Giant Men and Violent Women

You're Kidding Me, Right?

PRESLEY ANN

I smell roasted moose. I hear reggae-folk. I know exactly where I am. With my eyes closed, I feel the warmth of the pillow and the smell of rosemary, garlic, and duck liver. I've heard ringing. The phone?

Yes, I know where I am.

Ashley never brought back up what he said earlier—about us not going back to New Hampshire. I didn't mention it either. That way, I wouldn't have to apologize for my Date comment. But, Ashley being Ashley, he didn't skip a beat in the conversation. We had another Bub coffee and listened to the blues while laughing about our differences.

He loves war, which is why he started Rebels for the Revelation. I love beauty, which is why I became an art investor. He loves chocolate. I love vanilla bean. He reads courtroom thrillers—of course. I read mysteries with women as the protagonist. He loves Christmas, and so do I. It's the one thing we have in common. We sipped our coffees and didn't mind that opposites were attracting.

As the daughter of a politico, I'm adept at psychology and what makes people tick. I know that opposites do indeed attract. The reason being, humans have a desire to feel perfect, and our partners help us do this. When we pick an opposite, we live in a household that is scientifically balanced. Two different pieces come together to form one whole.

Those who choose to find a partner based on this criterion soon learn that maintaining this perfect union is difficult because, though opposites attract, birds of a feather do indeed flock together. People get along most with those they can relate to. But people are not drawn to relatable people. They love people with whom they are not like. In fact, they are mesmerized by these people.

It could explain why Date's and my relationship started off as a boil while Ashley's and my connection has begun off with a boom. One was hot while the other is on fire. I considered this as Ashley and I laughed or when his arm draped around me or as he looked at me as I spoke, like he was actually listening.

But, soon, the Bub Bar closed, so we reluctantly left.

The taxi ride through Boston was engaging. Not because of Ashley and his conversation—though I adore them both very much—but because of the city of Boston. More groups advocating for The Prison Work Program huddled on corners, flaming garbage cans warming them as they screamed at cars passing by and chanted while holding picket signs.

Boston was about to go through a change. I wondered if The Mayor, also known as Great Aunt's husband, knew it. I wondered if he was taking these protests seriously. Something instinctively told me that he should. Yes, he and Great Aunt are still mourning the assassination of their son, but are The Mayor's eyes open though his heart is not? Can he see that the program his son was vehemently against as the governor of New Hampshire is the same program that the people of Boston strongly want?

Perhaps Ashley was thinking the same as we glided through the streets, listening to the shouts of pro-slavery advocates, watching flames of fire burn high. The quietness between us, which was such a change from the way the night had been going, let me know that his thoughts mirrored mine. I stole a look at him—square jaw, broad shoulders, black-framed glasses that provided a bit of vulnerability—and he was watching the street scene, flames of fire appearing in his dark eyes, looking devilish in a way. Those flames died down once we arrived at the airport, and the protests faded away.

He chartered a private flight back to New Hampshire, so our taxi drove up within feet of the plane. Ashley helped me out, and soon, we were greeting the flight attendant as we entered the jet.

Cream and wood were the colors inside. A small gas fire burned in a fireplace along a wall. Two twin beds were set up next to each other, dressed in white linen. Three vases stuffed with long-stemmed orange rosebuds sat on tabletops. Impressive.