Free Holding Out for a Hero by Stacey Joy Netzel

As I waited for my Chai tea, I scrutinized the books on the rack near the register of my favorite coffee shop to curb my growing impatience over the slow service. I didn’t want to ruin my current thirty-nine day on-time-to-work streak. One title in particular caught my eye.
    The Trouble with Heroes.
    There’s trouble with heroes? Oh, Lord, whatever shall we do? I grinned at my silent theatrics and flipped the book over to read the back cover. Sure, titles catch my eye—as evidenced by the book in my hand—and I love a beautiful cover as much as the next addict, but the voice on the back ultimately determined whether or not I spent my hard-earned money.
    This voice intrigued my imagination with a collection of short stories about some of the most fabled heroes of all: Prince Charming, King Arthur, Sir Lancelot, Perseus, Robin Hood—
    Sold!
    I didn’t have to read any further. I loved Robin Hood—especially when I pictured Kevin Costner on the big screen saying, “I’d die for you.” Now there’s a hero to make my heart melt every time.
    The teller finally slid my tea across the counter, so I passed her enough money to cover the book, too. I had to know what’s wrong with my precious Robin Hood; Kevin’s morphing accent notwithstanding. On the way out the door, I slipped the anthology into my carry-all bag for my lunch break in the park and hurried off to work, only seven blocks down from my Manhattan apartment building on West Fourteenth Street.
    There are days I still can’t believe how incredibly lucky I am to—
    A jolt to my shoulder blade sent my cup and bag flying. Steaming Chai splattered across the sidewalk as the man who barged into me cut off a fellow New Yorker and jumped into her taxi. No “Sorry,” no “Excuse me,” ; nothing.
    “Hey!” I yelled after the taxi. “I have a day here, too!”
    I glared at the departing taillights, annoyed with the guy’s absolute disrespect on such a beautiful, promising, sunshine-bathed, spring morning. For a little background, my day started with no hot water and no Super in my apartment building to fix the problem. But after leaving a message for David (my landlord), I had talked myself into remaining optimistic. Hence the forced, cheerful description of what was truthfully a blinding, chilly start to this stupid day.
    That’s right, optimism be darned. And the jerk who’d made it a certainty I’d be late for work. He didn’t have to face Mr. Walker—my wonderful boss. (Side note: sarcasm is not to be confused with optimism.)
    I silently wished for a traffic jam so the guy missed whatever he was rushing to. That’d serve him right. With my jaw clenched tight, I began to gather up the scattered, now damp, contents of my bag. I rescued my peanut butter and jelly sandwich seconds before a humongous boot ground it to mush. Whew. As I reached again, for my new book about troublesome heroes, another hand beat me to it.
    I didn’t relish being one second later than I had to be, so I didn’t bother to look up as he lifted the dripping paperback. Yes, he , I could tell by the large, slightly tanned, distinctly male hand. In fact, through the mass of my unruly red hair that had fallen forward to obscure most of my vision, I vaguely saw him wipe the cover of my book on his suit coat.
    “Let me apologize for my crazed brother,” he said. “His wife is on the way to the hospital—her water broke.”
    Smooth and rich like my favorite German chocolate cake, the man’s voice was well-modulated without sounding arrogant. Hey, gimme a break, I’m a voracious-reader-wanna-be-writer-amateur-baker; I liked to think yummy. And okay, fine , I’ll take back the wish for the traffic jam. The poor woman in labor didn’t deserve to go through that alone just because her husband lacks basic consideration for others.
    With everything crammed back in my bag, Mr. Apology and I straightened at the same time. I shook my curls back over my shoulder and gave him a quick glance