“Are you thirsty?” he asked.
We were coming to a snack bar near a sandy beach and a play area.
“Are you changing the subject?” I asked.
“No, I’m just thirsty.”
“Okay. I’ll take a sparkling water. But then I want to hear what’s on your list.”
We both slowed our bikes, coasting to the dark green bike rack set next to a scattered group of picnic tables.
I pushed my bike tire between two bars.
“Spill,” I said, smoothing my windblown hair.
I’d pulled it back into a ponytail, but some strands had come loose around my face. I tried not to imagine what I looked like. Some women looked cute when they were all disheveled. I looked messy. On me, messy wasn’t cute or sexy or anything other than messy.
“It’s a short list,” he said, dismounting.
“That should make it easy.”
“Not Brooklyn.”
I felt a lurch of guilt. I probably should have kept my big mouth shut about relationships. James didn’t need this on a leisurely Sunday morning bike ride. I felt terrible.
“Now you give me something,” he said.
He didn’t sound sad or upset.
I was grateful for that. Maybe I hadn’t completely spoiled the morning.
“No gambling addiction,” I said.
“Seriously?” he asked as we walked to the counter. “You felt the need to include that on a list?”
“You think I should date a guy with a gambling addiction?” I asked.
The teenage girl behind the counter gave us an odd look.
I thought about clarifying the statement, but it seemed silly to launch into an explanation for a stranger whose life would only intersect with mine for a matter of minutes.
“Two Sparkletts,” James said to her. “Plain.”
The teenager turned and moved to the cooler.
“I don’t think you should date a serial killer, either,” he said to me. “But you don’t need to put that on a list anywhere. It’s obvious.”
“I’d rather date an addicted gambler than a serial killer.”
The teenager heard that one too, and gave us another puzzled look. “That’ll be seven fifty.”
James handed her a ten. “No need for change. Thanks.”
“Thank you,” she said with an appreciative smile.
We each took one of the bottles. I couldn’t help but wonder what the clerk thought as we walked away.
“That girl back there thinks I’m dating a gambling addict,” I said, twisting off the bottle cap.
“She really doesn’t care.”
“I suppose not. Still, I hope I didn’t accidently set a bad example.”
“I think you’re safe.” James took a long drink. “Now, give me a real one.”
“A real what.”
“A real item on your list.”
I wanted to tell him to give me a real item, too. I didn’t think “not Brooklyn” was legitimate. But I didn’t want to risk upsetting him.
“Good sense of humor,” I said.
“Too generic,” he said.
“It’s legitimate.”
“What else?”
“A progressive worldview.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re progressive.” I kept my expression deadpan. “You know, in your worldview.”
James grinned. “Touché.”
“You give me one.”
“Me? But I’m a sad sack recovering from utter heartbreak.”
I took in his überinnocent expression. “I knew that was a ruse.” I shoved him with my upper arm.
“Not buying it?” he asked.
“Dish.”
“Okay, let me see...hardworking.”
“And you say I’m too generic.”
“You think I should date a lazy woman?”
“Depends. Exactly how good does she look eating bonbons in front of daytime television?”
“Nobody looks good doing that.”
We came to our bikes and stood there while we finished our drinks.
“I don’t know what I’m looking for,” I said.
“Love?” James asked.
“Now, that’s the generic answer.”
“But true.” He took my empty bottle from me.
I knew he was right. “But how do you find it?”
I was serious. I felt like it had always eluded me. I mean, I’d liked Henry a lot, but with him, even when things were going well, it sure didn’t feel like the poems and stories said it would.
James headed for the recycle bin. “You look really hard,” he called back over his shoulder.
He tossed the bottles and started back. “Meet a lot of people, I guess. Statistically speaking, that’ll give you the best shot at falling in love.”
We mounted up.
“There are people everywhere,” James said as we continued down the path.
He pointed to the beach. “There’s one, and another, and another. Take your pick.”
I chuckled as I pedaled beside him. It was silly, and it was funny, and it felt good to laugh at life.
“What about her?” I asked as we came up on a pretty woman in a white bathing suit cover-up.
“Mommy, Mommy.” A two-year-old boy threw himself in her arms.
“Taken,” James said.
“Either of them?” I joked about two women in their sixties chatting in matching lawn chairs.
“Wrong era,” he said.
“You’re so fussy.”
“Him?” James nodded to a shirtless jogger with a tiny dog on a leash.
The twentysomething man’s chest was shaved, and his bulging pecs were shiny with oil.
“Too self-obsessed,” I said.
“You can tell that just by looking?”
“You can’t? How many hours a week at the gym do you suppose that takes?”
“I guess,” James said.
“When would he mow the lawn or clean the gutters, or play with the children, or plan date night?”
“You do have a long list.”
“I’m a practical woman. It’s not like I won’t help around the house. But I’m not cleaning the gutters all by myself.”
“I can respect that,” James said.
We pedaled along in our own thoughts until we reached the far end