Holding You

Leaving the Midwest was my goal. I craved oceans and mountains. So when I got my big chance to make my escape, I loaded up the moving truck and said goodbye to Chicago and hello to … Milwaukee. My mom, God rest her soul, was right when she said, “Mother knows best,” and “Bloom where you’re planted.”
Milwaukee was magnificent in the spring. I loved living by the water. It wasn’t the Atlantic or Pacific, but Lake Michigan wasn’t a shabby body of water. The majestic view never failed to amaze me. Living so close to the water was symbolic of my state of being—always teetering on the edge of drowning, a swaying pull from both directions.
I was a thirty-one-year-old orphan.
Love without fear.
Life without death. After all—I was already dead.
Being a self-proclaimed free spirit, I never missed an opportunity to stop and smell the roses, or the lilacs in the spring. I had all the time in the world—no need to rush. My weathered sneakers tracked the familiar path along the Milwaukee shore of Lake Michigan to the vacant one-way street in front of my business.
Lilacs.
God, I loved the smell of lilacs. Halting in the quiet street to soak up the last bit of sun before stepping into the shadow of the building, I closed my eyes. The crisp spring air seduced me. I raised my arms up like angel wings, tilted my head back to feel the glorious sun bathe my face, and inhaled a slow deep breath, relishing the exquisite fragrance.
A horrifying clash of sounds punched the air from my lungs, jerking me back to reality.
“ADDY, WATCH OUT!”
A car’s horn, screeching tires, a familiar voice.
The essence of lilac still filled my nose. A tingling chill washed across my skin, my vision hazed from the sun, the salty taste of blood filled my mouth, and shouting voices vibrated through my ears.
“Adler Sage Brecken what are you doing?” Mac squealed in a winded panic.
My best friend’s face came into focus. Green eyes narrowed at me, brows furrowed behind a wispy curtain of windblown strawberry blond locks. Her mouth twisted into a grimace. It was never a good sign when she used my full name. I released my bloodied lip from the death grip of my front teeth.
Through the deafening whoosh of blood in my ears, I registered a deep, angry voice coming toward me. I held up my finger to silence Mac and tilted my head in the direction of the voice. Although clearly agitated, it was laced with a hint of Spanish accent.
Did I just hear someone call me a spaced-out, seventies throwback, pot-smoking, dumb blonde? What the hell?
In slow motion, my peripheral vision picked up a pair of men’s black leather, designer shoes, just a few feet from me. Directly in front of me was a white SUV with the words Range Rover in chrome.
Turning to my right, I homed in on a white linen, button-down shirt that exposed the top of well-defined chest muscles wrapped in the perfect shade of olive skin. My gaze trailed north, capturing a strong, sharp jaw line, ruddy lips pursed in a formidable line, a Roman-sculpted nose, reflective brown eyes framed with thick lashes, and a full head of rebellious black hair.
Well done, God.
As if I had all the time in the world, I finished my sight-seeing tour by working my way back down Michelangelo’s clothed version of David to those shoes that presumably cost more than most people’s monthly rent.
“Hello? What the hell is your deal?” ‘David’ growled between clenched teeth.
“She’s just got a lot on her plate today, sir, sorry for the scare. You’re good. She’s good. Everyone is good. Come on, Addy.” Mac huddled me to her side, looking over her shoulder at the almost-accident while leading me toward the sidewalk.
I jerked away from her grip and crossed over into ‘David’s’ personal space. My squinted eyes darted up to his, demanding his attention.
“First, I was not spaced-out,” I call it meditation, “second, my style is organic and earthy, not seventies throwback,” maybe modern hippy, “third, I don’t smoke pot,” anymore, “and finally, I may be blonde, but I am NOT dumb!”
What was that new smell?
A new fragrance overpowered the lilacs—an unwelcome aphrodisiac. It had to be some ridiculously expensive cologne made from thousands of poisonous chemicals, and I cringed just thinking about the headache I would get from the toxic cocktail. However, in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to inhale it like a drug and live off the high. Everything about David was a heady combination. Especially that damn sexy accent.
“Well, I about ran your organic, earthy, smart-mouthed, blonde pigtailed, sexy ass over, Pippi.” Each perfectly-accented word tumbled from lips molded into an arrogant smirk.
“You’re supposed to yield to pedestrians in the crosswalk, you egotistical, reckless maniac!” A second later, my emotions regressed just long enough for my brain to catch up.
Sexy ass?
His eyebrows peaked as he gripped both of my arms and turned me around. “The cross walk is about fifteen yards that way, Pippi. Maybe you should think about using it next time to practice your role as Maria in the Sound of Music.”
Shit, shit, double shit!