Catarina

After the taste of our fresh cut fries have worn off Barrett and I wander over to an outdoor patio for some real food. The area is typically reserved for drinks for some of the ritzier affairs at the museum but has been modified to accommodate diners specifically for the long day of imbibing.

We pick one of the wrought-iron tables outfitted with cushioned chairs. Barrett’s kicked back, legs stretched out in front of him, sunglasses on, elbow resting on the chair’s arm. The sun sits hot on my back and the soft breeze that blew earlier is a memory. I order an ice-cold glass of water and the lunch special: grilled fish tacos with fried plantain chips. Barrett follows suit.

I take a long gulp of my water. “Ahh. I needed that. Drinking beer in the sun is tough business.”

He rests his glass on the coaster in front of him, his lips quirked. “Mia won’t like that we’ve given up.”

“Given up? I don’t follow.”

“I thought we were supposed to get tanked and reenact a reality-show hot tub scene. Here we are, eating and rehydrating like responsible adults.”

I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “How many reality-show hot tub scenes have you witnessed and/or participated in?”

“Several on both ends.” He grins, the big bad wolf.

“What about this alleged long-term on-again-off-again girlfriend? Did you skirt around when you were ‘off’?”

“Excuse me. I’ve watched my share of The Bachelorette.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“Well, the answer is none of your business.” He drinks his water and I wait. He takes another drink.

“Tell me about the girl who held the heart of the bad boy of the NFL for six years.”

“On and off,” he interjects.

“Still.”

“Kitty Cat.”

“I’m a reporter. I can’t help my natural curiosity. Indulge me.”

He sits up and leans across the table, his ocean-blue eyes hidden behind the mirrored lenses of expensive sunglasses.

“Her name’s Beth. We started dating when we were kids.”

“Kids, as in the fifth grade?”

“College,” he corrects. “I sat next to her in Applied Sciences. She smiled at me and I was a goner.”

“So, she’s pretty.”

“Very.” He dips his chin.

“And you two fought enough to break up several times?” I guess.

Either frustration or regret flattens his mouth. I’m surprised when he answers. “We fought a lot. Over stupid shit. Then I was drafted by Miami and the move to Florida prompted another breakup. Six months later, she moved down.”

“Moved in with you?”

“Yep.” He leans back again, face pinched, head turned. Topic over.

But I’m not done yet.

“And that was it?”

He shakes his head gravely. “Why do you want to know? You’re not writing about it.”

“I’m shamelessly nosy. Comes with the job.”

He huffs in agreement.

“Please?” I press my palms into prayer pose. A few silent seconds tick by before he gives in.

“She was in Florida for a while and then we had another argument and she moved back to Ohio. I stayed in Miami and injured myself. Once I was out permanently, we reconciled and I moved into her apartment here in Columbus.” He spins his water glass on the table. “She booted my ass out, and I lived with my buddy Dax for a few months. Helped him redesign his new bar until I found a place of my own to live.” He shrugs. “And that was it.”

“Are you sure? You two have found your way back to each other every other time. Why not now?”

“Trust me. I’m sure.”

“Did one of you stray?”

“Cheat? No. I don’t cheat. Neither does she. Things just became…hard.”

I know exactly what he means. North and I had our share of dumb arguments and avoidance and neither of us cheated, either. Sometimes breaking up is as easy and as complicated as two people who can’t work out their differences.

Our lunch arrives and we dive in.

“Maybe our story should revolve around you and Beth reconciling,” I say. “Readers love a second chance.”

He finishes his tacos, swipes the cloth napkin over his mouth and, still chewing, watches me from behind mirrored shades.

“Maybe our story could revolve around the way you want North back.”

My stomach pools with disgust. “I don’t want him back.”

“I don’t want Beth back.”

Put in my place, I forlornly nibble a plantain chip.

“Thought the story was about us,” he says a few minutes later. “About you and me.”

He pushes the sunglasses onto his head and spears me with hypnotizing blues.

“It is.”

“You’d rather write about Beth and me than you and me?”

“There is no you and me, Barrett. We’re dating for an article. Our boundary lines are a little blurry but—”

“You like kissing me.”

“I…do not.” Lie.

“Yeah. You do. I can tell by that whimpering, mewly sound you make in the back of your throat whenever I do it.”

“That…I don’t…That’s not what I do.” I’m flustered. Embarrassed. And lying through my teeth.

“Okay, Kitty Cat.” His relaxed posture is back, his empty plate shoved aside. “You keep telling yourself that. I was there for each one of those lip-presses and I know what I heard. You. Mewling. I also know what I felt: You. Climbing me like a ladder.”

I toss my napkin onto my plate, ready to stand and storm off for another episode of I Can’t Even With Barrett Fox.

“Don’t turn tail for once,” he says. “You wanted the bad boy of the NFL as a date, sweetheart, you got him. Stick around and see where it goes. At least you’ll have somethin’ fun to write about.”

He returns his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose.

“Want me to do something outrageous so you have some fodder?”

“Ha!” My laughter is a touch loud and draws attention from the surrounding tables. A few gazes linger on my ginger-haired date. “Your performance on stage is plenty of fodder.”

“Oh yeah?” He grins, a cunning fox in a coat of red.

“You know it was impressive,” I mumble. “You have a nice voice.”

“Sure you wanna write that? Sounds awfully flattering.”

“Could you be more conceited?”

“Used to be,” he states. “Then I blew my shoulder and learned a lesson in humility.”

He’s serious. And for a scant, and rare, moment I catch a glimpse of the heart that Barrett hides under that laid-back, cocky exterior. Like the day I told him North dumped me, I sense that there’s more to Fox than charm and lewd comments.

“Now what?” he asks, his voice tempting and suggestive.

I point at various booths dotting the grounds. “Funnel cake? Face paint? Temporary tattoo?”

He crunches on a piece of ice from his glass. I wish he’d take those sunglasses off so I could see his eyes again.

“Face paint,” he decides.

It’s either face painting or I admit that I’d like him to give me another of those deep, wet, delicious kisses he’s so good at surprising me with. Is it hot out here or is it me?

He throws money on the table without waiting for a bill, but fifty bucks will more than cover our tacos, and then he takes my hand, leading me from the patio area.

I relax, confident that the bout of crazed lust that hammered me earlier has receded. He tugs me in the direction of a photo booth with a line stretching around one of the sculptures that permanently sits outside. A tall, red, curvy…whatever it is. Sort of looks like a deflated ampersand.

“Let’s do this first.”

“That line is probably forty minutes long,” I whisper, taking in the many, many people patiently waiting their turn.

“Hey, ’scuse me, buddy,” Barrett says to a younger guy standing hand in hand with his girlfriend at the front of the line. “If I give you twenty bucks, would you let my girl and me cut in front of you? We’re pressed for time.”

The guy recognizes Barrett and his face splits into an awed smile. “Uh. Yeah. Yes. Sure. Go ahead.”

“Perfect.” He fishes a twenty from his pocket. The kid stares at him in awe.

“Can you sign it? Or…Can you sign my shirt?”

“I’d love to, kid, but I don’t have a—”

“Here you go.” I thrust a black Sharpie into Barrett’s hand. He levels me with a narrow-eyed glare.

“You happened to have that in your bag?”

“Yep.”

He makes quick work of signing the kid’s T-shirt, and the twenty, and when an older couple steps from the photo booth, Barrett drags me in. He taps the touchscreen as we get cozy on a seat that’s barely big enough for two.

“Tight quarters.” I wiggle my hips into place. “At least it’s air-conditioned in here.”

“I bought three sessions.” He faces me, sunglasses on his head again. We’re so close the freckles dotting the bridge of his nose are visible. “Make ’em good, Kitty Cat. Mia might want these for the column.”

A flash of light blinds me and in a blink and Barrett’s mouth is on mine. Just as I’m sinking into the kiss, the flashes barely registering, he pulls his lips away and tucks me close.

“Smile if you can.”

I don’t.

“Damn, I missed it.” I smile for the next one though and then the one after that. We quickly change expressions for each photo: the typical eyes-crossed, stick-out-your-tongue poses as well as a surprise one from me when he tucks his finger into the top of my sundress and peeks down it. By then I was caught up in the silliness of it and tossed my head back to laugh.

He pulls the three strips of photos from the developer, thankfully located inside the booth. We step out…and into a flurry of fans with stars in their eyes waiting for a piece of Barrett Fox.

I offer my Sharpie and step to the side.

Fox sends me an apologetic smile, hands me our photo booth photos, and starts signing.