Finding Ethan Morales...10 years later

Chapter 1: The Notebook

I could immediately recognize the back of Ethan Morales' head when I walked into the sparsely lit bar. It had been 10 years, and, somehow, his tousled, choppy shag was still unmistakable. Only now, when it curled inward at the nape of his neck, it landed above distressed leather rather than an oversized plaid shirt. Leaning casually on his forearm against the carved up bartop, my eyes settled on him as he gazed intently on a small, well-worn notebook, evidence of a sleeve tattoo poking out below the hem of his jacket as he held it gingerly between his fingers.

I took a deep, steadying breath to slow my heart rate and arched my shoulders back as I gained my bearings. We had decided to meet here on his suggestion. Obviously. The distorted rumble of classic 70s metal was almost drowned out by the consistent crash of cue balls on the pool table.

For the hundredth time, I tried to rehearse the scene I was imminently walking into. I'd planned on playing it extraordinarily cool, attempting the kind of aloofness that hid the amount of times he had crossed my mind since the end of senior year. The amount of times I'd felt a flicker of danger and envisioned him imploring me to go a little further; whenever I relished in the private mischief of nailing a presentation hungover, or lighting a menthol cigarette. Or, purposefully blowing up my life....every time I wanted to be bad - but wavered on committing - I felt his hot breath whispering in my ear, "yeah you do."

I had started mapping out my outfit while in London, mere seconds after he had confirmed on Instagram DM. You know where to find me. I straightened the hip-hugging long black silk skirt, and sheer cream blouse, held precariously together in the front with a few ribbons. Already late from the airport, I only had time to tie my hair up messily with a claw clip.

He looked up at me before I could make my way over. A lock of hair fell across his forehead, his eyes searing; liquid caramel, drinking in all of me from under his eyelashes, his chin perched on ring-adorned knuckles. He flashed a slow, single wave, as the corners of his full lips curved into a smirk. He didn't make an effort to get up. He didn't break eye contact.

I attempted to saunter over, and had cleared about half the distance when a mammoth of a man, balancing 4 overflowing pints of beer, nearly rammed into me. I stepped out of his way, just fast enough to hear him grumble, "watch it" under his breath. "You know you can buy glasses online now?," I loudly retorted back, a flare of rage eclipsing my trepidation. Ethan was making a poor attempt to stifle a snicker when I stormed over to him.

"You just couldn't make it less than 60 seconds without finding someone to yell at," he teased, slowly standing up, and letting his hands linger on my shoulders, before wrapping his arms around the small of my back in a hug. I gave myself permission to sneak an inhale under the crook of his arm - an intoxicatingly smokey mix of pine and spicy bergamot.

"How else would you know it was me?"

"There are a few other ways to find out," he replied with an easy matter-of-fact, his eyes betraying a devilish tinge.

He moved a motorcycle helmet off the stool next to him, and ushered for me to sit. Now that I inches away from his face, I felt the anger and anxiety dissolving into something else all together. A familiar spell with refreshed potency.

In his late 20s, Ethan Morales still looked clawable enough to excuse anyone from acting on impulse. A layer of stubble only enhanced his chiseled cheekbones and jawline, which ended with a single gold hoop that hung from his right earlobe.

The tattered Moleskine had been left open, a mosaic of pencil sketches and scribbled notes. My dating track record had been littered with loud, established men who balked and cowered when you held a mirror up to them. Ethan was well-versed in staring down his demons long enough to archive them.

An unfuckwithable-seeming bartender in her 50s came to take our order. "It's rare that Ethan brings in a guest," she remarked.

He faked an exaggerated boyish eye roll. "Sometimes I bend the rules, Ness. We'll get a Budweiser and..." He gestured in my direction, momentarily cupping my kneecap, to clarify that I was up.

"I'll have a double Jameson on ice."

His face darkened with a flicker of mischief. "Impressive."

"I couldn't return from the world's greatest colonial power without the souvenir of learning to drink like a conqueror," I sighed, silently thrilled to have gained some leverage.

"In that case, let's add two shots of tequila," he dared me, cocking an eyebrow.

"So, you're back in California for a story you're working on," he said, shrugging off his jacket. I tried to focus anywhere else to drown out the voice of an 18-year old Elenor who, in senior year, had carefully coordinated our table in the cafeteria to be in the eyeline of the "Hot Pocket." The goal was always the same. A glimpse. Of the precise moment when Ethan would remove his sweater, and reveal a generous patch of his toned abdomen adorned with a tattoo right above his waistline.

Almost on cue, his plain white t-shirt bunched up slightly over his broad chest as he stretched out of the sleeves. The inked calligraphy now had company, all of them accessories to the leather belt he had made from scratch. Reflexively, my cheeks went hot.

"I'm always taking customers for more leatherwork, if you're wondering," he grinned, clocking my gaze. Fuck. I rolled my eyes.

I squirmed on my street, straightening up. He knows exactly what he's doing. "My freedom of information request about a backdoor deal in Yuma with the EPA was just approved. They'd only let me see the records if I came in person."

Ness delivered the drinks to the table, and before I could reach for mine, he leaned in closer, his inner leg brushing against mine. "Sounds like you have your work cut out for you, Erin Brockovich. I guess I can't keep you out past your bedtime on a school night, then."

I handed him the other shot glass, our fingers grazing. "It depends on how long it takes for you to tell me something useful."