Tyed(32)

One guy who blocks away suspicions about hunky, hetero BFFs, particularly ones named Shane.

One cozy Mexican restaurant.

A problematic trio: Brain, Hormones and Heart, who are surprisingly well behaved and in harmony, for a change.

The Mexican restaurant is on the outskirts of Concord, and we sit in a far corner, on a padded red bench, eating, laughing and teasing each other playfully.

Ty sticks to water, salad and chewing gum. “Don’t worry,” he laughs when I guiltily push and shove my veggie burrito around my plate. “You and I have a binge-eating date in an all-you-can-eat Mexican grill right after the fight.”

We talk about Nana Marty and her life story, hold hands, gossip about the different characters coming to the XWL gym and confess what our dreams are.

"Let's say I retire when I'm around thirty-eight. I'm being optimistic here, because usually accumulated injuries mean you're lucky to make it to thirty-five." He rubs the back of his neck. My eyes flutter when I remember that's exactly where I wrapped my arms around just an hour ago when we kissed. "I hope I can save enough money to open up my own gym. But I'm more interested in kids."

I cock a surprised eyebrow.

Ty laughs. "In training kids, that is. I don't know, it seems more fulfilling. Lots of douchebags want to learn how to fight for all the wrong reasons."

"Like there's a right reason," I grumble, but drop the subject when I notice his expression is still warm and open.

"What's your dream, Barbie?"

"The immediate one is for you to stop calling me that." I bite my inner cheek, thinking about it. He deserves my honesty, but I'm not sure he'd make sense of it anyway. "I don't know what I want to do," I admit. "I want to travel the world, I want to learn how to speak French...I want to be happy."

God, this sounds so stupid. I cover my face, peeking through my fingers to watch his reaction. What kind of loser has no idea what they want to do with their life at twenty-three?

Moi, that's who. Well, at least that's one less word to learn in French.

Ty peels my hand from my face gently, enveloping it with his. "That's some deep shit," he says, and I allow myself to breath again.

It is...?

"It is?"

"Yeah, like that John Lennon quote. When his school teacher once asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, and he said happy, and she said that he didn't understand the question, and he answered that she didn't understand life." He paused, frowning. "I'm f*cking this quote up, I think. Let's look it up on the Internet."

When he fishes for his phone, it's my turn to reach for him and hold his hand in mine. "No, you didn't f*ck it up. I got it, and it's perfect. Thank you."

***

Ty insists on paying for dinner, and after a long argument in front of a cringing waitress, who shamelessly checked him out, I finally agree. We leave the restaurant with our fingers entwined and walk to a nearby diner, where I consume a slice of chocolate fudge cake the size of a mature seal, and he chuckles into his closed fist at how cute I am.

It’s weird how Ty shows me this different side of him, the sweetheart part, the kiss underneath the bleachers guy, who brings your mom flowers on her birthday and remembers shit like your first pet’s name and when you get your period. I’ve never seen him so at ease. Usually, he avoids showing those cutie dimples at any cost. Tonight, he is flashing them like Miley Cyrus at a nudist beach.

When the date is over, we roll back to the busy street and he hugs me from behind. He enfolds me completely, tilts my chin up with his finger and locks his lips on mine. Every time we kiss a jolt of warmth flies straight down my spine. When he breaks away, he strokes my face softly.

“So, Miss Stern, where should we have this interview?”

“Your place. It would shed a lot of light about how you live,” I answer.

He clicks his car open. “One honest interview and a side of first base make-out coming right up.”

***

Ty lives in a rundown neighborhood in Concord. He has a chain link fence, and it’s dotted with girlie mementos firmly tucked into its holes. There are thongs and bikini tops and love letters and phone numbers on the fence, all in different colors and sizes. I brush my fingers along the fence links as we walk to the locked gate and instinctively pluck out one pair of undies and examine it, only to discover that it’s used and smells of the woman who wore it.

Christ on a cracker. I think I just totally lost my faith in humanity.

Fan letters are jamming his mailbox full and a huge American flag waves from his red-roofed, one-story house. A vintage, custom-made Harley-Davidson is parked on his wooden porch, and a black-lace bra rests on its leather seat. The image of Ty screwing a girl on his Harley in the middle of the exposed yard makes my fingers shake with fury. I feel whiplashed, sick and frustrated.

I can't believe I kissed the guy. What the hell was wrong with me?

Yes, I judge a book by its cover, and it’s becoming apparent that the content matches the cover pretty perfectly.

We get in the house and Ty slams the door shut with his foot, but I’m still haunted by the sex shrine fencing his place.

There is something about the reaction Ty gets from girls that seriously pisses me off. It’s the same reaction I have to him.

Complete. Lack. Of. Self. Control.