Veronica

---

“So, what’ll it be?” Zach led the way down a wide hall and into a big, clean, modern kitchen where everything seemed to have a home, and opened up a well-stocked fridge. I set my backpack down in a corner and followed him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Want a beer?” He touched a watch at his wrist and smiled and, like a puppet master, that little tweak of the lips pulled at something inside me. I wanted to make this guy happy, wanted to see how big that smile could get. I wanted him to pick up his shirt again and give me another illicit glimpse of his happy trail. “Way past beer o’clock.”

“Sure,” I mumbled. “That sounds good.”

None of this made sense, especially inside me, where everything had gone haywire. I never got worked up about the way a man smiled. And I liked guys who weren’t a challenge. Guys who were safe. Not strange shut-ins with big, sweaty muscles and—

“My app knows I’m here,” I blurted.

He stopped twisting open the second beer and turned toward me.

“Who?”

Oh, God, this was stupid. I was stupid. I shouldn’t have come back, I should have accepted the man’s interference for the boon it was and ignored the other crazy stuff going on in my brain.

“My canvassing app. It shows my location.”

He looked puzzled for a second before his features suddenly cleared. “Oh, you mean in case I’m a psycho killer?”

“Yes,” I responded on a nervous giggle.

“Fair enough.” He put down the beer and pulled a phone from his back pocket. “Got someone you trust?”

“Trust?”

“Like a friend you can text. Someone who’ll check on you.”

“Oh, sure.”

He handed me the phone. “Text ’em. Tell ’em you’re with me, give my name and address.”

“I can use my phone.”

“This way your friend’ll have my number. Take my picture, too, if you want.”

I did it all and sent it to my friend O'Neal Jones. She was a reporter in town, so I figured she’d know what to do with this kind of information.

Whaaaaat? You’re on a date?

Just a visit.

He’s cute.

This is his phone.

So I shouldn’t say he’s cute?

No comment.

Right. Well, I just got ANOTHER text from last weekend’s date. Number block! Have fun. Call if you need a pick up.

I deleted the exchange and handed him the phone.

“Thanks.”

“You bet.”

I was standing between the kitchen and an adjoining dining room with a simple, Swedish-looking table and chairs, bar stools pushed under the granite counter separating it from the kitchen, and French doors that opened onto a patio with a cast-iron table and four chairs. There was something calming about a place that wasn’t chock full of junk. I should really go through my apartment and take stuff to the consignment shop. I had books everywhere, tchotchkes from the kids at school, framed pictures of my parents and grandparents. The place was a hoarder’s paradise compared to this.

“It’s nice in here.”

“Yeah?”

I realized after a couple of seconds that he was really asking.

“Yes. Well it’s huge and sort of super clean, and pretty simple, with lots of natural light.” I made myself see it in a way that I could translate, almost. “It’s a lot bigger than it looks from the outside.” And nicer. Although I didn’t mention that. “The hardwood floor has this darker glow, though, that warms it all up. Along with the sunshine coming in. It keeps it from being too stark.”

“I feel sunshine. Walking in and out of it.”

“Like my cat.”

“You have a cat?”

“Ché.”

“As in Guevara?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. My parents named him.”

“Want to sit?”

I turned in a circle. “Where?”

“Patio?”

“Sure.” Vocalizing everything was odd. I couldn’t nod at the little questions, couldn’t play things off with a shrug. Conversation with this man involved commitment. It was frightening; and refreshing.

He led the way and held a chair out for me after swiping a few leaves from its seat. His movements were all so careful and precise. I would almost call his demeanor calculated if it didn’t also seem necessary. If I closed my eyes for two seconds, I’d trip on myself.

“Thank you.” I sank into the chair and he settled in the one nearest me. Having this stranger so close to me should have been awkward, but it was something else. The feel of him beside me was hot and new, and awareness buzzed just under my skin. I fought a wild urge to tilt my head a few degrees and set it on that capable looking shoulder or, even more embarrassing, to lick it.

Looking for something besides his nearness to focus on, I turned to the yard and noticed with a start that everything back here was perfectly manicured. Like the inside, the back of this place didn’t match the front. Like a secret garden.

I inhaled a heavenly, sweet, syrupy scent.

“There’s honeysuckle!” I scanned the back of the yard and spotted it clinging to the far fence.

“Yeah. Got a ton back there. I know it’s a weed and you’re supposed to pull it, but I just can’t.”

“It’s pretty, even if it is a weed.” I inhaled deeply. “And that smell.”

“What makes a weed a weed, anyway?”

“Right?” I nodded his way, expecting our gazes to connect. Of course, they didn’t and disappointment flashed through me, followed quickly by something different as my attention caught on details, like the soft-looking skin behind his ear, the way his thick, muscular throat moved when he spoke. Something new, excitable. Something like discovery.

I wanted to ask if he’d always been blind, but that seemed way out of line. Too early, too personal. Rude, probably, although if one of my four-year-olds asked, it might be okay.

Instead, I went with my other burning question. “It’s so neat back here, but your house is a mess out front. Why is that?”

He cleared his throat before answering. “That bad, huh?” Oh no. Did I embarrass him?

“It’s a little…” I shrugged. “Intimidating.”

“Not usually big on visitors.”

“Oh.” Was he trying to tell me something? “So, when I knocked, you…”

“Present company excepted.”

“So…you leave it that way on purpose?”

“Not exactly.” He shrugged. “Actually hired a guy to take care of it, but…”

“Well, he’s not doing his job.”

Zach just shook his head.

“What?” I asked.

“His wife got sick after having their baby a while ago, and I don’t want to bother him with it.”

“Why not find someone else?”

“He needs the money.”

“Wait, you pay him?” He didn’t answer. “Who’s the socialist now?”

“Can’t fire the guy for being down on his luck.”

“People do it all the time.”

“I’m not like that.”

“I can tell.” My belly tightened with something like affection for this man I barely knew. “You helped me.”

He didn’t respond, although a red flush crept from his neckline to the top of those wide, proud cheekbones.

“That’s different. Helping you is helping the community.”

He had me there.

“Well, I appreciate it. Your help.”

“I want to see the better candidate win this.” I blushed hard, thankful he couldn’t see it. “You think he’s clean?”

“Who?”

“Your opponent. Clint Rylie.”

“I don’t know.”

“What if he’s not? What if he’s crooked?”

“Rylie’d never get caught.”

“Why not?”

“He never does.”

Zach made a thoughtful hm sound that was muffled when he took a long swig.

When he didn’t go on, I asked, “You grow up around here?”

“Yeah. Right here.”

“What school’d you go to?”

“Didn’t. I was home-schooled by my grandfather.”

“Oh.”

After another sip of beer, he set the bottle down with a clunk. “Had very specific ideas about what a boy’s education should look like.”

“Where is he now?”

“Passed away. A few years ago.”

“So, it’s just you?”

“Just me.” After a pause, he smiled. “And the interwebs.”

It all came back to me again—that fear at the way those kids had reacted, roiling around in my gut along with my unexpected attraction for this man. “Who are you?”

He stilled, beer bottle halfway to his mouth. “What are you asking?”

“How’d you have access to those college kids? How did it take you less than two days to get more attention than we’ve gotten in six months of meet and greets?”

“I’m alone here, but I’m not alone—out there.”

“I get that, but not every computer-savvy person is able to drum up that level of support. It’s just not possible.”

“No?”

“So what do you do? What makes you different?” And why did I feel like so much hinged on this response? I tried to relax my back as I waited for him to answer.

He took a long pull at his beer and I couldn’t help but look at his throat as he swallowed.

The overloud sound of his bottle settling back on the glass-topped table sent me into a little startled jump.

“I write code,” he answered.

I waited for more. “What kind of code?”

“The kind that tracks and then projects trends in financial markets.”

“You’re a trader?”

“Not entirely.”

“They were so in awe of you.”

“I invented a few things.”

“Things?”

“Systems. I mean, I came up with some systems that made people a lot of money. I also invented this.” He held out his wrist to show me what I’d initially taken for one of those Apple watches. “It’s for blind people. Does everything. Measures topography, tells us if there’s an obstruction in our path. It’ll read text, which isn’t that big of a deal for books, now that audiobooks and text-to-speech programs are so prevalent, but it’ll read signs and stuff, out in the world—like at the grocery store, you know? It’s pretty practical.”

“Wow. They acted like you were some kind of legend.” I was impressed, but as I took another sip of beer and side-eyed the man sitting next to me, I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that I was missing a big piece of the story. “So, should I call you Horde?”

“No.” The man who’d been easygoing and safe just moments before tensed up. “Don’t… I don’t want you to use that name.”

I swallowed hard. “Okay.”

“You know what? I shouldn’t have done what I did. I knew it could out me.” There were unspoken words there. I wished I knew what they were. “You probably shouldn’t be here.”

Um. Wow. I blinked and tried to ignore the tightness in my gut.

What the hell?

---

Zach

---

The problem with keeping all my secrets buried in my house was that I wound up alone.

She needed to go. But I wanted her to stay. I wanted her, period. Just sitting beside her’d gotten me worked up, but her curiosity…that couldn’t be good for me. Too damned dangerous.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” I sighed, wishing I didn’t have to be so cautious. “You didn’t.”

“I don’t want to go.” As if to prove this, she settled deeper into her chair.

I couldn’t relax until I knew the truth—was she onto me? “You don’t?”

“Unless you really want me gone, but I like you.”

A terrible thought occurred to me. “Is it because of my appearance?” I cleared my throat. “Because that’s not something I can relate to, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“I do the lawn back here because nobody bugs me. Out front,” I lifted my chin to indicate the house and, beyond it, the overgrown yard. “I get visitors.”

“Visitors? Up here?”

“Crazy, right?” Especially when I did everything I could to keep to myself. “A neighbor. She bakes me cookies and stuff, drops ’em off and…”

This was ridiculous. She didn’t want to know this crap. “And what?”

“At first, I thought she was one of those people who feels sorry for me. Because I’m blind. I get some of those. But this woman, she gets close.”

“Close?”

“It makes me uncomfortable.” Growing up with Granddad, who wasn’t a people person to say the least, meant I hadn’t brushed shoulders with too many folks.

“Like, sexual harassment close?”

“She’s interested. That’s all. She wears this perfume and it’s…” I coughed, picked up my beer to find it empty and stood. Jesus, I was bad at this talking to women bullshit. No wonder Granddad gave up on finding anyone after Grandma died. Self-sufficiency had been his motto. Don’t need anyone. Ever. “You want another?”

“Sure.” She put her bottle in my waiting hand. It seemed messed up to wish our fingers would touch after complaining about Donna from down the street.

Inside, I checked my messages—I had two queries out on Veronica’s opponent. Nothing. I grabbed the bottles, popped them open and headed back out, filled with an unfamiliar, but giddy uncertainty.

“You said visitors,” she said as I handed her the beer. “With an s. You get harassed a lot?”

“Over the years, yeah.” I shrugged. “I guess women think they need to be more aggressive with me. Since I’m blind.”

“And you’re not…into that?” Her voice was hesitant, but I got the feeling this was big—her asking me such an intimate question.

“Even when I was younger, girls liked me for my looks. I used to play down the road with the neighbors. At one point, things changed.”

“And you didn’t like it?”

“It was fine, sometimes. But I didn’t always like the girls who liked me.”

“So the overgrown, dilapidated thing is a cover, right? You like going unnoticed. Nobody comes up here if it’s a mess. Nobody bugs you.”

I didn’t reply. Why deny what was so obviously true?

After a couple sips, she asked, “Are you registered to vote?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“You’ll win.” I smiled.

“You think so?”

“I do.”

“It feels like cheating, though.”

My head swiveled to face her. It put us so close our breaths mingled.

“What does?”

“You getting all those students to help.”

“Having a team of volunteers is cheating? You think your opponent doesn’t have plenty of help?”

“But I didn’t recruit them! I didn’t design those flyers or think of those tag lines or any of the things you did for my—”

My hand on her arm cut her off—and shocked the hell out of me. I could barely breathe.

I leaned in farther. “Why do you think you have to do all the things? It’s a campaign. You have a manager, right?”

I imagined she was nodding and went on.

“So, I’m your social media guy. That’s it. I do a little communications, PR. Now you’ve got a bigger team. Things are more even.”

“Well, thank you.” She leaned closer and touched her beer to mine. “Zach Hubler.”

My name on her lips did things to me. We sat there for a minute, something other than my words suspended between us as my body and my brain, focused on her warm skin and her warm breath and the smell of her so near—flowers and beer and some unidentifiable woman thing I wanted to suck down to the bottom of my soul.

“All I’ve done…” I swallowed and let my fingers slide, just the tiniest bit, trying to remember what I was saying. “Is volunteer my time—”

“Those signs and flyers cost money, too!”

“—and made a small donation to a cause that I deem worthwhile. That’s all.” I wouldn’t tell her about the bigger donation, made through one of my shell companies. I didn’t know why, but I had a feeling she wouldn’t like that. Or she might stop this thing going on if I told her about the money. She’d cite a conflict of interest or some other bullshit and I didn’t want this thing—whatever it was—to stop.

Which was what made me give her arm a final squeeze and let go, shift back, get some space, give my brainwaves room to function again.

In the silence that followed, she took a long swig of her drink. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I forced a smile onto my face and held out my beer. “Here’s to winning.”

“Here’s to winning.”

Our bottles clinked and I turned to enjoy the last rays of the day’s sun. “Sun’s setting.”

“You can tell it’s darker?”

“It’s always bright for me. All the time. But I feel it getting lower. Also, the birds. They change at this time of day.”

I cocked my head, closed my eyes, relaxed my shoulders, and listened. It took about ten seconds for the world to change. Kids squealed a ways down the road, someone mowed their lawn, engines droned farther away and doors slammed. Closer, a breeze rustled the trees, birds chirped. If you could even call it chirping. There were so many sounds, like separate, individual voices, as different as songs on the radio, and through it all, she sat beside me. Just her presence changed my corner of the world.

“You listening?” I felt a little breathless at how quiet she’d been. Her attention on me was so perfectly focused. So different from anyone else I’d been with.

“Yes.”

“Your eyes closed?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t explain this, ’cause I just met you and, honestly, this has never happened before, but…” I swallowed, opened my mouth and shocked myself. “I want to kiss you.”