Molly

 “Why don’t you come back with us to my apartment?” Jamie says when we reach our building. “We can eat together.”

I hesitate for a moment. Surely he’s not thinking this is a date. The idea makes me uncomfortable. Yes, I enjoy looking at him, and I’d love to be friends with him, but I’m not interested in dating anyone. Not even Jamie. That just can’t happen.

“If you have things to do, that’s fine,” he says.

I think he’s detecting my hesitation and giving me an easy out, which makes me like him even more.

I know I’m just being silly. Of course he’s not thinking of this as a date. He just doesn’t know anyone in the neighborhood, and he’s probably a bit lonely and would appreciate some company. Get a grip, I tell myself. It’s just dinner. Don’t make it into something more. “No, that’s fine. I’d love to.”

I punch in the security code to unlock the door as Jamie holds Gus’s harness and our carryout sacks. Once we reach the top of the stairs, I follow Jamie to his apartment. He lets us in and hands me the food so he can remove the dog’s harness and hang it up on a hook next to a high-tech, fancy-looking cane. Relieved of duty, Gus runs off to tackle a bright green tennis ball lying on the floor in the center of the living room.

“What can I get you to drink?” Jamie says, heading for the kitchen. “I have soft drinks, beer, water. Some nice red wine, if you’d like.”

I set the take-out sacks down on the dining table situated between the kitchen and the living room. “Water for me, please.”

“Cold or room temperature?”

“Cold, thank you.”

I glance around the apartment, which is very sparsely, yet tastefully, furnished in masculine shades of browns and blues. His apartment is a carbon copy of my own, and it feels a little surreal being here. I half expect to see Charlie come walking down the hallway to greet me.

Jamie brings a chilled bottle of spring water and a bottle of cold beer to the table, along with two plates, napkins, and silverware. “Help yourself,” he says as he sets everything down.

I grab a plate and fork and dish some of the rice onto my plate. Then I locate the carton of Veggie Delight.

“It’s nice to have some company,” he says, dishing his broccoli and beef onto his plate. “I’m still getting used to living alone. Sometimes it’s a little too quiet. I’m used to having people around. Noise, activity. Gus makes plenty of noise, trust me, but it’s not quite the same.”

“I know what you mean. When I moved here a year ago, it took me some adjusting too.” I take a bite of my steamed rice and sautéed veggies and moan when the sweet and sour sauce hits my taste buds. “Oh, God, this is so good. I should do this more often.”

He laughs. “You’re easy to please.”

As we enjoy our meals, I’m tempted to ask him about the blonde I’ve seen him with, but I’m not sure I want to know. I can pretend he’s single and available, and I can enjoy having him to myself for these few minutes.

There are so many things I want to ask him… like how he lost his sight. And what he does for a living. Does he work, or is he on disability? But I don’t see how I can ask him those things without coming across as too nosy.

“So, Molly, what do you do?”

I have to smile. Obviously, we’re both thinking along the same lines. “I’m an artist. I have a small gallery and studio down the street.”

He seems surprised. “What kind of art?”

“I paint abstract landscapes.”

“Acrylic or oil? Or watercolor?”

I’m impressed that he’s actually paying attention. “Acrylic, because it cures faster. But my paintings are very textured, so they often look like oils.”

“I guess we have something in common, then. I’m an artist of sorts. I’m a writer.”

“You’re a writer?”

He laughs at my blatant incredulity.

If he’s blind, how can he write? “But how do you…” Again with the nosy questions. “I’m sorry, never mind.”

He laughs. “Don’t be sorry, Molly. You can ask me anything. So, how can a blind man write books? It’s not that hard, really. I write using dictation software, and then I use software to transcribe the audio. The manuscript then goes to my editor, and eventually to my proofreader. It’s definitely a team effort. I couldn’t do it alone.”

“What do you write?”

“Fiction, specifically military thrillers. I was in the military for quite a few years.”

“Oh. Is that when you lost your sight? In the military?”

He nods, and his lips flatten. “I was too close to an explosion.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be. I was the lucky one – I survived. My two best friends weren’t so lucky.”

Oh, God. I’m so sorry. My words seem far too inadequate, so I hold my tongue, not wanting to dredge up painful memories for him. I’m sure whatever happened was horrific. I guess he is lucky he wasn’t hurt worse, or even killed.

As we eat our meals, I watch him, taking advantage of the fact that he can’t see me studying him. I can’t help noticing how the fabric of his T-shirt stretches and strains over his chest and arms, hugging his torso, which looks like it’s cut from stone. He may no longer be in the military, but he’s still incredibly fit.

I glance up at his dark glasses. They’re so dark I can’t see anything behind them. I wonder, are his eyes scarred? The rest of his handsome face is unmarred. I know what it’s like to be scarred. Like him, I hide those wounds from the rest of the world.

When we’re done, I carry the dirty dishes to the kitchen. He follows me and starts rinsing them off.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I say, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him as he puts the dirty dishes into the dishwasher with methodical precision. “For a blind person, you seem to do everything so effortlessly. If I couldn’t see, I’d be stumbling all over myself.”

He smiles. “Before I moved here, I lived in my brother’s house in Kenilworth, and there was someone there to do everything for me. I was waited on hand-and-foot by the housekeeper. I felt… suffocated. And whenever I went out to walk in the woods or swim in the pond, I was shadowed every step of the way by the groundskeeper. They both meant well, and I understood that, but I wanted to be self-sufficient. I needed to be self-sufficient. I wanted to prove that I could take care of myself, so I moved out.”

“You seem to be doing a good job of it. You live alone, you manage a career.”

“Thanks. It takes practice, and a lot of memorization. There are eight steps between the kitchen sink and the door to my apartment. It’s twelve steps from my apartment door to the stairs. There are ten steps down to the ground floor, and another six steps down to the sidewalk.”

“Wow, that’s very precise,” I say, biting my tongue to keep from laughing.

“I have to be precise,” he says. “That’s how I function, how I navigate. I know exactly where everything is, how many steps to take, when to turn. I know where every piece of furniture is in this apartment.”

After we finish cleaning up the kitchen, I thank him for the impromptu dinner invitation and wish him a good evening.

Jamie walks me to the door. “Molly?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you mind if I touch your face?”

His unorthodox request takes me by surprise. “Why do you want to touch my face?”

“So I can see you. I’d just like to get a sense of what you look like. Tall or short? Long hair or short hair? Straight or curly? The shape of your eyes, your nose, your lips. Do you wear glasses? I can get a much better sense of you if I can touch your face. Do you mind?”

I swallow, thinking this has to be the strangest request a man has ever made of me. If he’d tried to cop a feel, I might have been less surprised. “No, I don’t mind. Go ahead.”

He raises both of his hands toward my face and hesitates, as if waiting for permission. I reach for his hands and guide them to my face. His fingers are warm and slightly rough, and very methodical as he systematically maps my head, starting at the crown and making his way down.

He touches my hair, measuring its length and texture, and then he brushes his thumbs across my forehead and traces the shape of my eyebrows. With the tips of his fingers, he skims the contours of my face, learning the shape of my eyes, the length of my nose, the width of my lips.

I stand perfectly still as I’m mesmerized by his inquisitive touch, which is both clinical and personal. There’s absolutely nothing sexual in his exploration, and yet I feel intimately connected to him. For a self-indulgent moment, I imagine what it would be like if his fingers traced the scars that run across my chest, one on each side of my sternum. I can easily picture him as a mindful, patient lover. Just the thought of him touching me like that sends a rush of liquid heat straight to my core, and I shiver.

His nostrils flare, and for a crazy moment, I’m sure he can smell my heated reaction to his touch.

“I smell vanilla and peppermint,” he says, sounding curious.

I laugh nervously. “The vanilla is my lotion, and the peppermint is actually tea tree oil – my shampoo.”

“It’s nice.”

For a moment, I lose myself in him. He’s so observant, figuratively speaking. He pays attention to the smallest little detail. I think he’d make some lucky woman an amazing partner, not just in bed but out of it too. Shaking myself from that pointless reverie, I step back putting an end to his exploration.

He drops his hands to his sides. “Sorry.” 

“No! It’s fine. You have nothing to apologize for. It’s just… I’m not used to being touched. I’ve been alone for a while.”

“You’ve never mentioned a husband, or a significant other. Are you single?”

“Yes. Well, I’m divorced.”

He frowns. “I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine, really. I’m just not used to it. Did you get what you were looking for?”

He smiles. “Yes. What color is your hair, though? I can tell it’s just past your shoulders and wavy, but I can’t tell the color by touching.”

I laugh, feeling self-conscious at his scrutiny. “Mud brown.”

He grins. “And your eyes?”

“Also brown. What about you? What color are your eyes? I can’t see them behind those dark glasses.”

“Brown,” he says. “They were brown.”

Were? Oh, my God. I steel myself to ask. “Were?”

He nods. “The damage was extensive. My doctors couldn’t save them. I have prosthetic eyes.”

“I’m so sorry.” My normal reaction would be to reach out and touch his arm to offer sympathy for what he’s been through, but I immediately squelch the impulse. There’s no point in muddying the waters by initiating more physical contact between us. Instead, I reach for the door knob.

“Wait,” he says. “I’ll walk you to your door. I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I didn’t see you safely home.”

Inwardly, I chuckle. The man’s blind. I don’t think he’d be much help in an emergency, but I appreciate the gesture. “Thank you. That’s very chivalrous of you.”

Jamie removes the dog’s harness off its hook, and the dog comes bounding over to him, obviously excited to be going out again. After quickly harnessing the dog, he opens the door for us.

“Go to Molly’s door,” Jamie tells Gus, as he directs the dog toward my apartment.

“Surely he doesn’t know where I live,” I say, shutting the door behind me and following them down the hall.

“Not yet, but he’ll learn. This is all part of his training – to learn a new destination.”

Once we reach my apartment, Jamie pats my door and says “Molly’s door” several times to Gus, who listens intently, cocking his head as he watches Jamie’s hand.

I fish my key out of my purse and unlock the door. “Thanks for dinner,” I tell him.

“You’re welcome. I hope we can do it again sometime.”

“Sure. I’d like that.”

“How about tomorrow? Can I take you out for dinner?”

My breath hitches in my chest as I’m taken aback by his invitation. Is he asking me out on a date? It sure sounds like a date. I suppose I should just come right out and ask him. My heart races at the thought he’d ask me out, but then reality rears its ugly head at the thought of my ex-husband. I can’t involve Jamie in my problems. Todd can be mean and vindictive, and I wouldn’t want him to set his sights on Jamie, who can’t defend himself. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I already have plans tomorrow.”

I’m afraid he’ll suggest another time, but fortunately he doesn’t, sparing me having to come up with another excuse. Instead, he nods graciously and smiles. “Maybe another time.”

My heart sinks a little as he wishes me a good evening.

“All right, Gus, take us home,” Jamie says, and the dog leads him back down the hall.

As I watch Jamie walk away, I can’t help wondering what it might have been like if I’d met him at a different time in my life, without the specter of Todd hanging over my head like a black cloud. Things might have been very different then.