Free Impossible Odds by Jessica Buchanan, Erik Landemalm, Anthony Flacco Page A

limit to how much responsibility you can take for somebody else’s bad date.
    That’s when I looked across the room and noticed a very nice-looking guy about my age casually leaning against the wall and thumb-typing a text. He was clean-cut, short hair almost military style, strong looking, and he didn’t seem to be there with anyone. I caught his eye and made a little come-hither gesture, inviting him to dance.
    He just gave this awkward little laugh and went back to his texting. Okay, I thought, if he’s going to laugh off an invitation like that, he better be married or gay.
    I could see his left hand, and there was no wedding ring. Okay, he better be gay.
    I don’t normally go after men in public and wouldn’t have been so playful and bold if boredom hadn’t gotten the best of me. So I stared at him until he looked up again. This time I used my whole arm to make a large “come here” gesture I knew he couldn’t miss.
    He paused a moment, then gave me a modest little smile and headed my way to inform me either that (a) he was gay, so quit it already, or (b) his girlfriend was in the restroom and again, quit it already.
    He stepped up and introduced himself, but the music was so loud I could barely hear him. “Hi, I’m Orik.”
    “What?”
    “I’m Orik.”
    “Orik?”
    “No, Orik.”
    “Okay, Orik. I need relief from these grabby drunk guys. You want to dance?”
    “What?”
    “Dance?” I waved my arms and wiggled to the music.
    “Oh, dance. Okay.” He smiled but didn’t exactly look thrilled. It made me wonder if I just wasn’t his type.
    We got into dancing without trying to engage in more conversation. I jumped right in, working my whole body to the rhythm, but I noticed this guy Orik just sort of rocked to the beat without really letting loose. We weren’t out there for very long when it struck me that I might have misunderstood his lack of enthusiasm for getting on the dance floor. He wasn’t what anyone would call a gifted mover.
    Pretty soon I just pulled him off the floor, and we found a table far enough from the noise that we could sit and talk. Ten minutes of conversation, I told myself. Maybe fifteen, tops. Then I will go grab Jen and Evan and tell the failed lovebirds their party’s over. We made some idle chat for a while and established the essentials. Orik was from Sweden and spoke fluent English with just a mild Swedish accent.
    My friends still weren’t in sight, but suddenly that didn’t seem like such a bad thing. Orik was attractive, charming, well built, and sober. He was attentive in getting us set up at the table and making me comfortable. He was charming to our waitress but not flirtatious. Wow, I thought, he just transformed from a dud on the dance floor to a knight in shining armor, all by force of his personality.
    I tried to recall anything I could about Sweden, to help drive the conversation. It was embarrassing to realize I had studied Africa all my life and practically ignored Europe. Fortunately, Orik didn’t seem interested in giving me a pop quiz on all things Swedish. Instead he sketched a picture of himself and his life: dealingwith legal issues for an international NGO, traveling the region to promote human rights and democracy. Even in those early moments it was clear that he spoke with passion and commitment about his dedication to his work, his purpose for being in Africa.
    “You like to travel?” Orik asked. “I just got back from a week of meetings down in Zambia. While we were there I got to take time to visit Victoria Falls. What an amazing place!”
    Uh-oh  . . . Victoria Falls is one of the status locations for big-time vacationers. It seemed as if Orik might push things too far and start bragging. I’ve never found a blowhard attractive. The expat community attracts some very individual personalities, and some of them are all too eager to let everybody know how unique they are. But those types didn’t seem strong to me, just loud.
    On the