Chapter 2
The bear with sparkling green eyes and red beard had fallen in love with Alex McFlynn, another ginger. The two planned on marrying. Alex did six terms in Afghanistan and had a chest of medals to prove his valor. Now in his late thirties, he stayed on American soil and professionally spoke for a nonprofit company called Unifying Lives, which helped veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder.
Bottom line, Dawson’s thirty-sixth birthday was coming up, and he needed to get married and start a life without me being at his side seven days a week.
“It’s about time you move out,” I told him.
He stepped away from me and checked me out from toes to head: slim build, no fat, firm jaw, white smile, dimples, English-sloped nose, mystic blue eyes, and blond hair cut super short. Had he any likeness for English blonds, Dawson and I would have been lovers. Instead, he liked Irish men like himself.
He pointed at me and asked, “Where is the Mark Landing who wants to live with me for the rest of my life?”
“I’ve taken over his body and working for his best interest. He wants you to move out and find your happy-ever-after with your military hero.”
Dawson grinned. “Tell him thanks from me.”
“I’ll do that.”
We hugged.
Then he said, “Let’s have a drink. What’s your choice?”
“A beer is fine.” I grabbed two beer bottles from the fridge, opened both, and handed him one. Then I toasted, “To a happy future for you and your man.”
We clicked beer bottle necks together and drank.
Before we realized it, we’d downed a six-pack together.
“I’m going to miss you, Dawson. You and I both know that. This place isn’t going to be the same without you around.”
“New roommates are a dime a dozen. You’ll find someone else to live with.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “But I won’t be best friends with them like I am with you.”
“You always have Angry Linus across the hall to be friends with. He seems to like you.”
I chuckled. Angry Linus hated everyone, including me. Retired for the last seven years from teaching history at Plimpton High School, the seventy-year-old despised the world, damaged from his job. I thought loneliness had a lot to do with his behavior because he didn’t have a spouse, children, or siblings.
Jokingly, I told Dawson, “He and I will be shacking up together in no time.”
He laughed. “Nice. If you can get that man to smile, I’ll marry you instead of McFlynn.”
I opened another six-pack and removed two fresh bottles of beer.
“No more beer,” he said. “I have a date with Alex. He’s taking me to dinner and a movie tonight.”
“What are you seeing?”
“That hero movie, Strange Upstairs.”
I knew the movie. Ben Riding, an actor from Plimpton, starred in the flick. The synopsis sounded good, but not extraordinary: Ben plays a middle-aged, lonely guy (Oliver Treat) and rents a bedroom from newlyweds; he saves the young couple from a gas explosion and other, strange occurrences; the husband learns that Oliver is more than a hero, not from this planet.
“Sounds like a good time,” I told him.
“Every moment with Alex is a good time. We can be sitting around doing absolutely nothing, and it still feels right to me.”
“Proof that you’re in love with him.”
“Guess so.”
* * * *
May 3
Taking my own advice regarding the three candidates for the Neighborhood Hero Award, I wanted to get to know each somewhat more before casting my final vote for a recognized winner. Reaching out to them and learning them on a face to face level only seemed appropriate. My first meeting with the three contenders was with Josh Bender. He agreed to meet me at The Bagel Deli on Hemsworth Street in downtown Plimpton. His identical twin, Jason, owned the place. Josh worked there sometimes, helping his sibling.
Because the day turned beautiful with a warm temperature and light wind, we sat at a small table on the sidewalk, with unsweet iced teas and cold cut subs. Nannies with children, dogwalkers, and the occasional businessman in a designer suit passed us.
Thirty-eight-year-old Josh Bender couldn’t have been more attractive: muddy brown eyes, wavy hair, sexy scruff on his cheeks and chin, high cheekbones, and the tiniest cleft in the tip of his nose. I placed him at one-hundred and ninety pounds, six-two, and mostly muscle.
My first question only seemed appropriate to begin our conversation. “You work for Golden Light Foundation?”
He nodded. “For ten years now.” He paused and calculated the math in his head. “Actually, it’s almost been eleven years.”
“Give me a brief description of exactly what you do at the foundation.”
He rubbed his scruff-covered chin, took a sip of his iced tea, and replied, “That’s hard to explain. I work in various areas. Sometimes, I’m on the streets, helping the homeless find places to live. Other times, I’m asking corporations for money to help the foundation. Frankly, it depends what day of the month it is.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“Seminole Baptist College. I have a degree in social work.”
“How did you first get involved with helping the homeless?”
He cleared his throat, looked away from me, and maybe stared at the paperback bookstore across Hemsworth. Tears ebbed at the corners of his eyes when he turned his view back to me. “I’ve been out there on the streets and know what it’s like.”
“Can you share a few details with me about that?” I sounded more like a journalist than a NHA committee member/city employee and needed to lighten up a bit.