DAVID
How is it that this woman has been in my life before and I have no recollection of her? I dig through my childhood memories for any sign of a caramel-haired, blue-eyed beauty at the farm. I even try adding braces and glasses, but I just can't place her. If she was seven back then, I would have been thirteen and too old to pay any attention to my sister and her friends.
Michelle looks at me through her eyelashes and her lips part, one side of her mouth pulling up in an adorably crooked smile. "Remember how I said I always thought I'd love living on a farm?" Her voice is low, intimate, like she's baring her soul to me. I drink it in, desperate to take everything she wants to give me.
I nod.
"Well," she continues. "That's because of the times I used to visit your sister at Carmichael Farms." She swirls her straw in her iced tea, watching the ice rotate around the glass. "Outside of the ballet studio, I never felt as comfortable as I did there. I thought it was the most beautiful place in the world."
Every last thing I learn about this woman makes me like her more. "Me too. That's why I came back. My brother, Colton..." I trail off. "Do you remember him?" I pause while she nods. "He never left. Sarah? She never was much of a farmer. She left as soon as she could."
"I believe that," she says, laughing. "I remember having to beg her to go outside and play in the barn. All she wanted to do was stay inside and play with makeup." Her brow crinkles together. "Wait. You were one hell of a football player, weren't you? I think I remember talk of scholarships and hopes of a professional career."
"I'm surprised you remember that."
"Don't let it go to your head." She raises her eyebrows in what I'm starting to realize is a very playful face. "My dad was your coach."
"Your dad was Coach Dickhead?" I ask, so shocked I go right ahead and use the nickname we gave him in high school.
Michelle covers her mouth and laughs. "Oh my God. Coach Dickhead?" Her laughter is high-pitched and sweet, giving me hope she doesn't think I'm an asshole for bashing her dad. "Is that what you guys called him?"
"Yeah..." I grimace. "Sorry about that. It just slipped out."
"Don't you dare be sorry." She shakes her head, still laughing. "Coach Dickhead. I'm sure he lived up to the name." She dabs at her eyes with her napkin. "I'm guessing the scholarships didn't happen?"
I nod. "Oh, the scholarships happened, alright. The professional career was on the horizon. But just as I was starting to wonder if I was chasing after the wrong dream, Dad had a stroke." I take a breath, still acutely aware of the stress of that time in my life. "I knew right then and there that I belonged at home, on the farm with my family."
"Is your dad okay?" Compassion softens Michelle's eyes.
"He's fine now. He and Mom moved out of the farmhouse into a smaller house we built on the property so he didn't have to deal with stairs anymore."
Michelle shifts in her seat, crossing her legs. "I was so afraid of your dad for the longest time."
"It was the beard, wasn't it?"
Her eyes light up. "Yes! And he never smiled when he saw me. He'd just look at Sarah and say 'oh, you've got that girl over again.'"
"That's just his way. If he spoke to you at all, that meant he liked you. Dad is more of the strong silent type and his brand of humor isn't for everyone."
"Sarah used to say almost the same thing." She stares out towards the now dark sky, the hanging Christmas lights casting warm light on her skin. "It didn't help."
We sit in silence for a few moments, both of us smiling at the other, so much being said through eye contact alone. I could sit and stare at her for hours, devouring all the thoughts in her head and still end the night hungry for more.
"Do you want to get out of here?" I ask, not even remotely ready for this night to end. "Go for a drive?"
Michelle considers the question, weighing her response carefully.
"I'd love that." She licks her lips, drawing my gaze to her mouth. My God. Those lips. The things I want to do with them would make the devil blush.