Love Unscripted
Page 12
“I like funny stories.” I shrugged a bit.
“Ahh, when I was around nine years old - my brother Nick was eleven, we had this bright idea to make a go-cart. We super-glued one of my mom’s laundry baskets to a skateboard and a…”
I couldn’t help but make a silly face at him.
“Wait, it gets better,” he said with a laugh. “At first we just tied the basket to the back of my brother’s bicycle and I, of course, got to ride in the back. But we couldn’t get up enough speed. So we rolled the basket to the top of 12th Street hill. I climbed in and Nick gave me a shove. Did you know that you can’t steer a laundry basket on a skateboard?”
I could picture him as a kid careening down a hill in a laundry basket. I started to laugh.
“That’s how I got this scar right here.” Ryan twisted his right arm to show me the mark on his elbow.
“Twenty stitches.” He grinned proudly.
I shook my head and smiled, imagining him being an adventurous little daredevil when he was young.
“Hey, it sounded like a good idea at the time!”
I noticed another scar across his right forearm. “How did you get that one?” I pointed to the mark in question.
“Ahh, fishing accident.” He laughed. “Nick again. Caught me with a hook once while we were fishing with our dad. I yelled, he yanked, and I got more stitches. To this day I stay far away from him when we’re fishing. What about you?” he asked. “Got any good scar stories?”
“I have to think about that one for a minute. Wait, I have one - on my right knee.”
“Well you know you have to show it to me now,” he teased.
I hesitantly pulled up the leg of my jeans to reveal the dime-sized circular scar on my kneecap. I was relieved that I had shaved my legs this morning.
“I don’t remember if I was six or seven, but I got this the day my dad took the training wheels off my bike,” I admitted. “I think there’s a cinder or two still stuck in there.” My finger pushed on the spot.
“Ha! It’s a good story, but that’s not a very good scar. It’s barely noticeable,” he added after rubbing his finger over my faint mark.
“Sorry, it’s all I have. I usually go right for breaking bones instead of getting simple scars.”
“How many?” he asked while taking his next shot on the table.
“What? Broken bones? Two - left wrist and right ankle.”
“And are there good stories that go along with the broken bones?” he asked, sounding hopeful.
“Right ankle isn’t that exciting. I slipped and fell on some icy steps at college.” I took a sip from my beer glass. “Left wrist, however, has a better punch line. Let’s just say that’s the day I learned that tequila and rollerblading should never be used in the same sentence.”
Ryan started laughing. “That’s something I would have liked to see!”
“What about you? Did you ever break any bones?”
He looked at me and nodded. “Quite a few actually. Mostly fingers and toes, but I had my left arm broken once in high school. I was playing baseball and got taken out by the third baseman.”
While he was telling me his story, I missed my shot; it was his turn.
“Thanks! Thanks a lot!” he quipped. “You’re killing me here! Do you think you could have at least left me a shot?”
I could tell he was just teasing me. He walked around the table looking for an angle as I had tucked the cue ball behind the eightball.
I noticed that I was able to look at him now for more than two seconds at a time. I watched as the fingers of his left hand formed into a bridge while he was lining up to take his next shot. He had really long fingers. The muscles on his forearm flexed when he stroked the pool stick in his hand.
From my current angle, I took in the visions of his long legs and how the back pockets of his jeans curved on his shape. And when he leaned over the table, my blue T-shirt separated from his body, exposing some tight flesh on his stomach. I could see what the big draw was for his fans… and it wasn’t his pool-playing skills.
“Eightball in the corner pocket,” I stated as I drew my stick back to make the shot that he had missed. With one precise movement, I tapped the cue ball and pocketed the eight.
“Good job!” Ryan held his hand up and gave me a gentle high-five hand slap. I started to put my pool stick back on the wall when he interrupted me.
“Oh, no! You have to play me again!” He handed the pool stick back to me. “I’m just warming up.”
“Ahh, when I was around nine years old - my brother Nick was eleven, we had this bright idea to make a go-cart. We super-glued one of my mom’s laundry baskets to a skateboard and a…”
I couldn’t help but make a silly face at him.
“Wait, it gets better,” he said with a laugh. “At first we just tied the basket to the back of my brother’s bicycle and I, of course, got to ride in the back. But we couldn’t get up enough speed. So we rolled the basket to the top of 12th Street hill. I climbed in and Nick gave me a shove. Did you know that you can’t steer a laundry basket on a skateboard?”
I could picture him as a kid careening down a hill in a laundry basket. I started to laugh.
“That’s how I got this scar right here.” Ryan twisted his right arm to show me the mark on his elbow.
“Twenty stitches.” He grinned proudly.
I shook my head and smiled, imagining him being an adventurous little daredevil when he was young.
“Hey, it sounded like a good idea at the time!”
I noticed another scar across his right forearm. “How did you get that one?” I pointed to the mark in question.
“Ahh, fishing accident.” He laughed. “Nick again. Caught me with a hook once while we were fishing with our dad. I yelled, he yanked, and I got more stitches. To this day I stay far away from him when we’re fishing. What about you?” he asked. “Got any good scar stories?”
“I have to think about that one for a minute. Wait, I have one - on my right knee.”
“Well you know you have to show it to me now,” he teased.
I hesitantly pulled up the leg of my jeans to reveal the dime-sized circular scar on my kneecap. I was relieved that I had shaved my legs this morning.
“I don’t remember if I was six or seven, but I got this the day my dad took the training wheels off my bike,” I admitted. “I think there’s a cinder or two still stuck in there.” My finger pushed on the spot.
“Ha! It’s a good story, but that’s not a very good scar. It’s barely noticeable,” he added after rubbing his finger over my faint mark.
“Sorry, it’s all I have. I usually go right for breaking bones instead of getting simple scars.”
“How many?” he asked while taking his next shot on the table.
“What? Broken bones? Two - left wrist and right ankle.”
“And are there good stories that go along with the broken bones?” he asked, sounding hopeful.
“Right ankle isn’t that exciting. I slipped and fell on some icy steps at college.” I took a sip from my beer glass. “Left wrist, however, has a better punch line. Let’s just say that’s the day I learned that tequila and rollerblading should never be used in the same sentence.”
Ryan started laughing. “That’s something I would have liked to see!”
“What about you? Did you ever break any bones?”
He looked at me and nodded. “Quite a few actually. Mostly fingers and toes, but I had my left arm broken once in high school. I was playing baseball and got taken out by the third baseman.”
While he was telling me his story, I missed my shot; it was his turn.
“Thanks! Thanks a lot!” he quipped. “You’re killing me here! Do you think you could have at least left me a shot?”
I could tell he was just teasing me. He walked around the table looking for an angle as I had tucked the cue ball behind the eightball.
I noticed that I was able to look at him now for more than two seconds at a time. I watched as the fingers of his left hand formed into a bridge while he was lining up to take his next shot. He had really long fingers. The muscles on his forearm flexed when he stroked the pool stick in his hand.
From my current angle, I took in the visions of his long legs and how the back pockets of his jeans curved on his shape. And when he leaned over the table, my blue T-shirt separated from his body, exposing some tight flesh on his stomach. I could see what the big draw was for his fans… and it wasn’t his pool-playing skills.
“Eightball in the corner pocket,” I stated as I drew my stick back to make the shot that he had missed. With one precise movement, I tapped the cue ball and pocketed the eight.
“Good job!” Ryan held his hand up and gave me a gentle high-five hand slap. I started to put my pool stick back on the wall when he interrupted me.
“Oh, no! You have to play me again!” He handed the pool stick back to me. “I’m just warming up.”
