Kensley

 

A week has passed since the park/dog incident, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought of the man and his dog.

Still, no word from Mark, even though I’m not actually expecting one.

He’ll return to San Diego eventually, whenever he’s done screwing whatever bimbo he has this month, and then he’ll see that I wasn’t joking when I said I was packing the girls and leaving.

At any rate, I feel incredibly guilty to be thinking of another man. Mark was supposed to be my forever. Mark and Kensley, Kensley and Mark. High school sweethearts with two-point-five—more like point-seventy-five at this point—kids. Living in a beautiful house with a legit white picket fence around the sprawling two-story.

Instead, I was Kensley Cole, living in an overpriced two-bedroom apartment, needing to figure out how to make an income.

I’d been a stay-at-home mom since London was born; that wasn’t going to be an option anymore. My savings will run out quickly, and I’d rather not have my account at zero before I solidified plans.

I’ll have to find cheap childcare—the girls are with Sharon today, but I can’t very well rely on her daily—and a better than minimum-wage job.

How that was happening, I wasn’t too sure. I’d never finished college. London was born smack-dab in the middle of my four years; finishing wasn’t even a thought.

It should have been, I scolded myself, but what was done, was done.

Seriously though; who was going to hire a high school grad who was nearly six-months pregnant?

I have zero clue what I’m going to do, but I do know that I have to start making plans. Mark may be an unfit parent, but at least he has a job.

A steady income.

Sitting at the short counter top breakfast bar, I lift my laptop cover, fully intending to start the job search. Instead of opening Indeed.com though, I find myself opening the website for 100.8.

As it was the first time I looked up the station, the very first slider image is for the morning show, with Liam Hardt’s face plastered next to the words, Catch CAUGHT IN THE ACT, every morning at six and nine!

With my cheek resting against my fist, I study the picture of the handsome, slightly metro, guy.

He’s certainly pretty.

Fist still to my cheek, I move my pinky mindlessly over my lips before nervously nibbling on the skin beside my nail.

The next slide is a picture of Balboa Park, down near the fountain. Come meet Liam and support KCHT’s food drive! TODAY, Friday, March 16, at eleven am.

I think about his phone call. “I spend a lot of time down at Balboa Park.”

I move my finger over the mouse pad, selecting the previous image and again, stare at Liam’s face a little harder than when I first scooped out his image over a week ago.

He looks familiar…

Could he be…?

From last week…?

No.

No way. Not possible.

My eyes search over the station’s page, settling on an Instagram icon.

Now, I gently nibble the side of my nail as I cautiously click the square icon.

Why cautious, I’m not sure. It’s not like there’s going to be some trail showing the radio station who’s clicking what.

Well, there is. Cookies and IP addresses and all that jazz. But I should be safe from being found out. I can’t be the only one who stalked Liam Hardt.

Besides, I’m just curious…

Curious to figure out if the guy with the dog last Saturday was Liam; maybe that was why he seemed familiar.

His voice…

The Instagram feed loads and immediately, I select the first picture. It’s the same one from the site, the one of Balboa Park, advertising that they’ll be at the highly popular park today. My eyes drop to the lower right corner; it’s already ten-fifty-five.

In the description, Liam is tagged.

Sucking my lips in between my teeth, I hesitate before clicking on the hyperlink.

Once his profile loads, I hit ‘PgDn’ on my keyboard once, showing me two rows of images, then drop my arm to rest on top of the other and take in the currently visible pictures.

These pictures are all a much more laid-back Liam Hardt, not at all like the made up one that’s plastered on the radio station’s web page.

That Liam was sexy in a done up, Hollywood way. Untouchable.

This Liam is gorgeous in a laid back, scruffy way.

And this Liam is definitely the guy from the park.

I swallow hard, and refrain from scrolling through the page, taking in only the pictures that are immediately available.

Liam golfing.

Liam hiking.

A picture of just his boxer, sleeping on a very unmade bed.

The dog playing with a young boy.

The dog sitting beside a crate table as Liam sits on the other side, a trashed Monopoly board between them.

I smile at that picture.

This Liam is approachable.

The Liam from the park, if I hadn’t been so fearful for my daughter’s life, he was approachable.

The fancy one, with his slick hair and button up shirt? Not approachable.

Not my league.

But this one?

This one matched the uncertain tone from the phone call…

“…that was forward and out of line, I’m sorry.”

The same blustered tone from when he was apologizing for Guinness running off.

I stand quickly from my stool, nearly knocking it backward. I reach the seat, righting it, before lunging for my keys on the kitchen counter.

It’s decided.

I’m going to the park.

I head toward the door but quickly realize I should probably bring something.

I don’t want to be the girl who goes to a radio station event, only to flirt with the personality.

Is that what I’m going to do?

Am I going to go flirt with Liam?

I stop in my tracks.

This is a bad idea.

Not doing it.

Nope.

I walk back into the kitchen and drop my keys…

For all of five seconds.

Before I realize what I’m doing—okay, I very much know what I’m doing—I have two cans of soup and a five-pack of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in one hand, and my keys in the other.

The drive is quick; uneventful, even. I hit zero lights, and traffic is minimal. It’s like the universe wants me to get to the park on time.

I have no idea when this food drive ends; just that it started at eleven. Maybe another host will take over at noon? Maybe Liam is only there for thirty minutes, or maybe he’ll be there until three? Who knew?

I certainly don’t.

Goodness, this is dumb.

So dumb.

Yet, not dumb enough to have my turning around.

I park in the lot near Pepper Grove and grab my donations. I should have grabbed a bag for them, but I didn’t, so I’m walking through the park and to the center of Balboa cradling a plastic wrapped group of blue boxes in one arm, and two cans of soup in my other hand.

I walk with purpose through the park, cross Space Center Way, coming to the Science Center. If I slow down, I know I’ll change my mind.

Eyes straight ahead.

One quick step in front of the other.

Just beyond the walls of the Science center, I can see where the radio station is set up near the giant fountain; there’s a small line, from what I can make out. Bicyclists and runners pass by, but I focus on my task, and march my way down the pathway.

The closer I get, the more my heart pounds.

I can’t believe I’m doing this…

Maybe he’ll be gone before I reach the line.

Maybe he’ll be gone before my place in line makes it to the front…

At the front of the Science Center now, I see that the line stretches down El Prado some ways. I have to pass by the set up—a large pick-up truck with 100.8 KCHT painted on the side—to get to the end of the line, but on quick glance, I see that Liam is busy talking to a person.

Female, I notice.

Unfortunately, or fortunately maybe, once I make it to the end of the line, it moves quicker than I expected it would. There are about twenty or so people in front of me, but I can see Liam and another guy, both standing outside the open tailgate of the truck. At the feet of the other guy is an open classic-blue Rubbermaid container, where the food items are being placed. It looks as if once the bin is filled, it gets a lid and placed into the truck, and that they’ve already filled a number of these bins.

Some people, mostly of the female variety, pose for pictures with Liam, like he’s some sort of local celebrity.

I suppose he is, kind of.

I would never think to take a picture with a radio host, but I find myself wishing these people would all ask for their picture to be taken with him.

It would buy me a little more time.

I rushed out here, not letting myself think it through, and now that I’m here, only feet away from him…

I’m having second thoughts.

Again.

It’s for the food pantry, I tell myself.

Yes. For the food pantry.

I can do anything for the food pantry.

I’m now one person away from dropping my items and meeting—not running from, Kensley!—Liam Hardt.

My eyes dart between the person talking to Liam, to Liam, to the person dropping food into the bin and talking to the other guy.

I swallow hard.

The people move.

I step in front of the other guy and awkwardly hold out my goods. “Here.”

Where Liam is wearing a waffle-knitted Henley, this guy is wearing a well-worn band shirt. He looks much easier to talk to, and the fact he wears a black wedding band makes him less threatening.

Even if he does have a full tattoo on his forearm, and a buzz-cut head.

I swallow and offer the guy a smile, but no words.

He may look easier to talk to, but my nerves are fried. I glance around quickly; there’s no rule that says I have to say hello to Liam. I came to drop off food for the drive.

That was all.

That was…

The person in front of me moves and I’m shuffled in front of Liam.

My face feels wide open—my eyes are round, and I can feel the air brushing into the sides of them; my forehead is tight from lifting my brows; my lips are tight, as if that will help me with my deep, calming breaths through my nose.

When I part my lips, I’m a little bit afraid I’ll do something embarrassing like pop a bubble.

God, that would really do it.

Instead, I take a deep breath and say, “Hi.”

Just ‘hi.’

The recognition in his blue eyes is immediate, but as he opens his mouth to say something—probably just an equally awkward ‘hello’—I break eye contact and focus on the four tiny brown buttons at the top of his shirt. “Bye…?” It’s breathless, and yes, it’s a question.

For what, I’m unsure, but it came out a question and I can’t very well own that.

So instead, I take a wide step to my left and hurry away.