Page 30 of On the Ropes
He was almost too cute.
I waved to a few folks sweeping the sidewalk in front of their stoops. Tipping my face up toward the sun, I inhaled the smell of asphalt, coffee, and the bacon one of our neighbors must have been cooking. I closed my eyes, heard the spray of hoses; the sparrows perched on telephone poles; conversations in multiple languages; the steady, colorful rhythm of a neighborhood waking up.
My heart lodged in my throat, an unexpected emotion and one I couldn’t encourage. After chatting with my too-cute neighbor, I needed to spend the day focusing on where I was going next. The clock was ticking, after all.
When I opened my eyes, Dean was strolling toward the stoop, one hand raking through his hair. I offered him a mug and indicated the spot next to me, but he stayed standing.
“I thought I’d find you with your feet in the kiddie pool down at the other end of the block,” he said.
I grinned and glanced approvingly in that direction. “They sure know how to have a good time. I stopped by the kiddie pool for less than an hour last night and still stumbled back here. Is it just me or can Midge convince a person to do literally anything? Like take shots of Crown Royal even when it’s barely past five o’clock?”
He raised his mug to his lips. “People think I’m the dangerous one in the family. But it’s Midge you need to watch out for.”
“A warning I plan on heeding,” I said, trying not to get too distracted by the veins in his forearms or the coarse texture of his voice this early in the morning. “What’s the deal with you shoveling up beer bottles all by yourself?”
He looked down at the sidewalk then back up at me. “I want to fix the lot and turn it into…well, I don’t know, to be honest. The guy from the city that I talked to said if it looked nice and the city finally got its act together to come out and look at it, they’d probably leave it be if we were putting it to good use.”
I tapped my nails on my mug. “He’s probably right. Are you worried an investor will snatch it up? Although that’s not always a bad thing, depending on what they’re planning to build.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Unless it’s the kind of investing that’ll make it too expensive for folks from here to keep living here.”
“I hear you,” I said, stifling a worried sigh. “And let’s hope not. I think the best plan of action is to do exactly what you’re doing. Two years ago, I spent a lot of time in Baltimore with a neighborhood group that created these ‘pocket parks.’ A tiny splash of green space that made use of vacant sites in the city. The one I was filming was turned into a sunflower garden, no bigger than this lot, I’d say. There were benches and string lights. The whole neighborhood got behind it.”
I felt, more than heard, the notes of curiosity in my voice. The same notes I got when a new story idea appeared in my inbox or a random conversation sparked inspiration.
His heavy brow knit together. “A pocket park?”
“Pretty cool concept, right? I might have done a little research in my spare time yesterday. Just out of pure interest,” I said quickly. And definitely not because I had already gone down a rabbit hole, digging up some of Dean’s old matches and watching them with my mouth slightly open.
The former boxer in front of me grunted a huh response and fixated on the empty space in question. Besides the bend to his nose, there were a few jagged scars under his eye and on his cheeks and one indenting his bottom lip. His knuckles were slightly swollen, wrists thick. I had no clue what the announcers were saying during his fights or the calls the ref made or any of the names of what Dean and his opponent were doing.
I did feel like I finally understood the true meaning of raw, unrestrained power. Seeing him in action was like watching a finely tuned machine. In the ring, his face remained impassive—except for the snarl on his lips and the knife-sharp glint in his eyes. It had been mesmerizing—all those flexing muscles, the sweat gleaming on his skin, the full reach of his arms.
But it was impossible to ignore the dark underbelly of each fight, how every strike to his body had me wincing in sympathy. And that Dean took hit after hit to his head seemingly without complaint.
“Penny for your thoughts?” I asked.
His gaze darted back to mine. “I like that idea of a small park. I can’t see it though. I only see the problem.”
I made a sound of agreement. “I think that’s pretty normal, don’t you? People can’t see the change—or make a change—because the problem is so big it blocks out everything else?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Yeah. That’s true.”
I set my cup down and crept down the steps. Careful to avoid broken glass, I walked to the very edge of the lot, reached in and pulled out a plastic bag filled with napkins. When I turned around, Dean was holding up the trash bag with a half smile playing on his lips as I dropped it in. “One small step at a time,” I repeated, then perched back on the stoop. “Have you asked folks what they might want to see here?”
He shook his head.
“I could help with that,” I said, my words tumbling out before I could snatch them back. “But only if you wanted the help. Or needed it. I totally, totally understand if I’d only be an annoying distraction.”
Dean’s fingers curled into fists at his side. “You’re not…annoying, Tabitha.”
I arched my eyebrow. “But am I a distraction?”
I was joking, as usual, but the slight flush in his cheeks had my own face heating up. We broke eye contact, me to drink coffee and him to twist the shovel into the sidewalk. I was probably still jet-lagged. Flirting with attractive people didn’t generally evoke this kind of fluttery reaction.
“You might be slightly distracting,” he finally said, eyes crinkling at the sides. I smiled at him, surprised and blushing everywhere now. But before I could flirt back, Eddie walked past us with Pam behind him, twitching her tail.
“Morning, how youse doing?” he grumbled, squinting at the shovel.
