“I’ll fight for you, Amanda! Don’t worry! I love you!” Insert more crazy snot induced sobs here. Men.
The poor hot fireman didn’t even know what hit him. Lucky for him he was still wearing his helmet which blocked part of the blow from Derek. The unfortunate part was, although it did block the hit from Derek, the blow sent the hat flying off of the fireman’s head into the giant cake, sending the bride, yet again, into hysterics and judgmental looks my way. I feel the need to shout, This is not my fault!
Derek is finally thrown off of the fireman, and I escort him outside amidst the entire town shaking their heads in disapproval. Thanks for the help guys! No one even bothered to get up from their seats, rude.
“Derek, what the heck are you doing?” He shoves his, now I realize, small hands into his pockets and sniffs, “Well, I just thought maybe since things didn’t go well, you know, today, that we could try again.”
Oh my goodness. This cannot be happening. He is actually serious. This is not his joking face. Is he drunk? He must be drunk off communion wine. It’s the only explanation I can come up with at this point.
“Derek,” I try my stern voice, hoping he’ll get the hint without me having to slap him across the face. I don’t like criers. His tears must stop now. They must stop, I tell you! Okay, calm down and tell him how it is. “You’re an idiot.”
Maybe that was too harsh, make it better. “So, please stop crying! I won’t try again with you when there was nothing to try in the first place. You took me as a date to your best friend’s wedding, then tried to ditch me to hook up with the bride. And now that it didn’t work out as you planned, you want to try with me?” The shrillness of my voice was elevating, and getting louder, but I couldn’t control myself. Tremulously, I try to reclaim some shreds of dignity, so I add, “I’ll have you know there are guys who would kill for an opportunity to date me!” What, just because they aren’t lining up doesn’t mean it’s not true. “How dare you think you can have a second chance with me. You're lucky you had a first.” My fists are clenched so tightly against my sides, I know if I breathe one more word I’ll release them all over his face.
The sobbing baby turns suddenly into a little monster and retorts, “Well, that’s not what I hear. Did you know they had to bribe me to even go out with you? I would be doing you a favor!”
Where did that come from? Where is ‘Mr. I Cry All the Time and Have Feelings Too’ man? My mouth drops open as I’m rendered speechless. Then out of nowhere – like a flash of lightning – Mr. Fireman storms up to us and punches Derek in the nose.
“What?” I yell at the strange, hot man and I lean down to see if Derek is okay. Wow, this guy is going to need therapy after today.
“He’s an idiot,” the fireman states as he rubs his large hands. Not even a scratch from that hit. Nice.
The claim is valid; there’s no way to argue that point. Nice to know I’m not the only sane one here at the wedding.
“Thanks,” I manage to mutter as I meet the craziest green eyes I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Oh good, the room is spinning now. Perfect. Maybe I’ll pass out on top of Derek, looking all kinds of inappropriate. The mayor would love that.
“You’re welcome, Amanda.” Mr. Fireman grins cleverly before he turns around and walks back into the church.
“Who is that?” Derek is still pathetically whimpering on the ground. I feel like kicking him, but I’m not the violent type. I’m outside, so it’s easy to make an escape. I'm sure not going to wait around. On the way home, I keep wondering about Mr. Mystery Fireman. He looked so familiar. Do I know him? How does he know my name? Our town of Nampa, Idaho isn’t very large, we only boast enough people for two high schools. Then again, he could have easily gone to school somewhere in Boise or Meridian. But he was definitely a Nampa fireman.
****
Google is wonderful; which could be construed as stalking, but my curiosity is eating me alive. Yes! Found it, Nampa Firehouse, click.
Oh be still my rapidly beating heart. They have a calendar for a suggested donation of only ten dollars! Plus, it’s for charity! Who wouldn’t buy the calendar? Of course, he’s Mr. December. Merry Christmas, Amanda. My strict Nazarene grandma is probably rolling in her grave, not that I didn’t give her enough reasons to be in that grave while she was living. What with my dancing and going to movies. She was a dear, sweet lady who I’m thankful now, is with her Lord. I’m silently praying to God that He is the only one who can actually hear my thoughts. Amen. And, girls, if you can see this, A-M-E-N.
You could do laundry on his abs. Is he airbrushed? How can abs look this way? His chest is perfectly chiseled, like God cut him out of a mountain. Those green eyes aren’t even his best feature. His hair is so thick and glossy, it should have its own Facebook page, and I would easily be the number one fan.
I need to refocus. Where is his name? I scroll down to the bottom of the page and see “staff”. I click and pray it will be the correct information. Moving down the page again, I see his picture and click on it. They have stats right next to the names. Wait. No. Well, I just almost swallowed my tongue – didn’t know it was possible, but here you see it documented. It almost happened to a perfectly healthy twenty-seven year old, and my parents would have found me in my apartment, asphyxiated on the floor with my computer screen opened up to a hot fireman. The shame would be unbearable. My poor parents would be humiliated and have to lie to everyone about how they found me.
There’s no way it could actually be him. The irony would be too perfect. I have to look closer to confirm my eyes aren't deceiving me. With a sinking feeling, I remember him when he had braces, ugly sweater vests, and too thick glasses.
It’s Preston, and the memories of egging his house more than once during high school hit me full force. I remember him holding my hand with those sweaty palms as he asked me to prom in front of the entire school. Right now the only one with sweaty palms is me! Oh, no. I turned him down. The sad part is, if he’d ask me now, I’d say yes.
At the time, it was more important for me to look cool. So I said, in front of everyone, “Thanks, but I’m already going with my cousin, Brad”. I don’t even have a cousin named Brad. Just wait. It gets worse. He showed up at prom with his sister, saw me dancing and kissing another guy, and, I’m sure, assumed I probably wasn’t that close with my family.
Ladies, let this be a lesson. People always say you need to be nice to nerds, because you might end up working for them some day. The same goes for nerdy guys who ask you out. You should be nice to them, because one day they might be smoking hot.
Chapter Two
As women, I’m sure we can all agree that when we see a man whose gorgeous, cut, and confident, we automatically assume he’s arrogant. So the natural road to take is search for the one that’s slightly unfortunate looking with the hope that his personality makes up for any other deficiencies. We wouldn’t have this assumption if we didn’t have good reason. Few men are as attractive on the inside as the outside.
One time I dated a guy who, for anonymitie’s sake, we’ll call Bob, and he was eye candy. We met at the gym. Bob and I were running next to each other on treadmills. His towel fell off the side of his treadmill, and I picked it up. It was love at first sight.
Feeling rather confident, I struck up a conversation. He asked for my number, and two nights later he called. We went to a fancy restaurant that weekend, and I fell in love for about five minutes. He ordered for both of us, without asking. “Yes, we’ll get salad with no dressing, chicken with no gravy, and no bread, we don’t do carbs.”
If you ever want to get in an argument with me, just tell me that I shouldn’t eat carbs. Be prepared, I’ll spit in your face. Maybe not, but the whole low carb mentality is ridiculous, and for me, a deal breaker. When I heard him say that I shouted “But wait! I like carbs!”
He gave me a look I’m guessing he only reserves for fat people, and told the waiter that I was “confused” and “please proceed to hold the carbs”.
Seething, I went to another table next to us, stole the bread and ate it right in front of him. Now in hindsight, I looked like an insane person. But for argument’s sake, let’s be clear; I was angry at the time. Bob smiled tightly and never called again.
Since Preston is hands down the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, I doubt he isn’t aware of this fact and uses it with reckless abandon. Even though he was a good guy back in the day, how could he not know he’s “got it” and knows how to “flaunt” it too? With all this revelation, I’m bursting with nervous energy, I need a good hard run. Eight o’ clock pm usually means the gym is empty, and it’s Saturday night. Who goes to the gym on a Saturday night? Me. I grab my workout stuff, not bothering to put on anything remotely cute, and run out the door.
****
The air of the valley hits me as I get out of the car. A mixture of rain and cold hit my nose. It reminds me of a fresh start, which is exactly what I need. I already feel better. Nampa may be small, but they have an awesome rec center. It’s my haven, but not because of the TVs. They’re great, but it’s also right next to my favorite fast food restaurant. Walking through the doors, I inhale the sweet smell of sweat and chlorine and scan my card.
Yes, this is where I need to be. There’s only one other person running, and I think he’s going for some record. If he keeps this ridiculous pace, he might actually wear the treadmill out. But something about him seems familiar. No, I can’t. Why would I go to the treadmill right next to him when there are twenty other ones open? We all know how things worked out with Bob. I don’t want another man telling me I can’t have bread.
But upon closer inspection, this man has the best legs I’ve ever seen. The formation of muscles that gather at his calf and linger up to his—whoops, he just glanced this way. Look busy. Why did I choose tonight to where my old, ratty high school cheerleading shirt? And why did I also choose to wear the yoga pants that I spilled paint on last year? I grumbled something out loud, not realizing it, and jumped onto my treadmill. Five miles, here I come.
As I run, the anxiety of the day turns into fuel, pushing me harder and faster. No, I don’t need Derek, I don’t need Bob, I don’t—wait a second. While closing my eyes, I missed something. Mr. Runner is coming over to me. Why? What do I do? Oh my goodness, he’s getting on the machine next to me. Competition. Whether he realizes it or not, he’s in for a race. Why? Because I can’t help it. I must win. It’s also why I never turn down dares, but that’s a different story. He starts running, and again I feel the pressure to win. Please. He may be a fine male specimen, but I’m fast, ridiculously fast.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a subtle movement , but I still can’t bring myself to look at his face.. Focusing on my running, my breathing, I keep my eyes trained ahead. His continuing glances feel like silent challenges, so I hit the up button on my speed and go to eight miles an hour, then ten. Now I’m sprinting, and he’s sprinting. He’s running faster, so I push mine up one more time before realizing that my balance is momentarily off. And yes, you guessed it, I fly off of the treadmill into the bench behind me.