4. Bryanna

It’s Saturday, after all, and I’m running on my favorite track at Central Park, my shoes hits the concrete in a steady thump, thump, thump, in sync with the beating of my heart. The sunrays is peeking through between the trees, another early birds are busy with their pick of activities. They're warming up, riding their bicycles, even those yoga enthusiasts are already making pretzel pose with their bodies.

My smartwatch beeps, telling me I’ve done my five miles for today so I begin to slow my pace and head back towards my car. Fumbling with my earphone, I don’t see where I’m going and crash with something, or someone. It lands me on my ass and send my phone to its meeting with the path.

“Ouch!” A small bad word escapes my lips through gritted teeth and I hope to heaven whoever near can’t hear it. Assuming from the pain on my right lady bum, I’ll leave this park with a bruise in the size of Texas. Great.

“God, I’m sorry. You okay?”

My brain needs a little more time to process those words before it registers the voice. Oh, my God, that voice!

I look up to find a familiar pair of blue eyes dancing with worry. And amusement.

Will I ever stop be an amusement to him?

And I’m fangirling again. Dang it, brain. Work!

I shake the star-struck astonishment out of my system, clearing my throat. “Good God, I mean. You’re good. Nononono, Me. I am good. I mean, I’m fine. Uhm ....”

He chuckles.

No, you know what? I’m not fine. I am actually a mess.

Nate extends his hands down at me, which I absentmindedly take so he can help me back up on my feet, his triumphant smirk never wavering. I wipe my palms on my legging and feel the sting pierce through the skin.

Hearing the hiss that get past my lips, Nate reaches. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s okay,” I reply, trying to brush it off. “I have a first aid kit in the car.”

“Come on.” He gestures for me to lead the way. “I’ll help you clean it up.”

The parking lot is a lot busier, making getting to my car a challenge. Unlocking it, I then take the kit out from my trunk.

“Whoa! That’s some kit,” he teases.

Looking down at the small box, I shrug. “Perks of being a paraniod doctor’s cousin, I guess.” And not ashame of it.

Heck, I really miss Michael.

Maybe Nate catches the sentiment in my voice, I don’t know, because he just open the box and try to allocate things he needed. “You have water?”

I grab one from the front seat.

He works silently on my cuts, which is just small scrapes on my right palm. And I’m busy trying to calm my erratic heart his body caused, hoping it doesn’t beat too loudly.

“You know,” he closes the box, “We have to stop meeting like this.” His ocean blues gleaming with mirth.

“Yeah,” I croack out, trying hard not to get lost in those eyes. “And I have to stop making a mess of myself.”

Another chuckle rips through his throat. “Nah, I like it. It’s cute.”

Cute isn’t what most woman prefer coming from men, especially a man they found attractive, and my scrunched nose show him just that. “No, it’s not,” I retort.

He cocks an inquisitive brow, his smug smirk dead center in his face. I roll my eyes in response.

“So--”

“Thanks--”

We say it simultanously. Then we laugh. A stretch of silence ensues as we both stare at our feet.

“How about breakfast?”

I nod slowly, feeling somewhat tongue-tied at the unexpected question and the sensation it brings. My chest feels tight, and there’s a funny little tingle that happens in my stomach.

Is this what they mean when they say they get butterflies in their bellies?

****

We’re in a coffee shop, again, even though a different one at that. Two cups of steaming coffee on the table accompanying us while we swap stories.

Nate is twenty-six, moved here right after high school with only his guitar to chase his dream of becoming the next big name in music industry. In the first five years he had to work odd jobs just to get by instead of working on his music.

After busted his ass left and right, had some saving, bought new guitar, he then started to hunt stages. Cafes, bars, even done street performances. “I’ll never lose my hope,” he says. “All it take is just one right day.” Determination laces his words.

“I hope your right day happen soon.”

I smile, and he smiles. For his sake, I really, really, really hope it’s true.

“So, what about you?” he asks. “Are you a transplant too?”

Transplant is what they call those people from out of town.

“Nope.” I sip my coffee. “Born and bred. My family’s still here, and I can’t imagine leaving them and this city.” Shrugging my shoulder, I say, “Boring, I know.”

Nate gives me his rueful smile. “Nah, good for you. I can see you in this city.”

“I hope that’s a good thing.”

“It really is.”

“I’m really close with my family, you know, I think that’s why.”

“I can see that too.”

“What about your family?”

He shakes his head playfully. “It’s a story for another time, Bryanna.”

My heart stumble hearing the sound of my name on his lips. And the possibility of a next time like this. “Another time?” I can’t help but ask.

“Tell you what.” Leaning closer, Nate places his phone on the table. “You can give me your number so we can make sure there’ll be another time.”

That wicked, wicked, wicked smile.

And those dangerous, dangerous, dangerous eyes.

It’s a losing battle.

No other choice than to agree.

“Okay.”

****