Pride & Joie (#MyNewLife) Page 4

  “But we talk all the time,” she continues, a starry-eyed look taking over her eyes. “Isaac is the cutest. Ohmygod, could you introduce me to him?”

  Oh good. The first person to figure out my connection with the Vikings football team, and it’s the groupie who’s practically determined to get me expelled from my lit class, right along with her.

  “Maybe sometime,” I concede, trying to brush her off as I throw my satchel over my shoulder and pick up my notebook. Her eyes light up like I’ve agreed to set her up on a date with my son. Which I didn’t. And won’t. “But listen, Mia, I have to run. I have an exam in”—checking my Fitbit, I realize I’m running out of time—“thirteen minutes. I have to go.”

  “Okay,” she calls behind me as I race up the stairs. She was so sidetracked by the idea of my son, she hasn’t packed up her things yet. This is bad. Very bad. “We’ll talk more about it in a couple days.”

  No, we won’t, I think to myself. Who Isaac dates is up to him, but if I ever set him up, it’s not going to be someone who uses up that many words every day. I know Mia is lovely in her own ways, but she needs a few more years to mature. Like maybe a decade or so.

  Walking out the door, it takes my eyes a second to adjust to the sunlight. I only have, oh no, twelve minutes. I need to book it.

  Staring at my notebook, I begin reading through my genetics vocabulary again as I walk, making sure there are no key pieces of information I’m forgetting. I have no idea if vocabulary will even be on the test, but if I don’t understand the words, I’m screwed either way.

  Suddenly, I walk right into a wall.

  “Oof!”

  It all happens like it’s in slow motion. My notebook goes sailing through the air. My bag bursts open and things pop out. My arms fly up as I tumble backward. But before I can hit the ground, strong hands grip my arms.

  “Shit! Are you all right?” his deep voice inquires.

  Jack Pride. For the second time in as many weeks, I’ve literally run into him on this sidewalk in front of this building.

  I have never been more embarrassed in my life.

  He sets me upright and leans down to grab my things.

  “I am so sorry,” I declare, feeling the heat rush through my face. I hope he can’t see the blush. “That’s twice I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  He chuckles and stands, handing me my notebook and the pens that apparently hit the ground when we collided. It could be worse. Those pens could be tampons.

  “Don’t be so quick to blame yourself. I was sending a text instead of paying attention.”

  “Oh.” There’s something I was supposed to be doing, but suddenly I’m sidetracked by the movement of Jack’s biceps while he runs his hands through his hair.

  His salt-and-pepper hair, that was hidden under a ball cap until he took it off.

  To run his fingers through it.

  Oh my. I can’t even have coherent thoughts around this man. What is happening to me?

  “I hope I didn’t hurt you,” he says with a smile.

  My brain finally seems to kick back in. “Oh! Oh, no. I’m fine. Just embarrassed. This is why I don’t walk and chew bubble gum.”

  He smiles, so I think he caught my lame attempt at a joke.

  “What has you distracted anyway?” He gestures to the notebook in my hands.

  “Biology. I have my first test, and I’m a little nervous about it.”

  “Science isn’t your thing?”

  “Not at all,” I admit. “But it’s a necessary evil. I’m trying to do my best.”

  He leans in to me and lowers his voice. “I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

  His scent has me feeling all googly. That’s not even a word, but it’s how he makes me feel. He smells like cologne and mint and a little bit of sweat. But not in a bad way. More of a musky way. I find myself angling toward him to hear this revelation. “What?”

  “Typically, the students that make the best grades are the ones who took a few years off before they came here. It’s like they want it more.” He smiles at me and I go all googly again. “I’m betting you’re going to ace this test.”

  Well isn’t that one of the nicest things anyone has said to me on this campus?

  I lean back and smile at him. “Thank you. I needed that boost of confidence. I’ve been way more nervous than I should be over some dumb vocabulary.”

  “I get it,” he remarks with a shrug. “When you want something that badly, your nerves can take over. Just take a deep breath before you start and stay focused. You’ll do fine.”

  It’s cute how he goes into coaching mode as he encourages me. It’s exactly what I needed. Especially since I have . . .

  I get a glimpse of my Fitbit again.

  “Oh shoot! I have to be there in nine minutes!”

  I bend over to grab the last remaining item off the sidewalk that he initially missed. Oh good. It is a tampon. I knew that sucker wouldn’t stay concealed in my time of embarrassment.

  “Hey, I know you have to run,” he asserts, politely ignoring the feminine product in my hand, “and this might sound crazy, since I don’t even know your name. But we seem to keep running into each other so, what the hell, would you like to have coffee with me?”

  That stops me dead in my tracks. “Me?”

  He takes stock of our surroundings. “Well, yeah. I don’t see anyone else around I’m interested in conversing with.”

  There aren’t many people around at all. Classes are about to start, and I’m going to be very, very late if I don’t hurry up. Apparently, Jack misunderstands the concern on my face when his eyes get wide and he pales a bit, which is hard to do with his tan.

  “Oh fuck. I’m sorry,” he quickly says. “I didn’t think about the fact that you could be married. I’m so sorry.”

  I feel my own eyes widen, but I don’t have time to put much thought into anything except reassuring him and getting to class. “No! No, I’m not married.” I hold up my left hand to show him my bare fingers, like it’s proof or something. It seems to work because he visibly relaxes. “Um, sure. I could go for some coffee.”

  The smile that crosses his face makes me go all googly once again. “Great! I assume you have a car?” I nod. “There’s a fantastic coffee shop about three miles from campus. Down on Northend Road. Aptly called Northend Coffee.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it driving in.”

  “It’s far enough from campus that usually only locals hang out there. Meet me there? Say around one?”

  I bite back another smile. When I drove in today, I noticed the coffee shop. I was planning to stop there on my way home to study for a while, but this sounds much better.

  “I’ll be there. But I really do have to go. I don’t want to be rude but I have . . .” Glancing at my Fitbit again, I grimace. I’m going to have to run now, and I hate exercise of any kind.

  “I know. Go,” he says kindly, and I turn away, beginning my jog. “Good luck! Remember to focus!”

  I wave over my shoulder and hold onto my satchel as it bounces. I’m feeling strangely confident in my scientific knowledge now, and I have a date with Coach Jack Pride.

  Poor Mia would never stop talking if she caught wind of this.

  The jingle of the bell above the door is surprisingly loud compared to the quietness of the room. Or maybe it’s just because I’m over six feet tall, and it’s right above my head as I walk into Northend Coffee.

  Either way, a quick glance around the room shows no one notices my arrival, which is exactly the way I like it.

  There are a few people sitting at various tables around the room. Most are involved in conversations, although a few are reading a book or working on a computer. And then my eyes register the one I’m here to meet. The unnamed student who I literally keep running into. She’s sitting at a small round table against a wall and she’s . . . what is she doing?

  Is she making balloon animals?

  I smile as I watch her, waiting behind a f
ew people to get my java. She’s concentrating really hard on twisting the balloon this way and that, taking a few seconds here and there to tap her phone before resuming her twisting. I assume she’s watching some sort of instructional video.

  As the latex begins to take shape and look like some sort of animal, the delight on her face becomes apparent. She’s almost finished. She’s almost made a dog or cat or something . . .

  Then she loses her grip, and the thing deflates in her face with a Pfffffffffffff. I can’t help but chuckle lightly at the way her eyes scrunch tight and her mouth grimaces when the air blows all over her.

  But I also can’t help admiring how she doesn’t get discouraged. She just taps her phone a few more times and reaches into her giant bag to grab a new balloon.

  Good god, how many bags does this woman own? They keep getting bigger.

  “Here, Coach.” Joe, the barista behind the counter, offers me a large cup of coffee. It takes me a second to register what he’s talking about. I didn’t realize it was my turn to order. “I saw you come in and figured you wanted your usual.”

  Accepting the cup from him, I nod and hand him my credit card. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks. That’s perfect.”

  He rings me up quickly, making small talk about the weather. That’s one of the things I like about this place. They treat me like a regular person, no one special. I love my job and all, but sometimes I like to not have to talk shop every second of every day. It’s why I avoid most of the establishments closer to campus.

  I take a sip of my straight black dark roast and turn to walk in her direction. She’s still working hard on those balloon animals, and I’m really curious to find out why.

  “Hi.” I don’t mean to, but my interruption makes her lose her concentration and causes another balloon to deflate right in her face. I can’t help but laugh while I apologize. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “You didn’t,” she claims with a smile. “I’m just not very good at this anymore.”

  Taking the seat across from her, she starts putting her project away.

  “Don’t stop on my account,” I try to reassure her. “You look like you’re on a mission.”

  “Oh no,” she protests, still packing her things up, “I need the reprieve anyway. There’s only so many times I can blow one of those buggers up before I start getting lightheaded. I need to build up my lung capacity again.”

  I pause, cup halfway to my mouth. “Again? As in, you used to do this?”

  She nods, obviously pleased at surprising me. “Years ago, I used to work as Mrs. Clown at kids’ birthday parties.”

  Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting that.

  “That sounds . . .” I try to come up with an accurate description that doesn’t sound offensive. She continues to smile.

  “It sounds weird, I know,” she declares, letting me off the hook, “but it was fun. I got to hang out with kids and put smiles on their faces. There are worse things to do for money.”

  Sadly, she’s got that right.

  “I have many more questions about your career choice,” I playfully chide. “But I need to backtrack for a second because I’ve never properly introduced myself.” I reach my hand out across the table in offering. “I’m Jack Pride.”

  She smiles and takes my hand in hers to shake it. It’s small and warm and soft compared to mine. “Joie Stevens.”

  “Joy? That name seems to suit you.”

  She quirks her head just slightly as our hands release, and she picks up the coffee in front of her. “How so?”

  “Well, the sole purpose of that Mrs. Clown job was to make kids smile, right? Can’t get much more joyful than that.”

  “Ah,” she remarks in understanding. “I guess it does fit. Too bad it’s not spelled that way.”

  “No? I didn’t realize there were different way to spell it.”

  “It’s j-o-i-e. Apparently, it’s French.”

  “Oh la la,” I joke, and then cringe internally. It’s been a while since I’ve flirted with a woman. I’m off my game.

  Joie doesn’t seem to think I’m cheesy though. She just laughs. “I know. It’s pretty and all, but it can get annoying having to help people spell it. Or pronounce it.”

  “Well then tell me Joie, with the French spelling . . .” Fucking hell. Can I get anymore stupid sounding? “Why are you sitting here working on making balloon animals again? Decided to get back into the biz?”

  She shrugs. “Actually, yes. Now that I’m going back to school full-time, I decided it would be smart to work a couple days a week to help keep my student loans down. First year teachers don’t make a whole lot of money, and I’d rather not owe Uncle Sam for the rest of my life if I can help it.”

  “Ah. An education major.”

  “Yep. Hopefully early childhood. As you can see by my willingness to make party favors and wear clown shoes in an effort to make children happy.”

  “For what it’s worth,” I remark, “I think it’s admirable that you’re willing to put yourself out there like that.”

  “Thank you. And wish me luck. I haven’t been in this line of work since my son was a baby. I’m a little nervous.”

  I take another sip of my joe, enjoying the easy banter we have going. “How old is your son now?”

  She pauses for a moment, like she’s trying to decide how to answer. But the moment passes quickly, so I don’t think much of it. “Almost twenty-one. I can’t believe it. Where did the time go, ya know?”

  It’s hard to believe this woman is old enough to have a twenty-one-year-old child. She must have been a baby herself when she had him. As my thoughts distract me, I stop paying attention to where I’m putting my cup and it loses its balance, falling to the side.

  “Oh shit,” I exclaim, grabbing a handful of napkins out of the dispenser, trying to mop up the liquid before it ends up in a bigger mess. “Quick, move your stuff.”

  Joie says nothing, but digs in her giant bag for a second before pulling out a round cloth something and quickly wiping up the mess. Snatching my cup up, she quickly wipes another round thing around my cup, cleaning it off. In just seconds, the table is back to normal and the only evidence that anything happened is a handful of dirty napkins and those two round disks.

  Watching her, I know I have an astonished expression. She, on the other hand, looks like nothing even happened.

  “How the hell did you do that?” God love her, she genuinely appears baffled by my question. “Are you a magician, too? How did you clean it up that fast? What are those things?”

  “Oh.” She begins to laugh as understanding sets in. “I am almost embarrassed to admit that those are nursing pads.”

  My eyebrows furrow. “They’re what?”

  She just giggles. “Nursing pads. You know . . . nursing moms put them in their . . .” She gestures toward her chest, which is the wrong thing to do because of course my eyes drift downward. “They put them in their bra for when their milk leaks.”

  I grimace and make her laugh again.

  “Wait, wait.” I hold my hands up and shake my head in confusion. “I thought your son was twenty-one.”

  “He is. Almost.”

  “Do you have another kid or something?”

  “No,” she says, still smiling and perfectly relaxed at the conversation having turned to breasts. “My niece is only two. A couple years ago I was in the car with my brother when one of our drinks spilled. I grabbed the first thing I could find on the floor of his car and it was a nursing pad. Turns out, it was the most absorbent thing I’d ever used to clean up a spill. And it fit right at the bottom of the cup holder. So I went out and bought some. I always have a few on hand for times like this.”

  I blink once. Twice. “That is both the weirdest and most genius thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I know!” she exclaims. “It’s very unconventional, but if it works, it works.”

  We both take a sip of our coffee, a little bit lost in our thoughts. There is d
efinitely more to this woman than meets the eye. She gives a very calming, easy-going vibe. She’s comfortable to be around. And she’s very comfortable in her own skin. I could get used to this.

  “So, Jack Pride,” she flirts, “how is it that a good-looking guy like yourself ended up asking a gal like me to coffee?”

  I quirk an eyebrow at her bold statement. There’s no pussyfooting around with this one. I like it.

  “Honestly, I haven’t dated at all since my wife died.” Her smile drops, but I’m quick to reassure her. “No, no. Please don’t feel sorry for me. It was three years ago, and while I miss her, I’m not sad about it all the time. It sucks, but watching cancer ravage her body was worse, so don’t make that face.”

  Joie immediately loses the pity expression. “Sorry. You’re right. There must be a weird comfort in knowing she’s not suffering anymore.”

  I sigh. “There is, believe it or not. It was her third diagnosis and the least promising. Instead of prolonging what she felt was the inevitable, we did everything she had ever wanted to do. We made some amazing memories those last couple of months.”

  “What kinds of things did you do?”

  “Well . . .” I rub my lip with my finger tip as I think back to those last months. “First thing we did was create her bucket list. We added the little things like renting a Porsche for the day and splurging on a really expensive handbag she’d only use a few times. Things like that.”

  “Hey . . . she had the right idea,” Joie says with a smile. “Never underestimate the necessity of a really good handbag.”

  I glance down at the monstrosity hanging off the back of her chair. “I can see that. I suppose that wasn’t a bucket list item after all, as much as me getting my shit together and finally buying her one.”

  Joie nods like that was the right answer as I continue, “Once we had the list written, I pulled the biggest, most expensive one she had written down, and we went and did it.”

  “What was it?” Joie sits still, like she’s waiting with anticipation on what my answer is going to be.

  “We went on a whirlwind tour of Australia and New Zealand.”

  She lets out a gasp. “Oh, how amazing!”