Running into Love

by Lewis Westbrook

Photo by Lukas Bato on Unsplash

I run into him. Literally.

He was riding a skateboard — which has now rolled into the grass — and has a little scar on his bottom lip. He’s wearing a jean jacket over a graphic tee, and his sneakers are bright blue.

I stare up at his big brown eyes, and he doesn’t notice me at all. Instead, he stares at a messy pile of wood on the sidewalk.

“Shit!”

“Sorry,” I cringe away.

He turns. The frustration on his face slips away. “Shit shit.” He rushes over to me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” My knee is skimmed and there’s a slight ache in my ankle, but a hot guy I ran into because I was reading fanfiction on my phone doesn’t need to know that. “Is your . . . thing?”

He glances at it. “No. But it’s fine.”

I look closer. The pile of wood is this cute, little birdhouse. A tiny thing with details across the roof, currently unpainted. Rough wood sticks out, and the roof has popped off.

“I can fix it.”

He starts to smile. It pulls his cheeks wide and gives him the tiniest hit of a dimple.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I live right around the corner. I have a hammer and nails.” I shrug.

It should be pretty easy. Luckily, none of the pieces actually broke. They just fell apart. I’m not a master builder or anything, but it’s not that hard to use a hammer.

“Okay!” He rushes forward to pick up his skateboard. It has splatters of color on the bottom and blue wheels that match his shoes.

I grab the pieces and lead him to my house. It’s a tiny old one floor that my aunt used to live in. When she got married, she let me and my friends rent from her. We cover the mortgage but have to deal with any repairs ourselves. It’s a very good deal for cheap college kids who don’t mind taping things together if it means saving a dollar.

“Wait here!” I leave him on the porch, making sure to step where the floorboards don’t creak. I return with a hammer and nails to him sitting on the steps playing with a pen.

I hold up the hammer. “Got it.”

He scooches to the end of the stairs to make room for me. He taps the pen against his knee as I start to piece the wood together again. He’s got half-painted fingers, cheap black that’s clearly been peeling off.

“I’m John, by the way.” He says as he peers over my shoulder.

I gulp. “Adam.” I line up the left side of the roof and balance a nail.

“Here, let me hold it.”

He reaches over. John. John reaches over, and his hands brush my legs. His hands are soft but obviously bigger than mine.

I try to focus on the hammer and the nail. I try to focus on hammering. On anything but his hand. And how bad it would be if I accidentally nailed him to the birdhouse. And definitely not any other definitions of the word nail.

The second I’m done I lift my hands. “There. Good as new.”

“I think better, actually.” He winks and removes his hands and the birdhouse from my lap. “Thank you.” He grabs his skateboard and starts to walk down the steps.

“Well, it was — it was very nice talking to you.”

He smiles back. “We should do it again sometime.”

He turns to skateboard away.

“Wait! I don’t have any way of contacting you.”

He doesn’t even turn around. “Yes, you do.”

I glance around, and in smudged handwriting, I notice something.

He wrote his phone number on my steps.