Iwas a pixie stick of a girl, who was apparently in great shape andtrained as a dancer, but I wasn't sure how that was going to help me ifthis guy wanted to do something to me.Then again, maybe I was just overreacting."Hey, look, I'm sorry about before," he said. "My friends are... well,they're idiots."I stopped and turned to give him a shot. Standing face-to-face with him,I realized just how not "face-to-face" we were. He was definitely tallerthan me -- even Andrew-me -- and my heels barely helped."So why are they your friends," I asked him. I didn't care, but it justseemed like the thing to say."Well, we're teammates," he said. "Northwest basketball. I go to schoolwith Lexi. You're her sister, right?" That depends," I said. I honestly didn't know if I was "Lexi"'s sister,and I didn't know what he wanted, so I tried to remain as noncommittalas possible."Well, I was just hoping maybe she'd talked to you about me. RyanJames?" And if she had, I'm just supposed to spill to you, some guy. "The blanket came down far enough for her to stick her tongue out. "Pancakes and hot coffee sounds awfully good, husband. And you wouldn't have to worry about wakin' up tomorrow morning with an icepick in your earhole."With the appearance of her red lips, I kissed her through her giggles. "That's another thing to love about you. You know how to compromise!" We got dressed as the thermostat forced the heat from the fifty-five degree "I love to snuggle with you" to the sixty-five degree comfort zone.It was hovering around forty, the wind raw and damp and gusty as we hustled into the pickup and headed off to breakfast. By this time, not only did the restaurant staff know us, but we were starting to be familiar with some of the Sunday morning crowd. I wrote that up to the striking little redhead I was with.There were many narratives floating around about Cindy: Mizz Helen's foster daughter. Married at fourteen. The high school thing. Little Miss Cindy and her shotgun. But the Sunday.
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