Now and then, she’d get jolted.
At fifteen, while visiting her cousin Liam, she touched his father’s coat and realized her Uncle Clancy was having an affair with a woman he’d met at a pub. He’d been with her that morning.
The gift had peaked in her adolescence. Between the ages of twelve and fifteen, the sensations were so overpowering, she wore her gloves almost constantly, but then they faded, and she learned to control them. If she didn’t attune to the touch, she could almost avoid the images altogether. But still, she wore the gloves often. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to know; she was curious. But she had a keen understanding of the old adage ignorance is bliss. Once you knew something, you couldn’t unknow it.
Orla lifted the nude gloves from her bedside table, and slipped them on. It was a habit by now. At twenty-years-old, she no longer even thought about the gloves. Putting them on was as natural as wearing lip gloss.
She grabbed her canvas bag of books, and trotted down the stairs two at a time.
Most of her roommates had already left for the day.
She spotted Hazel in the garden, offered a quick wave, and pulled her bike from the shed.
It was the perfect day for a bike ride.
“Can I give ya a hand?” Orla asked the man.
He stood near his car, studying a flat tire as if he hadn’t a clue what to do about it.
He glanced up, expressionless.
Orla gazed back, lifting her eyebrows and wondering at the blankness in his dazzling blue eyes.
He blinked, looked back at the tire, and then grinned. The smile lit his face, erasing the strange absence.
“Looked like you were buggin’ out for a minute there,” Orla told him, returning the smile.
He laughed and gestured at the tire.
“I was trying to remember if I had a spare. I had flat a few months back.”
“Got it. Well, I happen to know how to change a tire, so if you need some help….”
“You know how to change a tire?” The man surveyed her, not in the usual revolting way that men looked at Orla, their eyes hungrily bouncing along her curves, over her long legs.
“Yes, believe it or not, there are girls in the world who don’t look at cars like bug vomit.”
“Bug vomit?”
“Yeah, you know, bugs are often gross to girls, so is vomit, put the two together.” She waved her hand to imply the rest.
“Ah, good to know. So, you aren’t afraid of bugs or vomit either, then?”
Orla shrugged.
“Natural things in the world, aren’t they? I’m more afraid of politicians and atomic bombs.”
He smiled.
“I’m afraid of those too. Though I know a handful of politicians, and they’re not all bad.”
“Do you, now? Rubbing elbows with the man? I do get the strait-laced vibe from you. Don’t tell me, you’re a lawyer? Or a banker?”
He cocked his head to the side.
“Somehow you just made both those professions sound less appealing than bug vomit. I’m a graduate student in psychotherapy.”
“Yikes, a head-shrinker. The most scary option of all.”
He stared into her eyes.
“Tell me, Miss, how’s your relationship with your father?”
Orla rolled her eyes.
“Grand. It’s my mother where the problems lie. But if we’re going to change this tire, we’d better hustle. See that orange sky?” She pointed at the tree line. “It means the sun is heading for a long sleep.”
He glanced at the horizon over the trees, and then stuck out his hand.
“I’m Spencer Crow.”
She shook it.
“Orla Sullivan.”
“Orla? Now that’s an interesting name.”
“It’s a very Irish name, of which I am. In fact, Orla Delaney Sullivan - it doesn’t get more Irish than that.”
“Irish,” he scanned her. “Shouldn’t you be covered in red hair and freckles?”
“Very few of us fit that terrible stereotype. Though I have a cousin who looks the part. Open your trunk.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Spencer gave her a single firm nod of the head and walked back to the trunk.
Orla grabbed the spare from the trunk.
“Here, let me,” he said.
She laughed and pulled the tire away, carrying it to the side of the car. “You grab the jack,” she told him.
As Spencer cranked up the car, Orla pulled her long black hair into a ponytail.
“Do you come here often to hike?” Orla asked him, setting the spare on its side as he pulled the flat off.
“No, this is my first time,” he admitted. “How about you?”
“At least once a week. I ride my bike out here. It’s such a peaceful place. There’s a bald eagle’s nest about a quarter mile down the creek.”
“Really?” He looked toward the trees.
The small dirt parking lot that bordered the trailhead was completely deserted. Orla rarely saw cars in the lot. She’d been surprised to see the shiny gold Corvette sitting there when she’d emerged from her hike earlier. Equally surprised to see the clean-cut man beside it, wearing white tennis shorts and a yellow t-shirt. His sandy blonde hair brushed the tops of his ears. Oddly, she thought she’d seen a mustache on the man when she emerged from the forest, but upon closer inspection, his face was clean-shaven.
“This is a pretty isolated place. You must ride your bike a long way.”
“It’s about ten miles. I live near the college. Long rides are my drug of choice. I once rode to the Mackinac Bridge.”
He grimaced.
“I’m more of a wine man, myself. That sounds like an exhausting trip.”
She smiled and shrugged.
“I stopped along the way and met up with some friends in Gaylord. There’s an amazing mind space when you ride for hours. It’s like your thoughts switch off, and you can just be.”
“Do you have a car?” he asked.
“Yep. Nothing like this.” She patted the side of his car, and she noticed his eyes linger on the spot where her gloved hand had rested. He didn’t ask about the gloves, and she was grateful, though she’d created a story years earlier about skin sensitivity. “It was my mom’s car, but she rarely drove it. She walks to her store every day - even in the winter. If the weather is terrible, my dad drives her. She gave me her car when I turned eighteen. I wanted to move out, and she feared me hitchhiking.”
“It can be dangerous,” he said. “I love my car, my freedom. I live in an apartment at U of M during the school year, in a carriage house at my mom’s on the Leelanau Peninsula in the summer.”
“A carriage house,“ Orla murmured. “Sounds fancy.”
“It has its perks.”
Orla rolled the flat toward the trunk, but he grabbed it before she could pick it up.
“I’ve got this,” he told her.
She glanced in his trunk, noticing a sheathed machete poking from a duffel bag.
“Doing some bushwhacking?” she asked.
He grinned and zipped the bag closed.
“I like to explore new places. Sometimes it comes in handy. Listen,” he glanced toward the empty road. “Would you like to come back here tomorrow? Have a picnic. I’d love to see the eagle’s nest.”
Orla studied him. He wasn’t her type. She preferred shaggy men with liberal political views who didn’t mind smoking the occasional joint and opted for live music over white linen dinners. But then again, she hadn’t been on a date in weeks, and Spencer intrigued her. Something seemed amiss beneath his clean facade. Maybe there was more to him than his preppy image.