everyone hyped. Some are shouting in glory and others in anger. Before I went shopping, I actually cared about this game. Now, I really don’t anymore. I still want the Eagles to win, but honestly, there is so much more to life than this game.

What matters right now is that girl in the supermarket.

Ariella.

She didn’t seem offended when I teased her about her name. I hope she wasn’t offended, because that wasn’t my intent at all. I like the name, but she mentioned The Little Mermaid, and so I couldn’t really help myself. We’d already been flirting. The name comments just seemed like the natural course of action.

Everybody roars, and I focus on the screen for a brief moment to notice the Patriots making a touchdown. Normally, I’d join these guys in an angry rant. Tonight however, I don’t even want to be here. I want to be with Ariella.

Meeting a girl who actually interests me enough to draw my attention away from the Super Bowl is a major event in my life of twenty-five years. It’s never happened before. There have been girls to draw my attention away from sports, sure, but not the Super Bowl.

“Kinsey, you okay?” one of the guys nudges me in the arm.

“Yeah,” I assure, smiling. “Man, they’re killing us.”

“It’s all right, man. We still got time to crush ‘em.” He goes back to chanting for the Eagles, and I stand up to go to the kitchen.

Standing by the fridge, I pull out my cell phone. I don’t even know why I’m staring at it because I know I’m not going to call her. She’s with her friends. Either she won’t answer or she’ll blow me off. And I really will appear desperate.

Sighing, I toss the phone up and down a couple times and then stuff it back into my jacket pocket and open the fridge to get something to drink. I don’t drink alcohol every day, sometimes I go a whole week without drinking alcohol, but it’s the Super Bowl, so I pull out a cool beer. Then I make my way to the stove where there are piggies in blankets—small hot dogs wrapped in croissant-biscuits—and baked beans with hot dogs mixed in. I put some of both on a paper plate and grab some chips from a nearby bowl.

The kitchen looks out into the room with the big screen TV, so I have a perfect view of the screen. But it still doesn’t matter.

Some guys filter in and also get some food and beers and they stay and chat loudly.

There’s also a flock of women at the house, which doesn’t actually surprise me. I’m just surprised that most of them are much more attentive than I am.

I don’t even know what it is exactly about Ariella that’s consuming so much of my mind. She’s gorgeous, but I’ve met gorgeous girls before. I’ve dated one or two, and they never held this much enchantment on my mind.

“What’s up, Garrett?” one of the guys nods at me.

They draw me into their conversation about the game, and I manage to appear as engrossed as they all are by putting in my couple of comments, but my mind still wanders back to Ariella.

Maybe it’s her voice. A lot of girls have annoying voices in one way or another. Hers isn’t squeaky or high-pitched or croaky or grating. There isn’t necessarily anything special about her voice, but the simplicity of her tone made it pleasurable to listen to her.

And she actually sounded educated when she spoke, instead of grammatically butchering every sentence. Even valedictorians of the greatest colleges can sound like they didn’t grow up speaking English. Foreigners (excluding all English-speaking country-natives) can speak better English than what seems like the majority of America.

My parents always stressed the importance of speaking properly. Perhaps that was their sole contribution to my intelligence.

Well, no. I read the paper with my dad also. And they always made sure I kept up my grades in school, which could have been difficult because I was the laziest student alive. I’m sorry that schoolwork bored the living daylights out of me. I’ve always been smart—a certifiable genius; even considered joining Mensa—but that wasn’t proven by my schoolwork. I didn’t even care to graduate as valedictorian. The overachievers would be the ones competing for the title, and I was more of an underachiever. In middle school and high school, anyway. In college I actually worked. College was the most intellectually gratifying experience of my life. I actually felt like I was surrounded by people who were as smart as, or smarter than, me. In high school, even in my honors and AP classes, everyone seemed to be stuck on an elementary level.

Okay, not everyone, but most of my classmates.

I was a geek in high school. I’ll admit it. People knew I was smart, but that wasn’t really what made me a geek because they also knew that I probably had a lower GPA than them. I just didn’t talk to people except for my friends who were also geeks; also smart underachievers. Somehow, people grouped us together like that. I had acquaintances outside of the circle, but like I said, everyone seemed to be lacking any sense of intellect. I chose not to associate myself with them on too many occasions.

I won’t say that geniuses are necessarily the smartest people on the planet, but our IQs say we are. I’ve certainly met people who are not geniuses but are a lot smarter than me and can hold a better conversation than I can. However, I think having the IQ of a genius has always made me feel superior to others.

I wasn’t lying when I told Ariella that my New Year’s Resolution is to not be so cocky. Now, I don’t think I’m the hottest guy around. I don’t think I’m God’s gift to women. I don’t even think I’d make any sort of Top Hot list in any year of my choice. But, I am cocky. I know when I’m right (not in an opinionated way, although I do think I know I’m right when it comes to opinions on the important issues), and I let people know that. I’m usually able to back up just about any statement I make, and people really do listen to me.

But…being a genius doesn’t make me better than people, and it doesn’t necessarily make me smarter than people. I don’t even know what being a genius means, other than the fact that I can put myself up there with Einstein, as I used to throw at my classmates anytime I was insulted. That shut them up.

Anyway, back to Ariella. She’s not a bimbo, and she’s not annoying.

I cannot wait until tomorrow so I can see her again. I don’t even care what we do, as long as I get to see her. What does she even like? I have no idea.

Sighing, I excuse myself from the guys after swallowing my last bite of beans and go outside. Being early February in Oregon, the chill bites at my face and neck, so I pull my sweatshirt tighter around me. God, New York didn’t even feel this cold.

Maybe I didn’t notice because New York City was a lot more exciting than Oregon, but this is just ridiculous. How long do I have to stay here?

I grew up in the south where Christmas day could be warm enough for shorts.

Shivering, I draw my knees to my chest and rest my forehead against my kneecaps. Through the screen door, I can hear the uproar from another outrageous play. I don’t even care whose play it was and if it was in favor of the Patriots or the Eagles.

The screen door squeaks open, and I look up at the head special agent of my field office, Joseph. He’s about twenty years my senior, making him old enough to be my dad, but whereas my dad's oldest kid is twenty-seven, Joseph's oldest daughter is only seventeen.

He sits down next to me, and I lower my feet back to the ground.

“The guys are worried about you, Kinsey,” he immediately jumps in. “They told me I had to check up on you, so this better be good because I’m missing the Super Bowl.” He smiles warmly after a brief pause, signaling that he’s kidding.

“There’s nothing to worry about, really.” I’m twenty-five years old. I don’t need my co-workers sending my boss out here to check up on me.

“Well, what’s on your mind?”

It’d be pointless to deny the fact that there is something on my mind because guys don’t ignore the most important football game of the season for no reason at all. However, it’s kind of humiliating to say that it’s just a girl. So, I shrug. “Nothing really important.” Nothing important to him, anyway. “You can go watch the game.”

“Well now, I can’t very well go back in there without any answers for the guys, yeah?” Why do they care? How do they even notice when they’re so into the game? I’m not sure I would. “Are you stressed about work?” Leave it to the boss to make sure it’s not work-related.

Chuckling, I assure him it’s not. “No, just something that happened earlier.”

“What happened earlier?” he wonders at length.

“It’s not a life-altering event.”

“So? It’s obviously more important than the Super Bowl, yeah?”

Laughing, I nod along because that she is. “I just met someone while shopping earlier, and I haven’t really been able to forget about her.” After I say it, I realize that I sound like some lovesick teenager. God, not the impression I want my fairly new boss to have of me. So as not to see him laughing at me, I look out at the horizon. The sun has long since settled, but the stars are peeking out of the black abyss. At home and in New York City, there’s no way I’d ever see anything like this.

Maybe Oregon won’t be that bad.

Instead of laughing though, Joseph stays pensively quiet. Eventually, he expresses at length, “Girls will do that you every once in a while. And you know, there’s no guarantee that this isn’t a life-altering event.” What’s he saying? I raise my eyebrows inquiringly. “Well you know,” he shrugs, “you’re twenty-five years old, yeah?” And then not even elaborating, he asks, “Did you get her number?”

“Yeah, fortunately. But I can’t even call her tonight because she’s having an anti-Super Bowl party with her girlfriends.”

At this, Joseph finally laughs. “Man, you’re hung up on a girl who’s at an anti-Super Bowl party? Are you trying to get closer to her by having one of your own?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not intentionally tuning out the game. I just can’t stop thinking about her. I don’t even know why though. I mean, she’s pretty and everything, but…I barely talked to her. It’s not like there’s a whole lot to think about.”

Just about her wide, green eyes. Her pouty mouth. Her mid-back length, slightly wavy, sandy brown hair—blonde on top, brown on bottom. Her small, ball-tipped nose. Dark (which contrast with her hair), shapely eyebrows.

I know. It’s really pathetic when someone starts noticing the eyebrows, but they accented the rest of her facial features perfectly.

Then there’s her voice, as I mentioned earlier.

Despite her physical qualities though, what is making me think so much about her? I don’t even know.

She was friendly, but I’ve met friendly girls before. She was flirtatious, but I’ve met much more flirtatious girls before.

Maybe since her flirting wasn’t over the top, it was more endearing than making her appear easy.

And she didn’t come off as “easy.” Gorgeous or not, she seems down to earth; she may like male attention (I don’t know), but she didn’t come off too strongly.

What else is there about her?

“Garrett, hello?” a hand waves in front of my eyes, interrupting my rant inside my head.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right. You just got a little spacey on me,” Joseph laughs as he leans back in his chair. “Are you going to call her tomorrow?”

“Planning on it,” I answer nonchalantly, but my inner voice is screaming, “duh!” Geniuses still have less-than intelligible thoughts at times.

“What are you going to ask her to do?” I still have absolutely no idea. Maybe she’ll have some suggestions, since she appears to know Oregon better than me. I shrug in response to the question. “I guess planning a date is the most difficult part sometimes.” Wait. Will it be a date? I just asked her if she wanted to hang out; I didn’t ask her out. I mean…a date would be okay with me, but that was never discussed. So…what is it? “Boy am I glad I don’t ever have to worry about dating again. I’m happily married, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Dating can get tricky sometimes, yeah?”

Can’t married life get “tricky” also? I know my parents didn’t have an easy time with it, even if they never blatantly showed the signs. They just weren’t very affectionate with each other or with their kids. Well…okay, they were affectionate with their daughter—my younger sister, Anna—but with their sons—my older brother, Brady, and me—affectionate they were not.

“Hopefully she’ll know what to do.”

“Wow. You don’t mind handing over the reigns, do you?” Huh? With a blank stare in his direction, he elaborates. “A lot of men wouldn’t want the girl to make the decisions. That’s all I mean. Especially if you’re trying to impress her. You’d think you’d try as hard as humanly possible to come up with the most romantic date on and off record.”

“It’s not a date,” I correct. “At least…I don’t think it’s a date. Neither of us mentioned it being a date. I just told her I wanted to hang out as friends.”

“Which obviously means it is a date.” Did I miss something? “Girls read all sorts of things into any sentence a man says. You should know this by now.” I guess I should… Me, a genius? Says who? I didn’t claim that. No, I did not. “And even if it’s not a date, it still wouldn’t hurt to impress her a little bit if you plan on dating her.” Well, that I do know. The genius is back in the building! “Try breakfast or something. Spice it up a bit, yeah?”

Those “yeahs” are starting to get on my nerves. He being able to make everything a question merely by adding “yeah?” to the end is perhaps the only annoying part about talking to Joseph on most occasions, but being the only thing or not, sometimes it’s hard to carry on a conversation with him simply because of those “yeahs.”

“I guess.” What’s impressive but not date-worthy?

“Actually, my first date with my wife was at a school football game, and we took McDonald’s with us.” Okay…I refuse to “impress” Ariella with my “masculine charm” with McDonald’s. And she apparently does not like football, so why torture her with a game? Not that I could take her to one anyway. Football season is over, professionally and unprofessionally. “I guess some girls do go for the simplicities in life and not outrageous to-dos.” Is Ariella like that? Or does she enjoy “outrageous to-dos”?

“I honestly have no clue what she likes at all. I know she doesn’t like football, but that’s about all I gathered. And well…she drinks healthily also.” Yeah, those Lipton green tea bottles really struck my curiosity. I don’t usually talk to strangers in supermarkets, pretty or not, but I had to know about the green tea. Who drinks green tea at a Super Bowl party?

Not Ariella and her friends.

Maybe it was her self-confidence. I guess being attractive can reassure a person of her (or his) person, but…it seemed to go beyond her looks. Sure, she carried herself in a way that definitely made her more elegant and graceful and therefore more stunning, but no, it goes way beyond her appearance. She hadn’t been wearing much makeup. Now, I’m a guy so I really don’t know makeup like the back of my hand, and I guess I could be fooled into thinking it was a natural glow, but other than some color on her eyelids, there didn’t seem to be anything masking her blemishes.

She’s not flawless. I never said that.

Perhaps her self-confidence comes from intelligence also? I wonder if she’s a genius… I can’t very well come out and ask her, and I would seem cocky if I told her I’m a genius, so I don’t think I can find out too easily. Well, literal-genius or not, she strikes me as an intellectual. Maybe she’s not a bookworm or anything, but she probably understands certain concepts more than other people.

Or maybe that’s just how I want her to be so I feel like she’s on my level…

God, I really don’t know. And it’s driving me crazy.

What’s her family like? Did her parents instill the confidence? And what about her siblings? Does she have any? Siblings play an integral role in the development of personalities, so if she got along well with them or if they looked up to her or anything, that could have affected her poise for the better.

Sports, maybe? Her body was nicely toned.

I really can’t figure it out, which really makes me want to all the more.

“You know, dwelling on her will probably make the time go much slower than if you’d just enjoy yourself.”

Probably, but I’m not one for taking the high road. So, I tell Joseph—politely, of course—to go back and watch the game while I continue to think about all that is (possibly)Ariella. Ariella, whatever her last name may be.

ooOOoo

In the middle of the night, after a particularly lengthy dream about a girl in a supermarket, I wake up with realization startlingly dawning on me: it was the way she looked at me, like I was something awe-inspiring. I saw that blush on her cheeks when I barely smiled at her. How had I managed to make her blush so easily? And throughout the rest of our conversation, her eyes stayed on mine, as if trying to memorize everything about them.

I’ve never been the womanizer before. And I guess I can’t really claim a new identity as womanizer now, when it’s only one woman, but I struck something in her as she had struck something in me. I’m not totally oblivious.

And being able to admit that I had some sort of wild effect (okay, maybe that’s pushing it) on her does not make me arrogant.