Page 3 of The History in Us

“So, Levi Walker,” he offered, speaking slowly, tapping his chest. Me Tarzan, You Jane, drifted through my thoughts. It snapped me out of my memories, and I wrote as he spoke. I stared at his name on the page as another image floated along the lines of my past. Letters I wrote to him, but with no address to receive them, were written on lines like these. An awkward pause forced me to look up. I was struck again by a passive attempt on his part to smile, dimples peeking out, and deep eyes snaring me like a timid mouse caught by a taunting cat. His face was definitely playful, but I didn’t want to be played.

“It might help if you asked me a question.” His eyebrow rose, hinting, prompting, but my mouth refused to work. My tongue felt thick, caged in by my teeth. I couldn’t form the question burning inside me.

Are you a hero yet?

I remained silent. He sighed and looked left again, scratched under his chin at the scruff along his jaw. The scratching sound sent scintillating shivers slithering down my skin. Thoughts of that rough, coarse hair rubbing over my sensitive thighs or tenderly tickling my neck flitted through my mind. My face pinked, and I lowered my head. I had an over-active imagination, which could be a blessing and a curse. In this instance, it was definitely a misfortune.

“Anyway…” He elongated the word before continuing. “I’m ex-military. U.S. Army. Served two tours before…returning to the States.”

My head shot upward, eyes opening wide at the admission. The pause in his speech hinted at something hidden, purposely left unsaid, but I remembered the rest. It explained his older age for a graduate student.

“I like photography and whiskey, not necessarily in that order,” he teased, wiggling a brow and setting the full wattage of those dimples on me.

My eyes shifted to his ring finger. Empty. My roommate Penelope Duncan would swear it was intentionally misleading. She’d warned me about men without rings in their thirties. Having experienced a man of that age while only eighteen, I took her word for it. She considered it one of the low points in her history of indiscretions. I nodded, sitting up straighter in my seat. Gorgeous probing eyes or not, this man was off limits to me, I cautioned. Internally, I laughed. A man who looked like him would never be on-limits. I didn’t attract men. I attracted boys. Silly, heartless boys.

“So, that’s three things. Now, it’s my turn.”

I cleared my throat and nodded for him to begin.

“Katie, is it?” he questioned, tipping his head to the side in hesitation, almost poking fun at me as if I didn’t know my own name. “I’ve seen men go into battle with more pleasurable expressions on their faces.” He stopped himself from speaking as if he had more to say and his eyes widened as he stared at me. My bottom lip curled before I bit the corner.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you don’t have to look so frightened. It’s only an introduction, not infantry.”

My shoulders lightened and I huffed a small acknowledgement of his teasing. I wasn’t frightened. Frightened involved, oh my gosh. I was petrified. A state of peeking-through-the-fingers-yelling-don’t-open-the-door scared. Suddenly, I didn’t want him to remember me.

“Katie Carter.” His voice lowered, confirming my last name. His eyes peered at me through lenses reflecting the fluorescent lighting of the room. The sound of my name was a tease, like he didn’t believe it was me. Did he recognize me? I scolded myself, realizing the Levi Walker I knew, never knew me anyway. Not to mention, there was a strong possibility this Levi Walker didn’t remember the boy hidden inside the man.

“Yes.” The word a sigh, breathless and exaggerated, reached out for him.

“Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”

“I like to read,” I blurted, the squeaky sound evidence of my lackluster conversational skills. It was an honest answer, though. I read. The experience was a one-way conversation, and I was much better at the single participant dialogue.

“What do you like to read?” His mouth curved at one corner, a hint of a dimple growing.

“Fairy tales. Romance novels. Medieval history.” The excitement in my voice betrayed the dullness of the answer. The dimple curled to full exposure, mocking me. His cheek caved, and I knew he bit the inside to prevent from laughing.

“What exactly do you read?”

“Jane Austen,” I offered, pride in my tone, but the mockery of his eyes told me he’d heard it before.

“Let me guess, your undergrad major was English Literature.” An eyebrow rose, while he tapped his chin, teasing confirmed, boredom setting in.

“Actually, my undergrad was in humanities,” I said, sitting straighter in my seat. “I suppose I don’t sound terribly exciting. I’m not ex-military. I’m not artistic. And I hardly drink.” I paused, surprised at the information-dumping outburst. This wasn’t a job interview, and certainly what I spewed was nothing appropriate for employment. It sounded like a dating-site response.

“Oh my God,” I muttered, lowering my face again and gripping my forehead. A soft chuckle snapped my head upward. No longer able to contain his laughter, his expression softened as he gazed at me.

“Can we just scratch all that?”

“Sure,” he chuckled again. “What should I say instead?”

“Just say I’m from a small town. It’s probably obvious, anyway.”

Suddenly, his expression fell. His cheeks literally drooped lower, edgier, and his eyes narrowed. The melty, dark chocolate hardened to a cold, black haze.

“Any particular small town?” Struggling with the question, he sat up straighter, and his jaw clenched, enhancing his features, losing the soft lines of his round face.

“Oh, one you’ve probably never heard of.” I dismissed it with a wave, knowing the next statement would confirm or deny him remembering me. “It’s a small dot of a town in northern Michigan named Elk Rapids.”