Chapter 17
I’d like to take you to dinner.
That’s it. He’s thinking dinner. I exhale as I read the neatly written words on the bottom of the page, my head still prickling. Of course he wasn’t thinking kiss-in-a-dark-room-for-educational-purposes.
That was an absurd notion, Savannah.
Insane.
He’s thinking dinner. Dinner at a nice restaurant where we finally meet face-to-face and discuss scenes for publishing purposes. Like reasonable adults.
But as I flip the page, I see he has written something else.
To clarify, a date. I’d like to take you on a date.
My heart skyrockets for about three seconds, and for a solid minute I don’t move. He wants to take me on a date. A first date. Like one of those dates we’ve discussed all along the margins in reference to other people and other situations. Except this time, it’s me. He doesn’t want to take some girl named Chelsea to the Catbird Seat to talk about how her gluten-free lifestyle changed her life. He wants to talk to me. Romantically. Because he’d like to date me.
I feel elated, as though I’m floating.
And yet . . . the end has come. The magic of this little room . . . about to end. He’s ready to leave the tree house full of songs and games and embark on the real thing. He’s moved to the ground and is beckoning me to come down at last.
I feel a little as though Peter Pan has grown up, and I’m not quite ready.
But we’re partners in this. And the game can’t go on when one half of the team decides to quit. I scribble, Would love to. When?
And from there, the conversation bounces back and forth throughout the afternoon.
Tonight. 7 pm.
I can’t at 7 pm. I have a fundraising banquet at 5. How about 8 . . . 30? 8:30?
Deal. See you at 8:30. Meet here?
Perfect.
So. I’m meeting my mystery man for a dinner date.
Sam. I’m meeting Sam for a date.
The thought surrounds me as I walk down the hall toward a meeting, emotions filling me to the brim.
It’s not really so much the I’m-meeting-my-mystery-man-for-a-dinner-date part that’s troubling. I long to meet this man. He’s become a part of my thoughts every waking (and sometimes sleeping) hour of the day. He is brilliant. Witty. Blunt, yes, but in a way I’ve come to respect. And more than anything, someone I’ve come to wish was my companion everywhere.
Everywhere I go, everything I do, I find myself wishing he was here.
Watching Olivia and Ferris that night they tried to simultaneously jog in place while making soup while sealing invitations to their wedding. Oh, he’d think it was hilarious.
Sitting at the Tin Can with Lyla and watching the live band in the corner. Didn’t that guitar player look just like Brad Paisley? It was uncanny.
Standing in the courthouse hallway, seeing the loads of brides and grooms in line.
Well, actually, I didn’t think about him then. Not that afternoon.
But other than that, the other 95 percent of the time, my editor is perpetually in my thoughts.
The only slight problem is that I have a hard time connecting the intellectual, witty, companionable editor who so deliciously keeps me on my toes with . . . Sam. Sam, whose hobbies include being on the board of trustees at the YMCA and Rotary International. Sam, who took a week’s vacation last year to go to Branson, Missouri.
Branson, Missouri.
So, for the most part, I don’t.
I just pretend they are two completely separate entities.
But now? Now . . . I’ll have to face the facts. The fact that he is actually an incredibly fascinating human being who also happens to enjoy Funny Farm Dinner Feud shows. And talks for long periods of time about QuickBooks.
I’m the first in the room for a titling meeting—quite early, in fact—and catching a glimpse of my watch, I dump my stack of papers and computer on the table and start pacing. I’m only at 3600 for the day, pitifully low, and I’d try to make up for some of it after work on the way home except that the fundraising banquet is tonight. I drove so I could leave straight from work, dash home to throw on a two-sizes-too-small “warrior blue” dress after all, and fight traffic all the way downtown for the banquet. And if last year is a signifier of what’s to come, I’ll want to get in all the steps I can now so Olivia doesn’t pull me forward to be her “living example” again of how “we may feel like all hope is lost, but the truth is we just need to surround ourselves with positive influences who can motivate us toward becoming our better selves” (aka her).
My pace quickens and the length of my steps shortens until I look like a waddling penguin in a hurry.
There’s a shuffling noise, and I look over to see Sam just stepping through the doorway.
He halts.
Then looks like he’s walked in on me naked.
“Sam,” I say, halting immediately as my embarrassment grows. “Sorry . . . I’m in the middle of a step-a-thon race and . . . well . . .” I trail off awkwardly, realizing I don’t know how to finish my sentence.
Or paragraph.
Or conversation as a whole.
This is the first time we’ve really been face-to-face, alone.
We have been avoiding each other the past few weeks. I suppose he feels just like me, more willing to open up on paper than when someone else is looking straight into your eyes. After all, it’s so easy to be honest on paper, like when—
My face blanches as I remember, looking into his eyes.
Like when I admitted to that little toe-fungus issue I had not so long ago. How at the time, I was defending the character’s bath caddy and shower shoes in the gym and finished with the words, And that’s why you always use shoes in the shower. You never know what germs may be lurking about.
To which he had responded: I meant the whole unnecessary scene. Much as I appreciate a lesson in personal hygiene, the scene itself is the problem. She runs into him at the gym. We don’t need to know that afterward she showers while giving herself a lecture about athlete’s foot.
Oh, how embarrassing.
I mean, I know I shared these things, but I assumed I would just meet him and feel all risen above it, like I would just shrug and laugh a bit and feel like all of those awkward little secrets and personal stories would just bring us closer. Now, looking into his darting eyes, I know.
They didn’t.
“Good for you,” he says, raising a jerky hand to wave my comment off. He’s still standing in the doorway. “I was just speaking with Nanette about the issue of limited mobility during work hours. I’d love to find a solution that would encourage movement.”
Speaking of moving, I notice he still hasn’t.
And then I notice something else, and my eyes flicker down to the bundle of items in his arms.
Two coffee mugs. Forest-green ones, with gold cursive writing across them saying . . . I squint, but his arms shift and the font is suddenly concealed. Coffee mugs, plus a bag of espresso, and . . . are his eyes darting toward the community-shared syrups in the back of the room?
Is he planning to steal the community syrups?
“Anyway,” he continues, catching my eyes and then twisting his wrist to see his watch. “I just realized I’ve forgotten something. You—carry on,” he says, then gives me a stiff smile.
“Thanks. I . . . will. And . . . I’ll see you later?” I venture, dipping a toe into the waters of honesty.
He nods vigorously. Immediately. So quickly I couldn’t even finish my sentence. “Absolutely. And good luck with those steps.”
“Thanks.” But I’m talking to an empty room, because he’s already gone.
* * *
Our secret room has gained a coffee machine.
I smell the coffee beans the second I step into the space.
Hot, brewing coffee gurgling in a small two-person coffeepot in the corner on top of a stack of books. And two forest-green coffee mugs set neatly on the floor beside it. The words clear now in the glow of the string lights.
You Light says the first in flowering gold script.
Up My Life finishes the second.
A little coffee station. With no syrup, I can’t help noting with a smile.
I step over to the mugs and pick one up, turning it in my hand. Hanging illustratively on the words are string lights.
Well, it’s a little cliché, but despite it, I can’t helping feeling a little glow inside myself.
Sam may not be the best face-to-face, but he is truly one of a kind. I’ve never felt so pursued.
This . . . all of this . . . I’ve never been involved in anything so romantic.
I take the coffeepot and pour myself some despite the fact that I’m more of a coffee-and-cream girl and despite the fact that it’s five o’clock and I need to leave.
And, wanting to take a little of the moment with me, and to make a symbolic step forward for us, I clasp the mug firmly in my hand as I go.
Taking the mug with me.
Into the world.
It tastes a bit bitter, I think, but I swallow a huge mouthful anyway as I follow the deep, swirling staircase of the old mansion down and meet Lyla in the foyer.
The entryway is crowded, a bustling group buttoning coats and wrapping scarves around necks, trying to leave for the day, and as I slip my coat over one arm, I see Sam making his way down the stairs.
From across the room I catch his eye and, in a moment of bravery, raise my mug to him. To tonight, I think in my head and take another acidic sip.
His eyes bulge. Actually bulge.
His foot falters on the last step, and he stumbles forward until crashing squarely into the back of Will.
I stifle a laugh, undeterred now by how different the man in front of me acts from the real Sam I know beneath. I am determined now to see this out, one way or another. And I will raise my mug, and expectations, to the long-awaited meeting ahead. Nothing can stop me. Nothing can deter me from this determined feeling of elation at meeting at long last. Nothing.
For better or worse, to tonight.