Dreams of 18(4)

Anyway, this younger guy is cute, I’ll give him that. He has dark blond hair and an easy smile. Plus the yellow makes him look cheerful and approachable, somehow.

Unlike the black and white plaid shirt and thick arms of the man I’ve been watching. They probably – definitely – say approach with caution.

“Isn’t he a little older to be going to school at all?” I ask distractedly, watching the pair.

The yellow t-shirt guy’s throwing around a ball and playing one-man catch with it, as he grins and says something to the man. He answers the younger guy with a slow shake of his head and a slight stretch of his lips that can barely be called a smile.

I almost swallow my lollipop at the sight of it, though. Somehow, his non-smile is sexier than all the smiles I’ve ever seen.

“What are you talking about? He totally goes to our school,” Fiona protests, then breathes out a dreamy sigh. “You know I’m not a fan of yellow but I’m willing to be a convert for him. Because that yellow looks amazing on him.”

“He’s not wearing…” I begin, but then I trail off because it finally occurs to me.

We’re not talking about the same person.

Fiona’s talking about the younger guy. The one who’s wearing a yellow t-shirt. He is Brian Edwards.

Not the plaid shirt guy… man… whatever.

I feel Fiona looking at me and wrinkling her nose. Okay so, she’s figured it out too. “Oh my God, are you… Eww!”

Looking away from the man who isn’t Brian Edwards, I face Fiona. “What?”

“Have you been perving over that other guy?”

“No.”

“Ugh. You totally were. You’re so gross.” Fiona shakes her head. “He’s old, for God’s sake.”

I feel the need to come to his defense. “He’s not old. He’s…” I swallow, searching for a better word. “Mature.”

And sexy.

Rolling her eyes, Fiona turns away and looks back out the window. “He’s forty.”

I do the same. “He’s not forty.”

I mean, yes, he’s older. Like probably in his thirties.

It’s in every line of his body.

It’s in the way his shoulders stretch out his shirt and his strong thighs fill out his jeans. Those muscles, that bulk and hardness can only come from age. From years of work and toil.

From years of living.

Not to mention, his mannerisms and confidence. His authority and command. Again, that comes with age. With knowledge.

Something about that is so breath-stealing.

“I think he’s like thirty,” I say to Fiona.

I would’ve said more but right then, Brian Edwards throws the ball up in the air and the man we’ve been talking about reaches up and catches it before Brian can, in one fluid motion. Like, he just touched the ball and it slid into his big palm.

Talk about athleticism and reflexes.

Whoa.

“Thirty-seven,” she counters.

“Thirty-three. Final offer.”

She sighs. “Hmm. Okay. Thirty-three.” Then, “But still. Thirty-three. That’s like what? Seventeen years older than you.”

“What does it matter how much older than me he is?”

“Um, because you were perving on him?”

“I was not.”

I totally was.

“First of all, age is just a number. You’re not what your age is. You are what you’ve gone through. Mark Twain said that age is just mind over matter.”

Fiona makes a gagging sound; she hates it when I quote writers and philosophers. In her words, it’s lame and weird.

Ignoring her, I keep going, “And secondly, he’s handsome. Why wouldn’t I look at him? Looking at a handsome man is not perving. Like when I pause the movie when Hugh Jackman takes his shirt off? That’s not perving. That’s observing. Same as you.”

I probably shouldn’t have made the Hugh Jackman comment because now I’m wondering the same thing about Not-Brian Edwards.

Him. Shirtless.

I’m wondering if he takes off his shirt and loses that little bit of softness that covers his hard body, will his muscles jut out like sharp and rough peaks.

“Well, I can see that he has a certain kind of appeal.” Fiona drums her fingers on her chin. “He’s tall. Rugged. Rough around the edges. Very masculine and tough-looking. I’d totally let him mow my lawn.”

I grimace. “Okay. Now who’s gross?”

“What? I’m just saying. He looks like a good worker. Like he can mow a lawn or carry furniture or whatever. They should probably tip him big. He totally saved the coffee table.”

Fiona has her nose up in the air. Her shoulders are thrown back and her spine is straight. Condescension and superiority over mere mortals such as me. My mom has taught her well.

“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear that,” I say sarcastically, strangely angry on his behalf.

Just because he’s a moving guy doesn’t mean he deserves to be belittled. And just because he isn’t the one who’s moving in next door is no reason to be disappointed.

The latter is for me. Because I am disappointed.

More than I should be.

“Aww. Are you jealous?” She giggles.