Conflicting Hearts (4 page)

“No, that’s okay. I checked on the Internet and mapped it
out,” he says nonchalantly.

Ingenious man,
I think to myself with a tad of
suspicion. I decide to check the web for information on him when I get home.

Surprisingly, I feel comfortable with his driving. I don’t
usually like the passenger seat. That out-of-control feeling sweeps over me. I
look at the dashboard and see he’s not speeding. He’s following the car ahead
at a safe distance. He’s an excellent driver. It’s probably the perfection part
in him that I am sensing.

While I’m thinking about it, some car speeds by him and cuts
in front. It startles me, and I grab the arm rest. He doesn’t flinch. Now, I’m
thoroughly impressed. Not a trace of road rage tendency stirs him whatsoever.

“That was a close one.” He glances over at me with a
concerned look.

“Yeah. Crazy drivers,” I moan with self-righteousness.

“There are a few, that’s for sure.” He smirks.

“Probably not the thing to be saying after my own faux pas
of this morning.”

Now he’s grinning from ear to ear. He turns his head quickly
and winks at me, then looks back at the road. I relax in my seat for the
remainder of the way home.

Ian pulls up to my apartment complex and magically arrives
in front of the exact building. He finds a visitor-only parking spot, turns off
the car, and reaches over to pat my hand.

“Let me walk you to the door.”

“Uh, no, that’s okay.” I feel compelled to refuse his offer,
afraid he’s going to want an invitation to come in.

“Just to the door,” he says, opening his and climbing out.

He comes around and opens my door and then offers his hand
for me to take. I look into his sincere, kind eyes and release my fate into his
palm. It’s unusual for someone to take care of me with such thoughtfulness. I
don’t know how to respond.

After I’m out, he releases my hand, and I start walking
toward my apartment. “I’m on the third floor,” I tell him, taking the first
step. I practically run upstairs, and he follows behind me. The door to
Apartment 306 is there, and I hesitate before putting the key into the lock. I
turn and look at him watching me.

“Ian, thank you for making my birthday a memorable one. I
don’t think I’ll forget this day, thanks to my inability to pay attention to
the road ahead of me.” I’m captivated by his sympathetic eyes. Admiration
threatens to drown my cautious heart. Immediately, I try to suppress the urge
to like him—really like him.

“No, problem, Rachel. Frankly, I’m glad we ran into each
other.” He chuckles and changes his sentence. “I mean
you
ran into me.”

He reaches out and touches the tip of my nose with his index
finger. I flinch over his cute antics.

“Thanks again.” I push the key into my lock and shove open
the door.

“Saturday,” he asks, sounding like a little boy. “Are we on
for a hike?”

The longing in his eyes touch me. “I’ll call and let you
know, okay?” It’s all I can offer at the moment without feeling pressured.

“Okay. You have my number. Call me.” His face is clearly
etched in disappointment.

He turns and heads toward the stairs and climbs down the
first six and stands on the landing for a brief second. “Goodnight.”

“Night.” I wave goodbye and smile.

A moment later, I’m in my apartment. I lock the door and
slide my back down to the floor, until my rear hits the throw rug. The thought
of spending time with him is overwhelming. I feel drained in so many ways, I
can’t number them.

Confusion swirls through my mind, mixed with the fear. I’m
not sure what I should do about his invitation. Finally, my pent-up emotions
from the day expel in tears. For the next ten minutes, I’m lost in a crying jag
I cannot stop, because of the kind respect Ian Richards has shown me. I know I
don’t deserve it, but it felt so wonderful it makes me want more.

Chapter 3

A Reluctant Acceptance

I wake up Tuesday with my usual morning depression, after a
restless night’s sleep. Attorney blue-eyes kept showing up when I closed my
eyelids. He’s hard to eradicate, and now I have four days to decide whether I
want to accept his offer or not.

After climbing out of bed and showering, I’m reminded that I
need to catch the bus to the body shop a few miles away to sign papers and pick
up a rental. Already, I’m behind at work, which adds more stress to my day. I
reach for my prescription and down my morning anti-depressant. Tonight at seven
o’clock I’ll take another.

Three months ago, I had fallen back into the dumps. It’s
been a constant battle being on and off medication since I was a teenager. I
feel happy, and then I feel awful. When I think I’ve got the depression beat, I
go off the pills and feel cheerful for a few months. Then stress, loneliness,
and heartache take their toll again, and I’m calling my doctor begging for the
return of the purple-colored pill.

I’m to the point in my life that I’m thinking of making this
a permanent arrangement. We’re old friends by now. I don’t know what else to
do, because I need to function so I can work and take care of myself. There’s
nobody else to do it for me.

As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I think of Ian
Richards. It’s far too tempting to believe that a handsome and successful man
would find an interest in me, especially on a long-term basis. I’m not sure if
I accept his story that he wants to be friends. We’re not on the same playing
field. Another twang of distrust hits me as I try to figure out his motives for
wanting to take me on a hike.

It doesn’t take long for the alone-in-the-woods thought to
resurface and the notorious serial killers of the Pacific Northwest to haunt my
mind. I can see it now—my poor bones with the flesh picked off by ravens will
make headlines in the Oregonian newspaper—unidentified skeletal remains found
on Larch Mountain by a hiker.

If I do go with Ian, then I am choosing a trail that I know
is heavily travelled. Perhaps I should check his backpack to make sure he
hasn’t brought any duct tape. The irrational worries keep prancing through my
mind from rape to murder. I have four days to figure this out. At the rate I’m
going, I’ll make myself sick by then and won’t be able to go.

After climbing into my economy rental, I drive to work and
park in the structure next to our building. I’m early enough not to get a
lecture, so I head upstairs to my desk and am greeted by the red roses that
look as fresh as the day before. They make me smile. I shove my nose into a bloom
and inhale the scent reminding myself how delightful it feels to receive a
fresh bouquet. I should give him credit for that, at least.

“Hey, Rachel!” Julie greets me. “The roses still look
fabulous. Did you thank your victim?”

I smile and feel the urge to share. “Yeah, we had a drink
after work last night.”

“No!” She plops herself in the chair next to my desk and
leans forward. “Tell me, what happened?”

“I ordered a Coke, he had a Bud, and we just talked.” I try
to make light of it, then added the rest. “Then he drove me home.”

“Wow, did he come in and you guys…you know…?”

“Gosh, do you think I’m bonkers?” I squawk at her in
disbelief. “I hardly know the man. No, I didn’t invite him in.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

Now the questions are annoying me. Why do I share when I
know that people are going to poke and pry even more? There’s a reason I’m
private, and this it is—Julie Rogers with her big nose. If I tell her
everything, soon the whole office will know of my personal life before the noon
hour. Afterward, in the months that follow, everyone will line up at my desk
telling me what to do next.

“I’m not sure,” I say, turning my head away. I push the
power button on my computer and wait for the software welcome sign. Maybe
she’ll get the hint her welcome has ended.

“Well, let me know if anything comes of it,” she says, with
a tad bit of disappointment in her voice. She rises from the chair and heads
over to her home-sweet-cubicle.

As I wait for the computer, I glance at the picture of my cat
stuck to my cube’s wall with a push pin. Whiskers, my life. My eyes turn toward
the flowers, and I imagine a picture of Ian, with six-pack abs, sitting in a
silver frame, adorning the corner of my desk. Now, wouldn’t that be something?
I’d never get any work done.

At last, the computer is up. The clock has rolled over to
eight a.m. It’s time to get to work and leave my fantasies behind somewhere in
my mind. Already, I know that concentration is going to be difficult today.
When I’m down, I can’t focus, and work is painful. Mr. Stewart has filled my
incoming box to the top. He’s probably trying to pay me back for being late
yesterday.

“Time to earn my $14.68 hourly wage,” I mutter under my
breath. I grab the first piece of paper and get at it.

* * * *

The week has shown me no mercy by making each day fly by
toward my decision point. He hasn’t called me, and I’m assuming he picked up
the hint that I don’t like to be pressured. I feel guilty that I haven’t
called, but I’ve thought it out carefully what I want to say.

Late Thursday afternoon, I decide to take the leap.
Beforehand, I write down each point that I want to get across. Otherwise, I’ll
freeze in my thought process and forget everything. I want to hike at Multnomah
Falls. The place is crawling with people this time of the year, and the trails
are packed with visitors. There are bathrooms nearby, in case I lose it, and
places I can scream if I need to be rescued. Of course, it’s a long drop to the
bottom falls should he decide to push me from the top, but I know I’m
stretching the imagination with that lame thought. My pathetic paranoia
tendencies make absolutely no sense.

I get up and walk over to the employee lounge again and dial
his number. It rings and then goes straight to voice mail.

“You’ve reached Ian Richards. I’m away from my desk at the
moment or on the other line. Please leave a message, and I’ll return your call
as soon as possible. Thank you, and have a pleasant day.”

I pull the phone away from my ear, drop my mouth open, and
look at it as if I just visited an alternate universe. Why is this guy so nice?

Beep.
I hear it and then bring the phone back up to
my ear and freeze for a second. “Uh, Ian? It’s me, Rachel. I’m calling about
Saturday.” I leave my number and hang up.

My stomach is nauseated, and I feel my heart flutter. My
usual physical reactions raise their ugly head, because my mind can’t handle an
ounce of stress.
I hate myself
, I complain, and walk back to my desk.

I keep checking the time as it slips by, wondering why he
hasn’t called. Perhaps he’s with a client, in a meeting, or didn’t come into
work because his neck is out of whack. It’s possible. Four o’clock arrives,
then four-thirty. Maybe he’s changed his mind—that’s more probable. He’s
thought about his invitation and wants to back out. I wouldn’t be surprised.

My cell phone starts to vibrate on my desk top. I jolt and
glance at the caller ID that reads Anderson & Wyatt Law Firm. It’s him. I
pick the phone up, rise from my seat, and answer it as I’m walking toward the
employee lounge.

“Hello?”

“Rachel, it’s Ian.”

“Hi, Ian,” I answer unemotionally. I try not to sound too
anxious.

“I’m glad you called. I was getting worried there that you
wouldn’t.” He definitely sounds anxious.

“Oh, it’s just been a busy week.”

“Yeah, me too. Put in a couple of long hours the past few
evenings.”

“Sorry,” I say, feeling genuinely bad this guy has to work
so much.

“Have you decided about Saturday?”

“Yes.”

“So?”

“Okay, I’ll go under certain conditions.”

“Name them.”

“Can we hike at Multnomah Falls? You know, to the top?
Haven’t done that in years, and I think it would be fun.”

“Yeah, sure. You up for the steep climb?”

I hadn’t thought about that. It’s a killer walk, that’s for
sure. “If we go slow, and you promise not to laugh at me when I need to stop
and catch my breath.”

“Deal. What time you want me to pick you up?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Nine o’clock sound okay to you? We should
get there about ten.”

“Sounds fantastic. Want to do breakfast beforehand?”

“Uh, no,” I say emphatically. The rascal chuckles.

“Okay, I get it. I’ll pack some snacks in my backpack just
in case.”

“Okay.” I already know I’m going to refuse them.

“Well, thanks for calling, Rachel, and I look forward to our
hike. See you Saturday morning.”

“Okay.”

My nose wrinkles in embarrassment over the same word I’ve
said three sentences in a row. He’s going to think I’m pretty dumb if all I can
articulate is okay…okay…okay.

“Bye,” he says, sounding pleased with himself.

“Bye.” The call ends. I lean against the wall and catch my
breath. This whole thing is pure torture.

I walk back to my desk and think about him for a few more
minutes. It dawns on me that I haven’t done an Internet search on this guy.
Quickly, I glance around the office, and everybody is busy. My boss has left
for the day, so I click on the web explorer. It pops up, and I head straight
for the search box and type in “Ian Richards Attorney at Law.” A few seconds
later, a massive laundry list of information fills the page. My hand clutches
the mouse, and I inhale a surprised breath.

His law firm comes up first, along with other search results
such as professional organizations, Oregon State Bar Association, a former law
firm he worked at, and a page on the same social media site that I use

It’s impossible not to giggle with glee over that discovery.
I click on that first and groan in disappointment. He’s got all his information
locked down—his wall, his pictures.
Damn
. I click on “About” and there’s
not much there either, but I do see his relationship status. It says “Divorced
.
”

I lean back in my chair. “You sly dog, you,” I mumble under
my breath. “Left that little tidbit out.” My own guilt pokes me.
You didn’t
tell him that you were married before either.
Y
eah, yeah, I know. I’ll cross
that bridge when I come to it
, I rag on my conscience.

My eyes go back up the search results, and I click on his
law firm information. A picture of him pops up. He’s dressed in a pinstriped,
dark-gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with diagonal gray stripes. I
salivate over his good looks.

Next, I scroll down to his credentials. There is it… Harvard
Law.
Oh, great, I feel like such a dummy
now
, I moan in
disappointment
.
The rest of the information goes on with details about
his practice area and expertise.

As I keep clicking on search results, it’s obvious that he’s
well educated and respected. I wonder about his family. Perhaps they’re rich.
He probably makes a three-figure income every year, and I’m reminded of my own
pittance of a salary and multiple credit card debts. The more I read, the more
depressed I become. The dichotomy between the two of us builds a broad chasm in
my mind. I’ll never be able to breach it, especially when he gets to know me.

Quickly, I exit the Internet. My eyes start to water as I
ponder my worthless life. I notice the time. One more trip to the ladies’ room
before heading home, and then I’m going to stuff my face with ice cream and hug
my cat. I need comfort and assurance from something, even if it’s a ball of
fur.

Thanks to my online snooping, I’m in the doldrums as I drive
home. The feeling of hopelessness smothers me. Saturday will no doubt turn out
disastrous, and our acquaintance will come to a swift end. The voices in my
head taunt me.

Nothing good ever happens to you. You’re such a loser.

Yeah, yeah, I know
, I acknowledge them in return
.
I
believe every word they’ve told me for twenty-five years and always have. Why
should anything change now? It never does.