Devon Hartford - Reckless

“Wow, it’s packed,” I said. “My parents would never go to a rowdy place like this.”

“Do you want to go someplace else?”

“No, I kind of like it,” I smiled. “It’s perfect.”

While we waited in line to order, I noticed they had these huge metal tanks behind the counter. “What are those tanks?”

“They brew their own beer,” Christos said. “It’s good stuff. I can buy some for you, if you want.”

“Oh, I’m good.”

At Christos’ suggestion, we ordered a Pizza Carlsbad, which had pesto, grilled chicken, sun-dried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and feta. Then we found a place on the benches to sit, squeezed between what looked like two opposing soccer teams, green uniforms on one side of the divide, orange on the other.

“You sure you want to sit here?” Christos asked.

“It should be okay, right?” I said cautiously, not sure what he meant.

“These kids seem sort of surly. Like a drunken brawl could erupt any second.”

The kids were all about eight years old. I giggled. “If you need me to protect you, Christos, just say the word.”

He smiled and extended his hand toward the bench. “I’d pull the bench out for you, but it’s bolted down.”

“Always the gentlemen,” I smiled.

He held my hand as I lifted one leg, then the other, over the bench. “Thank you, sir.”

As he was about to slide in next to me, two boys in green soccer jerseys who had just finished playing a video game at the back of the restaurant came barreling toward Christos, shouting, “We need more quarters!”

The second boy wasn’t watching where he was going. He was distracted by Christos’ lifting his leg over the bench.

“Be careful, Jordan!” a woman hollered at the boy.

Jordan pivoted to avoid running into Christos’ knee but stumbled headlong in the direction of a floor-to-ceiling post. I grit my teeth as I imagined the certain concussion the boy was about to suffer.

Christos reacted instantly. His knee still in the air, he spun on his planted foot and swept Jordan up in his arms, pulling him off his trajectory. Christos planted his elevated foot and swung the boy high into the air.

“Airplane ride!” Christos sang as he held Jordan aloft.

The boy was surprised for a second, but all smiles.

Christos continued to hold him up. “Jordan, can you touch the ceiling while you’re up there?”

The boy giggled and slapped the beam overhead.

“Got it!” Christos said before lowering him to the floor.

The woman who had hollered at Jordan was already walking over to claim him. She was smiling nervously. “Thank you so much. I think you saved my son a trip to the Emergency Room.”

“No problem,” Christos smiled.

“Say thank you to the nice man, Jordan,” the woman said.

“Thanks,” the boy said bashfully.

“Any time, little man,” Christos winked. “Let me know if you need another airplane ride.”

“I think he’s had enough action for the evening,” the woman said.

“But, mom!” he begged. “Me and James weren’t done playing Galaga! We need more quarters!”

“You need to finish your pizza, young man. Then we’ll see about more Galaga.”

“Mom!” Jordan pleaded as his mom led him back to their bench.

“Thank you so much,” the woman said to Christos.

“Any time,” he smiled at her before sitting next to me.

I pulled at Christos’ collar and looked down his shirt.

“What are you doing?” he laughed.

“Are you wearing blue pajamas under this shirt? With a big red S?”

Christos chuckled. “Sorry, my tights are at the cleaners with my cape.”

A short time later our pizza arrived. I’d never had a pizza like this, and definitely not one with artichoke hearts. It was amazing. “This is like, the best pizza ever,” I said before taking another bite.

“Wait’ll you try their beers.”

“Really?” I mumbled as a string of cheese stretched from the slice in my hand to my mouth. It kept getting longer and longer and didn’t seem to want to break. “I think I need scissors!” The cheese finally broke and stuck to my chin in a wiggly string.

“That’s a good look for you,” Christos laughed before leaning over to lick it off.

I couldn’t decide if that was gross or hot. Maybe both. I grimaced while he did it. I hoped no one was watching.

“Daddy,” a little girl sitting two seats over said, “that man is eating pizza off that girl’s face!”

Nope, no audience.

“Kids are the best,” Christos said.

After my public humiliation subsided, I said, “Do you ever think about having kids?”

“When I’m older. But you have to find the right person to do it with first.” He gave me a knowing look. “Emphasis on the ‘do it’ part, and the ‘right person’ part,” he winked.

“Stop!” I giggled excitedly, a flash of that earlier family fantasy I’d had warming my heart once again. Could it be true? Me and Christos, and babies? Some day? I pushed the thoughts quickly away, afraid of jinxing myself if I thought about it too hard.

“What,” he looked confused. “You don’t want to do it anymore? Was it that bad?”

I blushed thinking about how unbelievably good “it” had been. “Eat your pizza, Christos!”

“That’s not all I’m going to be eating,” He said suggestively.

Yes, my thighs quivered expectantly beneath the picnic table for the remainder of dinner. In a good way.

SAMANTHA

After dinner we went back to my apartment.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” I said as I raced up the stairs. “You’ve got to see what I drew in my sketchbook today!”

“You mean the little traveling one I gave you for Christmas?”

“Yeah!”

I opened my apartment door and we went inside. I pulled the sketchbook out of my book bag and opened it to the page with the drawing of Madison sawing Tiffany in half.

Christos barked laughter instantly. “That’s awesome! Is that Madison slicing Tiffany to pieces?”

“Yeah!” I was kind of surprised he could tell. “How did you know it was them?”

He studied my drawing thoughtfully. “This is obviously Tiffany. I think it’s the hair. Besides, what other bitch could the caption be referring to?” He winked at me. “With Madison, I don’t know, you just captured that smile of hers.”

“But it’s just cartoon drawings,” I said. “Not like your oil paintings that look like photos of people. Anyone could tell your painting of Tiffany was her.”

“I see what you’re saying, but cartoons have their own weird kind of magic. I can’t articulate why, probably one of those mysteries of how the mind works. But have you ever noticed how with political cartoons you can always tell it’s a drawing of the president?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s what you did with Tiffany and Madison. You captured the essence of them in your drawing. That’s pretty amazing, Samantha. I’ve been telling you that you have talent from the beginning. This is further proof. Who knows, maybe you’ll be a famous cartoonist someday.”

I was bashful again. Would I ever be able to accept all the compliments that Christos showered on me?

“Speaking of which,” Christos said, “did you change your major?”

“I did,” I smiled, proud of myself.

“That’s awesome, agápi mou . You totally did the right thing.”

My stomach somersaulted. “But I haven’t told my parents yet,” I winced.

“Ah. I imagine that’ll be tough.”

“Do you want anything to drink?” I asked, needing to change the subject.

“Sure. Water’s good.”

I walked into the kitchen and pulled a pitcher out of the fridge and poured a glass. When I put it back, I couldn’t help staring at the freezer. “Want some ice cream?” I hollered.