her, and instead focused on the task at hand—her new quest to save Cooper Payne—Hans did something which seemed somehow genuine, and certainly notable.
He called her bluff and kissed her.
SIX
H aving not been kissed, really kissed, in a long time, Story first went a little weak in the knees, and then stiffened, a self-conscious reaction to being caught wearing pajamas while suffering from un-brushed teeth and sleepy onion breath. It was like a post-coital morning-after kiss, but without the dinner-date protocol. She could have said, “That was nice,” or at least “Thank you,” but instead, she sabotaged yet another beautiful thing by saying, “What was that for?”
Hans could have given an elaborate answer, but he simply smiled and stared back. Strong, silent type. Story let out an audible, disgusted sigh. Great. The clichés are free-flowing now. “One kiss,” Story blurted, “and you become a mute?” Out of character, she added, “A cute mute.” And then she decided to stay quiet (and stop rhyming) when she recalled a first line in which being mute was attractive—at least, to one other person. In the town there were two mutes, and they were always together.
Hans studied Story’s face, and finally said, with an air of magic and mystery, “Merry Christmas, Story.”
She folded her arms and fought back a smirk. “It’s not even Halloween yet.” And then, in keeping with the weirdness—being in a strange home, getting kissed by a stranger, and deciding to help a little boy she hadn’t yet met—she borrowed someone else’s words and whispered, “All this happened, more or less.”
Hans’s voice was soft but definitive. “Vonnegut.”
“Yes,” she said, the brevity becoming contagious. “You’re a Vonnegut fan?”
“Isn’t everyone?” His pale blue eyes seemed to be getting bluer.
Mr. Rennaisance Man knows Vonnegut and can fix a door? Damn it, these aren’t even my cool pajamas. Story envisioned beefy and glistening handymen sitting in a Book Club circle, discussing extended metaphors and character believability, and wondered how she could get invited to such an event. Story watched Hans tighten his tool belt, and when he looked up at her, it seemed like goodbye.
Without thinking, she said, “This was a good time,” revealing more than she wanted, and before the full embarrassment of her desperation could set in, she shut her eyes and hoped he didn’t hear.
But he did. Hans stood tall, unmoving. “It was the best of times,” he said.
Story figured she had nothing to lose, so she opened her eyes, and continued with the most recognizable and revered first lines in all of literature. “It was the worst of times.”
“It was the age of wisdom,” he said, convincing and proud.
Like a fool, Story continued to recite Dickens in her pajamas. “It was the age of foolishness.”
“It was . . .” Hans began to laugh. “What the hell was it? I only read the Cliff Notes for this one.”
“The epoch of belief,” Story said, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“Ah,” he said, “no wonder I didn’t remember that line. It’s stupid . . . What a hack.” They both laughed. “I actually remember the last line of A Tale of Two Cities better than the first—it’s much more memorable.” He blinked slowly, folded his hands, and grew serious. “I can recite it in my sleep.”
“What is it?” Story asked.
“Slips my mind,” he said, smiling. But Story knew he hadn’t forgotten. Something told her it was an ending that needed to be earned, and after all, he’d just met her. And Hans seemed like the kind of guy who never let his Dickens reach fruition on the first date, although his timing for kisses was odd.
“I thought you didn’t like stories.”
“I used to.”
Hans wished her well with a warm smile, and Story could tell he was wondering about her. To Story, Hans looked as if he possessed a penchant for rescuing women in distress, not in a chauvinistic way,
He called her bluff and kissed her.
SIX
H aving not been kissed, really kissed, in a long time, Story first went a little weak in the knees, and then stiffened, a self-conscious reaction to being caught wearing pajamas while suffering from un-brushed teeth and sleepy onion breath. It was like a post-coital morning-after kiss, but without the dinner-date protocol. She could have said, “That was nice,” or at least “Thank you,” but instead, she sabotaged yet another beautiful thing by saying, “What was that for?”
Hans could have given an elaborate answer, but he simply smiled and stared back. Strong, silent type. Story let out an audible, disgusted sigh. Great. The clichés are free-flowing now. “One kiss,” Story blurted, “and you become a mute?” Out of character, she added, “A cute mute.” And then she decided to stay quiet (and stop rhyming) when she recalled a first line in which being mute was attractive—at least, to one other person. In the town there were two mutes, and they were always together.
Hans studied Story’s face, and finally said, with an air of magic and mystery, “Merry Christmas, Story.”
She folded her arms and fought back a smirk. “It’s not even Halloween yet.” And then, in keeping with the weirdness—being in a strange home, getting kissed by a stranger, and deciding to help a little boy she hadn’t yet met—she borrowed someone else’s words and whispered, “All this happened, more or less.”
Hans’s voice was soft but definitive. “Vonnegut.”
“Yes,” she said, the brevity becoming contagious. “You’re a Vonnegut fan?”
“Isn’t everyone?” His pale blue eyes seemed to be getting bluer.
Mr. Rennaisance Man knows Vonnegut and can fix a door? Damn it, these aren’t even my cool pajamas. Story envisioned beefy and glistening handymen sitting in a Book Club circle, discussing extended metaphors and character believability, and wondered how she could get invited to such an event. Story watched Hans tighten his tool belt, and when he looked up at her, it seemed like goodbye.
Without thinking, she said, “This was a good time,” revealing more than she wanted, and before the full embarrassment of her desperation could set in, she shut her eyes and hoped he didn’t hear.
But he did. Hans stood tall, unmoving. “It was the best of times,” he said.
Story figured she had nothing to lose, so she opened her eyes, and continued with the most recognizable and revered first lines in all of literature. “It was the worst of times.”
“It was the age of wisdom,” he said, convincing and proud.
Like a fool, Story continued to recite Dickens in her pajamas. “It was the age of foolishness.”
“It was . . .” Hans began to laugh. “What the hell was it? I only read the Cliff Notes for this one.”
“The epoch of belief,” Story said, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“Ah,” he said, “no wonder I didn’t remember that line. It’s stupid . . . What a hack.” They both laughed. “I actually remember the last line of A Tale of Two Cities better than the first—it’s much more memorable.” He blinked slowly, folded his hands, and grew serious. “I can recite it in my sleep.”
“What is it?” Story asked.
“Slips my mind,” he said, smiling. But Story knew he hadn’t forgotten. Something told her it was an ending that needed to be earned, and after all, he’d just met her. And Hans seemed like the kind of guy who never let his Dickens reach fruition on the first date, although his timing for kisses was odd.
“I thought you didn’t like stories.”
“I used to.”
Hans wished her well with a warm smile, and Story could tell he was wondering about her. To Story, Hans looked as if he possessed a penchant for rescuing women in distress, not in a chauvinistic way,
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