Sincerely,
Laura
NOVEMBER 16
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Thank you for allowing Laura to write to me. I can’t tell you how much her letter helped. Will you please thank her?
On to life here . . . I feel I’ve been looking over my shoulder so much lately, I haven’t moved forward. Well, last night I moved forward—full speed ahead.
How, you ask? I had a date. Twenty-three years old, and it finally happened. You’re the only one who knows that little detail, so please keep it to yourself. I’m a full decade behind the curve. But no longer—and I figure if you’ve been on one date, you can make it a verb. “I date” or “I’m dating.” I love verbs!
You need the whole story. Well, I need to tell the whole story, and telling Debbie and Ashley was awful because I had to act so blasé. Dates happen to them all the time: Ashley went out with four different guys last month alone, and Debbie has a boyfriend in Minneapolis. So I pretended last night was no big deal. But you? You get all the details—so I can relive them.
It started a couple weeks ago, when Ashley, Debbie, and I went to a Kellogg Halloween party. Kellogg is the business school at Northwestern, and those folks host the best parties. Anyway, we each dressed in black with sunglasses and walking sticks. Get it? We were the Three Blind Mice and a huge hit. The party was down on Davis Street and spanned three floors of an old walk-up apartment building. It was warm and noisy—everyone trying to make first impressions, second impressions, any impressions. Me, I was trying to sneak home to a good book and hot cocoa. There were simply too many people. I was almost out the door of the top floor’s apartment when he stepped in front of me.
“Are you trying to get a drink?” He was not much taller than me, stocky with black hair and equally dark eyes.
“Trying to make a getaway,” I shouted.
He touched my shoulder to corral me toward the hallway stairs, where the music wasn’t blaring. “How can I convince you to stay?”
That melted me a little. I thought about saying,What do you have in mind?but even thinking such a flirty reply made me blush.
“Tell me who you are,” I replied. He was dressed like a pirate.
“I’m Captain Jack Sparrow. Can’t you tell?”
“I thought Black Beard.”
“Really I’m Josh Duncan. I graduated last year, but I still hang with these guys. Are you at Kellogg?” Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio pushed him closer to me. He smelled like pretzels.
“No, I’m in Medill’s journalism program. I’m Sam.”
“Undergrad or grad?”
“Grad. Do I look that young?”
“You look great.” I melted a bit more and my heart started fluttering. Josh looked pleased, and all my thoughts of escape fled.
After a few minutes, he took both my hands. “Sam, I want to get us some drinks, but you have to promise not to leave. I’m placing your hands on this banister. Don’t go downstairs. Don’t move at all until I get back.”
“I promise.” So there I stood, with my hands on the banister, until Debbie found me.
“I’ve been watching. You need to flirt more.”
“I was flirting.”
“That’s you flirting?”
How do I answer that?
“He’s gone to get me a drink. He told me to wait here.”
“Oh . . . Sam. He’s so cute. Can I have one?” Ashley joined us.
“She’s not flirting enough.” Debbie turned to her, dismayed by my performance.
