“Open up, babe,” he called through the glass, and I set my Kindle aside and got up, quickly moving to the door, unlocking and opening it.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, shifting back as he slid through and shut the door. “Where are the kids? Is everything all right?”
He turned to me. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
Great.
I’d had this beginning conversational gambit once already from a biker that night when Tack visited me, and from the look of concern and inquisitiveness on Hop’s face, I was thinking I wouldn’t like this one much better.
“What are you talking about and where are the kids?” I asked.
“Kids are asleep and Sheila’s with ’em. You showed at dinner, still wearin’ your work gear, acting funny, not meeting my eyes so I called her, she came over, I hopped on my bike and hauled my ass over here. What’s up?”
“Nothing I couldn’t tell you over the phone,” I explained. “You didn’t have to drag Sheila over to your house.”
“You don’t meet my eyes during dinner, it’s somethin’ that you don’t get into over the phone. Now, Lanie, one more time. What’s up?”
Usually, I rejoiced that Hop was a man who paid attention. This meant he did things and said things and, it’s important to repeat, did things, good things, because he paid attention.
Sometimes, like now, it was annoying.
I decided this discussion would go better with wine so I walked to my wineglass.
Once I’d grabbed it and taken a sip, I looked back at Hop to see he hadn’t moved except to cross his arms on his chest.
Leather jackets, especially beat up, black biker ones with a patch on the back, were not my thing when it came to guys.
Hopper worked that cut like no other.
“Lanie,” he prompted, his voice a warning low and I stopped appreciating Hop in his cut.
“Tack talked to Mitch and Brock. They’re setting me up on a date with a cop,” I announced.
I did this because I thought it best just to get it out there and over with.
Anyway, it was no big deal. Hop had to know I was into him. We both knew we were working on something important. I’d just had dinner with him and his kids so that was plain.
Therefore, I’d decided on my way to Beau Joe’s just to go on the date then explain to the guy, Tack, and Tyra that we didn’t click, and I’d explain my plan beforehand to Hop (but not during dinner with his kids) so he wouldn’t worry. This meant I’d do my duty to Ty-Ty and Tack then I’d start doing other things that made them quit worrying about me. Like take a creative writing class with the explanation I might meet someone there when I had no intention of doing that. And, anyway, a creative writing class would be fun and I’d always wanted to do it.
Whatever. Bottom line: in the end, all would be well.
Looking at Hop, I realized he would not be at one with my plan.
“Come again?” he asked, and his tone was scary.
I threw out my hand with the wineglass in it, thankful it was low so the wine didn’t slosh out. “They’re worried I’m not healing, moving on appropriately after Elliott, burying myself in work, so they’re setting me up.”
“They’re setting you up,” he repeated, his voice still scary.
“Hop, it isn’t a big deal,” I told him and watched his head jerk.
“Are you going?” Now he didn’t sound scary. He sounded disbelieving and more than a little bit angry.
“It isn’t a big deal. I’ll go and, after, explain I wasn’t attracted to him. They’ll think I’m moving on and all will be good.”
“You’ll go,” Hop stated.
“Just one date,” I assured him.
“Just one date,” Hop again repeated after me.
“Hop—”
I stopped abruptly when he leaned into me and roared, “Are you outta your f**kin’ mind?”
Yes, definitely not at one with my plan.
I lifted both hands placatingly and started, “Hop—”
He took two steps toward me, his body shuddered to a halt like he was controlling his movements, but just barely and he clipped, “Tell me exactly what went down.”
I held his eyes and explained exactly what went down.
Hop held mine when I was done and asked, “And your solution to this problem is to go out with this f**kin’ guy?”
“It’s the easiest solution I can think of.” I told him something I thought was obvious.
“I don’t know, Lanie. I can think of an easier one,” he retorted, and his sarcasm wasn’t lost on me.
“Hop, honestly, you don’t—”
He interrupted me, “You wanna know my solution?”
I figured I knew it, I didn’t want him to verbalize it, but I nodded anyway.
“Maybe, I don’t know, but it might be easier, babe, just to f**kin’ tell them you got a life and that life is movin’ on with me.” He planted his hands on his hips. “Fuck, I don’t even know why you didn’t tell Tack that shit straight out when he proposed that ludicrous f**kin’ idea.”
As he spoke, his mood deteriorated. This was reflected in the way he rapped out his words.
But at his words my lungs seized, so I had to force out my cry of, “We can’t do that!”
He threw his hands up in the air. “Why the f**k not?”
I knew he was ticked. I knew why he was ticked.
But something was happening. Something I was trying to ignore. Something that was building inside me so huge it was impossible to ignore.
Panic.
Sheer, unadulterated panic.
“We can’t do that,” I repeated.
“And why the f**k not, Lanie?”
“We just can’t,” I told him.
“Are you shitting me?” he asked.
“No, I’m not,” I answered, that feeling growing, eating away huge, gluttonous bites of me.
Hop studied me a moment, his expression shifting, and he was talking quieter when he asked, “Ever?”
“Ever what?” I asked back.
“You don’t wanna tell them now. Are you ever gonna wanna tell them?”
Oh God.
How could I be standing there at the same time being eaten alive?
“Lanie?” Hop called but I just stood immobile, losing entire chunks of me to my monster. “Lanie!” Hop clipped, before he strode toward me, pulled the glass out of my hand, set it aside and wrapped his fingers around my upper arms. “Jesus, babe, what the f**k?”