Different.

It’s one of those adjectives that can go either way.

He’s a little, how shall we say, different.

I’ve never thought of myself as different. I’m a regular guy. I’m not someone who has odd habits, like swabbing my ears with Q-tips in public, or discussing Q-tip swabbing in mixed company, for that matter, or even standing so close to strangers that they can smell my breath. Though, to be clear, it’s minty fresh since I brush as if it’s a religion.

But aside from walking a cat, I’m as regular as they come.

“Lay it on me, Mia. Tell me why you think I’m different. You don’t like the beard?” I run my hand over my chin.

She laughs. “The beard is great.”

“Clearly, you have something against dudes who like cats, then.”

“Oh my God. I love animals. You know that. I volunteer at WildCare, helping injured wildlife. I do what I do because I love animals more than people most of the time.”

“Then obviously, you found my high school yearbook photo.”

She arches a brow, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. “No, but now I want to.”

“Don’t. Just don’t,” I say, my voice deeper, warning her. Because that right there is a line no one should cross.

“Fine, fine. I’ll stop rifling through your underwear drawer for your yearbook.”

Mia and my boxer briefs. I’m just going to linger on that thought for another second. Okay, back to the matter at hand.

“So I’m different?” I draw air quotes. “What’s the story?”

She smiles broadly at me. “It’s a compliment. You’re different because you’re normal.”

A laugh starts deep in my belly, rumbles up my chest, and bursts from me. A hearty, happy laugh. “Normal. I’ll take that.”

“Trust me. It’s a huge compliment. Most people aren’t as easygoing as you. As laid-back. As comfortable with who they are. I think that’s why I told you about the war I’ve been waging with balconies.”

“I’m glad you shared your balcony battles.”

She sighs deeply, as if she’s inhaling the fresh, invigorating air. She stretches her neck from side to side and shimmies her shoulders, almost as if a weight has lifted. “You were right. Getting away from work and phones and pressure does help.”

I flash her a smile, giving myself a mental fist bump. It makes me happy to know I’ve helped her.

She points to the trail. “Keep on going. It’s your turn now. Tell your friend Mia—what are you afraid of, Patrick?”

“Vegas,” I say, shuddering. “Can’t stand that city.”

“Oh, stop it. You’re not afraid of Vegas.”

“Fine. I just dislike it.”

She laughs. “I like Vegas. It’s fun. A little crazy and over-the-top, but I take it all in stride. Why do you hate it? You live in one of the biggest cities in the world.”

“I don’t really hate Vegas. But there’s no balance to it like there is in New York City. See, Manhattan operates at a million miles an hour, but then it surprises you with Central Park and Hudson River Greenway, and then a cobblestoned street in the Village. And water—everywhere there’s water.”

She sighs happily. “I do love Manhattan, too. But you still haven’t told me. Fears. Fess up. Be truthful.”

So we’re playing the getting-to-know-you game. I can do this. I like this. I want this. Plus, the answer is easy. My big fear? I’ve conquered it. I adjust my pack slightly, dropping my shades to my eyes since the sun is rising higher and hitting harder. “Bridges.”

“Huh. That surprises me.”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t see that at all. Do you mean like those crazy bridges you see on Facebook? Would you cross this bridge? And then it’s a glass bridge with a view from one thousand feet above roaring waters? Or do you mean the rickety bridges in a jungle?”

“Rickety bridges I can handle. Even glass bridges. My issue was with the ones I have to drive over.” It’s my turn to shudder. “Those were mildly horrifying.”

“Ohhhhh,” she says, dragging out the word. “You’re afraid of crashing, tumbling over the side of the bridge, and being stuck in a car.”

I mime hammering. “Nailed it. But I got over it.”

“How did you get over it? Did you buy a car with manual windows so you could always escape and swim free?”

“That, and I drive wearing flippers and goggles so I’m ready.”

“Ha ha,” she says, shoving my shoulder. “Seriously. What did you do? Because you were completely fine when we drove across that bridge over the Hudson.”

“I kept doing it,” I say, matter-of-factly. “I kept facing the fear. Stared it down, so to speak. Honestly, it was the hardest thing for me when I moved to Manhattan. So many bridges, right?”

“Like they’ve mated and produced baby bridges everywhere.”

“Exactly. I had to deal with all the bridges. I played music to keep me in an upbeat zone, and actually talked back to myself as I drove over them. I said things like I’m fine, I’m in control, I’m safe.”

She smiles. “That’s kind of cool. You took charge of your fear. You didn’t let it control you. Is it gone entirely? Did you even think about it when we drove here?”

“Sure, it occurred to me. But I can handle it now.” I take a beat, casting my gaze behind me to meet her eyes. I wink. “Though, next time it would be so much easier if you’d hold my hand.”

“Want me to pet your hair and sing lullabies, too?”

“Yeah, maybe not.”

“Okay, next order of business,” she says as we wind along the trail, heading higher into the hills. “Tell me something you’re still afraid of. Tell me a fear you haven’t conquered, because otherwise I’ll think you’re not normal.”

I scratch my chin, considering her question, as Zeus sniffs a purple wildflower tucked beside a small boulder. In the distance, I can make out the faint gurgling of a stream. The sound of water rippling over smooth stones is music to me. It means I’m outdoors. I’m moving. My legs are working. My heart is pumping blood. This is what I love. Energy. Action. Living. The way I feel under the big sky, with no pavement between the earth and my feet, is why I have one big fear.

“Here’s one I don’t think I’ll ever get over,” I say, raising my shades and leveling my gaze at her. No joking. No teasing. No sarcasm. “Being sick.”

Her expression softens. Her lips part. She swallows. “I can see that about you.”

“I want to be healthy. I want to be well. I want to make my own choices every day. Health is such a gift, and what I’m afraid of most is losing it for God knows what reasons.”

“Like something catastrophic?”

“No, but yes. But it’s also just anything—flu, cold, whatever. I hate being sick. I don’t ever want to be the unwell guy.”

She brings her hand to her chest. “You’re making me want to give you a hug.”

Well, that is an unexpected bonus.

“I won’t turn you down,” I say playfully.

She steps closer, stands on tiptoe, and wraps her arms around me. She tucks her head against my pecs, her cheek on my shoulder. Oh hell. She fits me like the perfect pair of hiking boots. The kind that feel so good you want to spend your day in them. She’s soft and curvy in the right places, strong and lean in others, and her hair smells like pineapple. There’s also a hint of coconut, and I know it’s one of the products she makes—tropical body wash. I’d like to lick her neck, suck on her jaw, flick my tongue against her ear. I bet she’d shiver if I pressed my mouth to her. I bet she’d tremble if I nipped on that soft earlobe, then she’d arch into me, asking for more.

Begging for more.

But my dirty thoughts are washed clean instantly when she whispers into my shoulder. “I’m afraid of hurting my family.”

“Yeah?” I ask, and all my instincts tell me to raise a hand and pet her hair. So I listen to my gut. I run a hand down her blond locks. Jesus. She’s like a kitten. Her hair is so soft.

“I love my stupid brothers, and I want to do right by them. They always looked out for me when I was younger. I was the smallest kid in school.”

“You were?”

She nods against my chest. “Shockingly, I didn’t have the massive growth spurt all the way to five-foot-one until I turned fourteen. When I was in grade school, other kids teased me, saying I looked like I was still in nursery school. Even in second grade, the running joke was that I was a kindergartner. I hated it because I just wanted to fit in. And my brothers, they taught me it didn’t matter. They taught me to be tough. They never made fun of me for my size. They did the opposite, in fact. Max was the one who said my size would come in handy for gymnastics. That it would be my secret weapon,” she says, pulling back and meeting my eyes with an intense stare.

“He was? Our big, boorish Max?” I laugh, because that’s kind of cool. Correction—that’s incredibly cool.

The corner of her lips curve up. “Yep. Our big, boorish Max. He told me it was the one sport where being tiny would be a true advantage.”

“He was right.”

“My parents were totally supportive, too, but it was Max who was always there for me. He would get so excited when I’d win a competition. He’d cheer the loudest, lift me up on his shoulders when I won a gold. He was five years older, and when I was ten, he was already more than a foot taller than me. His enthusiasm was like an explosion of happiness in my chest,” she says, tapping her breastbone. “And he was right. My focus on gymnastics made me stop caring that kids mocked me for being small.”

“I like your size.” Because really, what else is there to say? She’s little, and it’s perfect for her.

Her voice goes soft, kind of sexy. “I like yours.”

And right now, I want to make s’mores porn with her. I want to tug her back into my arms and show her how well our sizes fit.

But right when we’re veering into the flirty, let’s-compliment-each-other phase of getting-to-know-you, the sound of crunching footsteps ahead interrupts us.

A pair of hikers appears, heading in our direction as they go down the hill. That’s my cue to move on from whatever moment we’re having. We soldier on in silence, nearing a heavyset guy in safari shorts and a straw hat. The woman right behind him wears a small backpack and uses a walking stick.

I tip my forehead to them. “How are you doing?”

“Can’t complain. It’s a perfect day,” the guy says.

“It sure is.”

“And that’s one helluva cat you have with you.”

“Why, thank you,” Mia chimes in as we step out of the way, letting them pass. “He’s an adventure cat.”

“Fred, why don’t we train our Siamese to wear a harness?” the woman asks.

“Sweetheart, we have a no-drag cat. That’s what I heard on TV yesterday.”

Mia chuckles to herself. As she does, I flash back to their words. Not the ones about the cat. The ones before. It’s a perfect day. That’s a bold statement. I’m not so sure my day is perfect, but I’d have to say it’s pretty damn good.

And, moment or no moment, that has to be enough. This is all I’ll have with Mia – little moments every now and again.

* * *

A little later, we reach the water. The stream races downhill, rushing over rocks, cutting over stones. A huge tree trunk rests over the creek, providing passage to another trail.

Mia hands me the leash. “Watch me.”

Easiest command ever.

She steps onto the log, crosses it as if it’s a balance beam, dipping her foot along the side with each step, sticking out her chest, and flinging her arms up triumphantly. My heart skitters faster, and I can’t help but worry about her, no matter how many gymnastics meets she won as a young girl. When she reaches the middle, she bends forward, sets her hands flat on the log, and kicks her legs straight up.

She’s ruler straight, and beautiful upside down. Her hair spills to the wood, and she beams the wildest grin at me. “Like my handstand?”

“Love it, but please don’t do a back handspring or whatever they’re called,” I warn, because I’m feeling like what she described feeling on a balcony—only I’m imagining Mia tumbling off the log.

“I didn’t win the all-around fifth-grade gold for nothing.” She flips over, nailing the landing. She leans forward now, her arms straight out to the side, one leg kicked high behind her. “Hey, Mr. Hooky! What do you think? Am I enjoying my day off?”

“Too much.” I shake my head, laughing as I scoop up Zeus, drop him in the pack, and carry him across the log on my back. I keep him there as we climb a series of steep switchbacks to the top of a hill, where a meadow awaits.

“Wow,” Mia says, her eyes roaming across the grass and flowers, admiring the view.

I’m admiring the view, too. Mia, standing in one of my favorite places on Earth. Maybe this is a perfect day.

I tap my watch. “Did we make it in time? Is the food mood ring pointing to disagreeable?”

Mia rubs her belly. “We’re this close.”

As I spread out a blanket, I’m struck by the thought that if this were someone else’s story, the girl would have tumbled on the log, I’d have caught her, played the hero, and we’d have shared a moment. But our moment came before she flipped upside down on a felled tree. Our moment transpired on the trail when she hugged me out of the blue, and for several fantastic seconds I had a taste of how well we’d fit.

As I unpack the food, I wonder if we’ll experience any more moments, or if today is all I have before I have to get serious about letting go of this crazy crush once and for all.