Chapter 14
There are flowers on my desk.
Big, floppy pink flowers spiraling out in a dozen directions, supported by bright-green leaves and baby’s breath. The room smells like I’ve walked into a Bath & Body Works.
It’s just before lunch, and I’m returning to my desk after dropping by Yossi’s office to talk about Charles Henry, the new acquisition I gained after Giselle’s departure to the first floor (where she still files her nails during work hours). The flowers weren’t here thirty minutes ago. And yet here they are now. Waiting patiently for me.
On Valentine’s Day.
I take a tentative step toward them while trying to manage my expectations. I have no boyfriend. My mother and father, for all their merits, are too busy handling a catering event at the nonprofit downtown today to send me a pity bouquet given my single status and my sister’s looming wedding date. So that leaves . . .
I dare not think it.
I just reach for the card.
I open the gold-sheen envelope and, with nearly shaking fingers, pull out the card. The message is typed beneath the header of Enchanted Florist, and reads: And tonight I’ll fall asleep with you in my heart.
I stare at the words.
So honest. So raw.
He’s just come out and said it. Taken the leap.
And I realize we’re jumping ahead to a new level in all this. The level where we’re openly putting aside the games and bravely asking the question: What do you think—not about scenes and characters and settings . . . but about us?
I feel my face flushing and wish with all my heart in this moment Lyla was here to talk this over with instead of taking the day off to work an event at the Dolly Parton–inspired rooftop bar for Valentine’s Day.
But as she’s not, I guess I’d have to say . . . yes.
I’m ready to take a step forward.
Although I chatted around and found out Sam and Giselle broke it off a couple of months ago, there is still risk involved. To openly accept a date with Sam again would be considered mutiny. Giselle might not be my boss anymore, but she is still scary.
Clever scary when she wants to be.
The worst kind.
The poisons-your-yogurt-in-the-community-kitchen worst kind.
I’m just sitting at my desk, spinning the card in my hand as I think through all the ways she could make my life anywhere from unpleasant to no longer existent, when a knock at the open door startles me.
I turn.
“Ferris. Hi,” I say, sweeping the card into a drawer and shutting it.
“Hello,” he says, smiling broadly. He steps inside as his eyes move over the flowers on my desk. “So . . . Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“You too,” I reply quickly, standing so that I’m in front of the flowers. I don’t know why, but I feel the need to conceal them from him, to get them out of the forefront of conversation as much as possible. For one thing, I have no desire to explain my mystery situation. For another . . . Why, exactly?
“Savannah. Ah.” Will halts in the doorway, a stack of papers in his hands. He pauses, gives Ferris a polite smile. “Hello again.”
“Hello.” Ferris gives a polite smile back.
There’s a pregnant pause, Ferris looking at Will, Will frowning slightly at Ferris. Me standing in front of the flowers that, for no valid reason, I feel compelled to hide.
At last, when it seems clear Will isn’t going to move, Ferris turns to me. “So, Savvy. I was just . . . going to see . . .”—his eyes momentarily dart to Will—“if you might be available for lunch.”
“Oh,” I say in surprise. “I thought you were going couch shopping with Olivia today.”
“Yes . . . Yes, I was . . . But she has to work. I was hoping you could help me instead.”
Couch shopping. Well, it’s not on the top of my list as far as fun Valentine’s Day activities go, but it would be a welcome substitute for my soggy chicken salad sandwich waiting for me in the breakroom.
I’m just opening my mouth when Will jumps in. “Actually, Savannah”—he says my full first name with a bit of emphasis—“I have to go down to the courthouse just now to get some paperwork notarized. I was hoping you’d come with me. Seeing as you are now the official spokesperson for the Pennington people.”
The smallest twitch of a smile lifts his cheeks as he speaks, and Ferris looks uncertainly from me to him. “Oh, official, is it?” I say. “I didn’t realize it had been approved.”
I turn to Ferris, realizing a bit belatedly that I’ve abandoned my post at the flowers and am shrugging on my coat. “Sorry, Ferris,” I say, though I don’t quite sound sorry at all. “I’m going to have to raincheck. But you know how Olivia is. Just make it as functional and gray as possible, and you’ve got yourself a winner.”
“Right. Sure.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, looking so startled and, quite frankly, rejected that for a moment I wonder if I should change plans. But to go on a car ride with Will . . . To talk over plans about ways to help the company with Will . . . Well, it’s too good of an opportunity to pass up. Not to mention, who knows what interesting things I’ll learn about him? He’s still somewhat of an office enigma. Jumping into our lives out of the blue. Jumping out just as quietly on his mysterious trips. Never revealing much of his personal life. Who knows what I’ll learn on a car ride with him?
Such as the little golden nugget I’m standing here learning five minutes later, for example.
That this is Will’s car.
I’m quite sure I never actually took the time to think of what exactly I expected he would drive, but I know for a fact I never would’ve come up with this.
Will pulls open the door of the old red Chevy for me. It gives a defiant creak.
“Thank you,” I say, taken aback not only by the formal manners but also by the truck in general. It looks like it’s from the eighties. There’s a sizable dent on the front right corner of the hood. And the beige cloth interior looks like it’s been stomped on about twenty thousand times. But aside from all the wear and tear, the cab interior is spotless, not a crumb or loose paper to be seen. It smells faintly of cedar and grease. It’s cozy, like one of those Alaskan cabins in the woods.
He shuts his door and turns the ignition.
“I gotta say,” I comment the second the engine starts to rumble. “I didn’t expect you to drive a car like this.”
“Thought I was more of a Lexus man, did you?” he says, sounding unsurprised.
“Well, yes. After all, look at you. You don’t exactly dress like a lumberjack.”
“My job doesn’t afford me the opportunity to dress like a lumberjack.” He grins and turns onto the main road. There’s a pause before he adds, “This truck was my father’s.”
There’s something in the way he says it. Was. Not is.
“I inherited it last year,” he continues.
Ah. And there it is.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, and feel it. Truly.
“Thank you.” Will nods, his eyes fixed on the road.
I know little of Ms. Pennington’s personal life except that she divorced her husband twenty years ago and has been alone ever since. I knew nothing about the man she had once been married to, just that she’d had one husband in the course of her life and one son—some bigshot named William who worked in the publishing industry in the big city.
“Anyway, he loved his truck. And was always practical about his needs. I like to think I will keep on learning that from him.”
I glance over to the dash. The RPM gauge on the left-hand side is covered by a Polaroid that looks thirty years old. A poorly exposed picture of an infant perched on a wooden high chair in front of a little round birthday cake, hands and cheeks covered in icing as his big blue eyes look into the camera. There’s a number on the cake, a baby-blue 1, and a man with a toothy grin has one arm draped over the boy as he stands on one side, a woman—no question, from the striking blue eyes, a younger Ms. Pennington—on the other.
“Was he very different from . . . your mom?” It feels awkward asking your boss about his personal life, especially in a truck like this. Maybe if I were riding along in some sleek, personality-less BMW I’d feel different. We’d chat mildly about sales numbers and the weather. But in this? Sitting on well-worn fabric with the scent of cedar and nostalgia all around? It feels impossible. It feels as personal and unavoidable as if I’ve walked into his own bedroom.
“In many ways, yes. In other ways, not really. Mom is . . . old-fashioned. She clings to the yesteryears like it’s her duty, regardless of the situation at hand. Dad was like that too. Had more old antique farm tools in his barn than he—or I, now—knew what to do with.”
“So where are they now?”
“At the moment? Still at the farm. Along with every other piece of junk I inherited.” He smiles lightly. “I have four coffeepots to choose from for the morning commute. Because clearly that’s what every person needs on his countertop.”
I pause. “So you’ve moved into his house? Full of his things?”
“For now, yes.”
I look out the window, surprised at his answer. Never in my life would I have imagined Will Pennington to be the kind of man who went from posh NYC living to some farmhouse out in the country. In fact, more than once on my downtown walks, I’ve looked up at some high-rise condo building full of glass windows and exposed brick and glittering chandeliers and wondered if it was his. I don’t know why, exactly. I just assumed.
“So, let me get this straight,” I say. “You don’t live in an apartment downtown.”
An amused question forms in his eyes as I ask, but he shakes his head.
“You don’t have some sort of waiter hanging out in the lobby ready to take your clothes to the dry cleaners.”
His grins slightly as he again shakes his head. “They’re concierges. And no.”
“Why did I think you would?” I say aloud, honestly a bit puzzled.
“Because you think I’m elitist, from the sound of it,” he says, stifling a chuckle as he makes a turn.
“No, because you came from the City,” I say, resolved. “In my mind, everyone who works in publishing in the City must be the most glamorous person alive. Eats sushi every night.”
“Well, we are a sushi-loving people,” he concedes.
“Goes to the newest posh jazz club to drink fifteen-dollar margaritas.”
“Oxford commas, actually,” he corrects. “And they’re more like twenty-three with tip.”
“See? Glamorous.”
We sit in silence at the light for a few moments, flurries dusting the windshield.
“Actually, I like the change. I love the City, but my heart was always here. Besides, Mom needed me.”
I raise a brow. “Your mother? But . . . didn’t they . . .”
He seems to have expected my follow-up question. “They broke things off years ago but then . . . never truly followed through.”
My incredulous brow rises farther. “You mean they . . . what? Had different houses but stayed together?”
Will shrugs. “I guess they just never really let go.”
I sit back in my seat, picturing it. The couple who were so different on paper—he with his multiplying coffeepots, she with her love of old books and dictator-like demand for obedience—unable to ever fully cross the other off the list. Unable to fully and truly take the other’s name off the electric bill. To blot them from their address book. And instead to find themselves in the evenings suddenly in the driveway of the other’s home.
It was sweet, in its own way. Sweet and sad.
Will takes another turn. “She doesn’t let on, but Dad’s death has been hard on her.”
I smile softly. So he’s also here for his mother. To be with her in her time of grieving. “I’m glad you can be there for her.”
“Me too.”
The light turns, and the cars start moving. Will hits the gas, and we continue to chug along.
“So,” I say, more to relieve us of the quiet than from actual interest in the conversation topic. “I believe you wanted to talk about ideas for the company.”
“Do you mind my asking, why was Ferris really here this morning?”
Ferris? What?
For a moment I’m too stunned to reply.
“To go couch shopping,” I say eventually, as though the answer is obvious.
“Yes, so he said. But did he state his actual reason for coming?”
I wrinkle my brow. I am intelligent enough to gather his insinuation, and I don’t like where the path of this conversation is leading. “He’s marrying my sister in four weeks. They want a couch for their new living room.”
There’s a long silence—so long, in fact, I spot the courthouse coming into view through the flurry-dappled windshield.
“Savannah. I’d like to ask you a few questions, not as your employer, but as . . .” He hesitates. “As your friend. You are welcome to say no, of course. But if you don’t mind indulging me for a moment, I’d appreciate it.”
He sounds so sincere, with such good intention, that I can’t help giving in.
“Of course you can,” I say. “Ask away.”
He jumps right in. “How long exactly did the two of you date?”
“About . . . eight years.”
He gives such a startled look, I amend with, “On and off. Sometimes off for years.”
“Are you serious? That man dated you for eight years. And now is engaged . . .” He looks like he can’t even bring himself to finish the sentence, so I do it for him.
“To my sister. Yes.”
“And how long did he date your sister before they got engaged?”
“Three months,” I reply, well aware of how this sounds. “Now engaged for nine.”
There is such a lengthy silence this time that I go ahead and cut to the chase. “I know how it must look from the outside, but they are in love,” I explain, repeating the mantra the family has said a thousand times.
“And he left you for her,” he says, his face taking on one of those terribly intimidating expressions he gives when he’s about to fire someone, “but comes back to ask you to go couch shopping for his future bride. Your sister.”
“I know how this sounds. But this is how my family works. We are loyal to each other to the end. It’s kind of our family mission statement.”
Will pulls into the last, lonely empty parking spot at the corner of the courthouse. He puts the gearshift in Park, hesitates for the blink of an eye, then turns to face me.
“And that’s where I wonder if I should correct you, Savannah. You may be loyal, but it doesn’t sound as if the rest of your family is loyal to you.”
He sounds so harsh, as if editing my life.
But despite his words, and the way he is frank in a manner that no one—not even Lyla—has ever been, I feel myself crack a little beneath them.
The strength and conviction in them. The unwavering support of my side. It’s been so long now that I’ve been trained to ignore those words and beliefs myself that I’ve forgotten the emotions are still there. The words bring up such a reaction that I know I must still be hurt, so very hurt, by all that’s happened. Not just the loss of Ferris. Perhaps not even the loss of Ferris at all. But the sense of loneliness. Betrayal. And the requirement to put on a brave face and repeat my rehearsed lines through it all.
Always.
I open my mouth to say my usual “You know how it goes. ‘The heart wants what it wants.’” But then I feel my breath stall. It’d be pointless anyway. He wouldn’t believe it.
“Well, I do harbor a secret hope it rains on their wedding day.” I say the words and then clap my hand over my mouth.
Will looks unsurprised. In fact, he smiles a little. “And the venue gets soaked?”
“Floods,” I continue with a smirk as I drop my hand. “Floods so hard that the guests can’t make it over the tiny, ornate bridge to the wedding venue. And every photograph is so foggy you can’t see the people. And all the curls fall from Olivia’s hair. And all those stupid, stupid flowers the family has talked about nonstop the past nine months get carried off into the wind.”
We grin at each other.
“But . . . ,” I say, sobering.
“Yes?”
“But the better part of me hopes that after all that misery they do get their private moment to say their I-do’s and go on to have a nice life together. I really do.”
His temple creases with a smile. “I know you do. For what it’s worth, you are a good sister and a remarkably thoughtful human being. You deserve the same kind of happiness you wish to bestow on them.”
I feel myself warm at his words, from the tips of my toes to the tips of my ears.
“Even so,” he adds, “I don’t think they’ll make it to the altar.”
My smile falls. “What?”
He levels his gaze. “Savannah. The man tries to take you couch shopping. He picks you up to go give blood. He brings you flowers on Valentine’s Day. Do you really think that is typical brother-in-law behavior?”
He opens his door, letting the conversation transition to a natural end, neither needing nor wanting a response. But he’s not right, I want to say as I sit there in the cab of the suddenly silent truck. Those flowers weren’t from him at all. They were from Sam. But then . . . I don’t want to share that fact either.
“That’s not fair,” I respond, throwing open my door, refusing to give up. “How do you know I don’t have a boyfriend?”
“Do you have a boyfriend?” he says from across the bed of the truck, although, in asking, he acts as though he already knows the answer is no.
What is this?
Do I look like a girl who just can’t have a boyfriend? Is there really something so obvious about me that would lead him to believe, Savannah Cade. Ah, yes. She never dates.
“Well, no,” I say a bit begrudgingly. I shut the door, and it slams with surprising force.
We walk in through the back side of the building and stop at the elevator halfway down the hall. The black-and-white tile floor looks scuffed from an endless flow of traffic, the old halls still carrying that ever-present scent of bleach water and bills. Is the courthouse always this crowded? A number of people I notice are stopping to read the map of the building along one wall, and we join a cluster of at least ten people beside the elevator.
“Anyway,” I say, tilting my chin upward as we squeeze in with the group and Will hits the button for the second floor, “I have a suggestion for staff meetings.”
“Yes?” he prompts, holding his binder of papers in front of him. Beside him, a handsy couple start going to town. My eyes widen, and I quickly avert my gaze.
But they’re not alone, I realize. A woman to my left grabs a bald man by his ruddy cheeks and pulls him in. What on earth is going on?
I can’t help it. I catch Will’s face, which looks as uncomfortable and surprised as my own, and let out a noiseless giggle.
The couple beside him change positions with their hands, and the woman’s elbow knocks into the back of Will’s head.
“So,” Will says, squeezing his arms as close to his chest as possible to avoid touching the couple. “Staff meetings.”
“Right,” I say, my eyes mirthful. “So. Everyone on salary”—I spot a roving elbow and dodge it before it rams my face—“needs to get Friday afternoons”—oh dear, the couple beside him has started slow dancing—“off in the summer.”
The number two lights up, and the doors open.
We spill into the hall.
Only this floor is just as crowded. Paper hearts are strung across the ceiling all the way down the hall. Music is playing through speakers. And there is a string of couples leading all the way to one particular door at the end of the hall.
Are those rose petals on the floor?
“As you were saying . . . ,” Will says, clearly trying to pretend he has not walked us into this madness.
“Yes,” I continue, moving aside to let a woman and the long white train of her wedding dress pass. “As I was saying . . . everybody else in the industry does it. We should too. Denying us the choice just makes us feel like a baby company clearly not up to par with the publishers in the big leagues. It’ll boost our self-respect.”
“And give everyone the chance to catch Friday matinees,” he counters, clearly unamused as he pushes a string heart from his face. When I just reply with a look, he adds, “I’ve never understood that industry norm. It’s just an excuse for New Yorkers to beat the traffic on their weekends out of town.”
“Well, whether the rule was made for vacationing in the Hamptons or not, we deserve it. We are just as qualified, just as hardworking, and after the year we’ve all had, I can’t think of a better proposition to lift everyone’s spirits.”
I can see he’s mulling it over.
“You don’t think productivity would be affected?”
I smile, sensing a victory ahead. “I guarantee it won’t.”
We take three more steps forward in line. Then another two, before he finally puts out a hand. “If—and that’s a big if—everyone can do the same load of work in four-and-a-half-day weeks, then I’ll agree to afternoons off from June 1 to the final week in August. But I’m going to monitor production, and I won’t hesitate to pull back if the company starts to suffer.”
I grab his hand and shake so swiftly it startles him. “Deal.”
A man separates momentarily from a rather firm squeeze his fiancée is giving him and points at our handshake. “See, Delilah? That’s all we need to do. Shake hands on it and be done.”
The woman, presumably Delilah, shakes her head from her perch by his side, her arms wrapped around him like a koala gripping its tree. “No, Danny. For the thousandth time, we make this official or I’m out. And taking the TV.”
Ah. True love.
I go over a few more items with Will, and while none of the others garner such quick agreement, I make fair headway regarding limited parking spots, the weird smell in the women’s bathroom, the illogical and potentially harmful nature of creating ARC spines that don’t reflect the same color and nature of the final product—particularly given that 95 percent of the time the books are spine out in the bookstores—and the thermostat that is perpetually five degrees too low.
Finally, after at least one dozen brides have left the county clerk’s office clinging to their newly betrothed—or, in one case, watching one woman stalk out alone, dumping her bouquet in the hall trash can as her would-be spouse chases after her—we arrive at room 206. At last.
“Should I . . . ?” I hesitate, feeling suddenly uncomfortable about going in. But between standing in the back of the room watching him get papers notarized and standing out in the marriage madhouse subjected to an incredible overexposure of public affection and tulle, my preference is written across my face.
“Sure,” he says, “This should just take a minute.”
So, together, we step inside.
It’s an unassuming office. A single window with dusty blinds slit open to reveal a row of windows on the back side of another building. But where there were scattered petal droppings in the hall outside, in here it looks like a florist exploded in the dead of night. Rose petals cover the walkway between the doorway and the man’s desk like a red sea. Bouquets of fake roses sit on every available table space. The clerk across from us wears a single carnation corsage on the front of his old beige button-up.
He registers us coming in and stands, not really looking at us directly but at the stack of papers on his desk. “Stand here, please.”
“Uh, right,” Will says and shuffles uncertainly forward, raising his papers. Being always the squeaky-clean kid I am, I follow without question. “So—”
“Hold your questions to the end.” The man clears his throat. Then with one bony finger he hits the Play button on an ancient cassette player on the table. Suddenly, an organ booms “The Wedding March” through the speaker.
I feel instant hysteria rising in my chest, sort of like acid reflux that sizzles against the rib cage. I press my lips tightly together as I glance over at Will. One look, however, only makes it worse. His usual cool persona has instantly collapsed, and his neck above his trim-fitting suit coat looks like it’s been out in the sun for twelve hours without sunscreen. In Bermuda.
“Dearly beloved,” the clerk says, reading from a paper on his desk, “at this time of”—he checks his watch—“1:14 p.m. on Tuesday, February 14, 2021, we are pleased to gather this fine gentleman . . .” He raises his eyes and gives Will a meaningful look.
“Uh, William Pennington, but I think we have a misunderstanding. This is the clerk’s office, yes?”
“That’s correct. To gather this gentleman, William Pennington, with this young lady . . .” He pauses and this time turns to look at me properly for the first time.
By this time I’ve got two bright spots on my cheeks.
I’m just opening my mouth, my mind undecided on whether to give my name and let the ruse go on a little longer, when Will throws an arm out. “Sir, I’m here to get these notarized.”
“We will notarize your marriage certificate at the end. Please, if you haven’t noticed, there are quite a few couples we have to get through. So if you don’t mind to just follow my directions—”
“We are not here to get married!” Will booms. And as though he needs to emphasize the point, he takes a gigantic step away from me.
At this point I can’t help but throw my hands over my lips to keep from going into hysterics over the entire situation. The clerk swivels his gaze to me and, clearly misunderstanding my posture as being on the cusp of collapsing into tears, swallows hard.
He blinks, and his expression shifts to one of compassion.
He clears his throat. Opens a drawer and pulls out a pamphlet. “Actually, we have a room today for these little ‘moments.’ If you could just go down to 212, you’ll find a safe space to talk it over, and then”—he slants a meaningful look at me—“depending on how things go, you may get back in line if you wish. We recommend perusing this packet as well,” he adds, pushing it into my hands. I look down to an enormous stock photo of a ticking clock, with the words above: WHY WAIT?
Pressing my lips very, very hard together so as not to disrespect him by laughing at his kind offer, I pull my face into the most respectably peaceful expression I can manage and nod in gratitude.
“I’ll just wait in the hall,” I manage to all but whisper, my chest starting to burn with pent-up laughter.
Which I let out the second I shut the door and am back in the hall.
And for another several minutes I stand there outside the door, amid the lovestruck horde, grinning as I replay Will’s face in my mind. At last, Will opens the door, papers in hand.
The moment he does, his blue eyes lock on mine.
And we start to laugh.
Couples all around us break from their little romantic holds on one another to eye us curiously, a few even giving a hearty clap.
“I can’t . . . even . . . ,” Will begins after our laughter settles into mutual grins. He shakes his head. “I don’t even know what to say. I just . . . apologize. I’m so sorry for that.”
“For what?” I say, grinning deeper to impress upon him how unoffended I am. “Lesson learned: Never visit the courthouse on Valentine’s Day. Ever.”
“Unless one wants to get married.”
“Naturally.”
He smiles at me as though grateful I’m not making this into a situation. In the distance a bell dings, and he glances down the hallway as the elevator opens and more couples spill out. He looks back down at me. “What do you say we go out the front? Avoid any more elevator situations?”
“Good idea,” I say, then watch him from the corner of my eye. “So . . . just to be clear before we move on, I’d like to raise the point that you took a Titanic-size step away from me in hopes of disassociating yourself back there. Now, an objection? Sure. A tiny step to make your point? Fair. But really, was that giant leap necessary? I didn’t think I was that awful of an option as far as clerk-office weddings go.”
“Not you,” Will responds as he glances at a couple passing us, of whom the woman seems to believe wedding dresses should be made entirely of black leather. “Just chalk it up to a particularly bad experience.”
“What—did you accidentally get married in Vegas?”
“Make it a priest at a Presbyterian church and very nearly.”
I nod. “Ah. So you have a little wedding-altar PTSD. Interesting.”
“She was just the wrong decision at the right time.”
I raise my brow but don’t press as we move down one flight of stairs, taking us to the front doors. Already I feel I have walked into a treasure trove of information I hadn’t been expecting. It feels imprudent to ask for any more. “Well, I’ll take care not to tease you any more with the sight of tulle.”
“Or doves,” he adds, smiling as he pushes open one of the double doors. “I struggle with the sight of doves.”
“Fine. And doves,” I say. “Although, is this an issue of just doves or birds altogether, because I imagine it would be quite difficult to walk around . . .”
My words trail off as we step onto the top of the wide concrete steps descending from the front of the old building. The clouds have at last joined together and decided to collectively dump all the precipitation they have in one grand and glorious event. The wind has stilled for the event, leaving the thickest, clumpiest flurries I have ever seen to dive toward the ground. Covering lampposts. And bicycle stands. And blanketing the ground as far as the eye can see.
I grin and raise my chin toward the sky, because truly, in a moment like this you can’t not grin.
Thick snowflakes grip my lashes and dot my face as I look back down. And when I open my eyes, blinking furiously and wiping my eyes, I see Will’s face. He’s not looking up at the sky. Nor is he looking at the snow-covered ground. He’s looking . . . at the people.
The curious . . . people.
Down the center of the stairs just below us, there is a tunnel with a mass of people on either side. Several are shaking poster boards with hearts on them. Others are throwing rice at a couple—who are clasping hands and running through. Everyone cheers.
As the couple ahead of us reach the concrete sidewalk, the mass turns their expectant, jubilant faces on us.
Will pauses. Looks at the notarized paper that, I now realize, looks very much like a marriage certificate.
Then at me.
His blue eyes hold a mirthful question.
In response, I smile. “Well, at least there are no doves.”
And without waiting a second longer, he clasps my hand and lifts his paper victoriously into the air. As we descend the steps, someone who clearly loves love shakes her poster with a high-pitched whoop. Rice pelts our faces alongside flurries, so much I wince and close my eyes half the time.
It’s euphoric.
And I can’t help noticing, despite the chaos all around, Will’s hand as it clasps mine.
Suddenly, it makes sense, the toughness of his hand. Suddenly, I can imagine him in that old yellowed-linoleum kitchen, reaching for one of his four coffeepots each morning. Looking out at the snow in his childhood backyard. Musing about his hardworking father, perhaps with some regrets, perhaps with some fond memories, about life and death and their interwoven path. About mistakes, bad and good, that lead us onward.
He holds my hand all the way until we reach the sidewalk, and at last, after we pass a building and move out of view, he lets go.
He exhales. Grins down at me.
“They were just so hopeful,” he says apologetically.
“Agreed,” I reply, smiling up at him. “We couldn’t let them down.”
He’s quite close to me just now, I realize. Several inches closer than the amount of space the average conversational situation calls for. Close enough that I faintly smell the cedar and grease coming off his person, not just his truck.
My hand feels instantly cold without his, and I long for the warmth and companionship of his grip to return.
There’s something in his eyes as the flakes fall between us. A faint question. A thought bubble hovering over his head. But whatever it is about, it doesn’t pop and he doesn’t speak.
Instead, he grins again and shifts on his heel toward the parking lot.
Meanwhile I, trying very hard to ignore the disappointment, stuff my hand in my coat.
And as the dust of the previous thirty minutes settles, we walk along the snow-covered sidewalk, stamping footprints onto the freshly laid path. Both quiet. I mean, what does one say after pretending to marry her boss?
At the truck, he opens the squeaky, creaking door for me, and for a moment I can’t help wishing he is the man behind the manuscript. That he is the one I’m too sucked into now to even entertain anyone else. I like Will.
I may as well admit it openly, even if it’s just to myself.
But I can’t deny that the real person I spend my days and nights thinking of, the one whose conversations constantly run through my head, the one who’s gotten to know me from the inside out, who has supported me, criticized me, fought to understand me, heard my stories—good and bad—and given his own in return, who is the one I wake up every morning excited to talk to and go to bed every night wishing for more from, is my mystery man. And nothing, not even clasping my hand and running through a tunnel of love-addicted fans, can change that.
It’s time to face my editor.