Josh: “Of course, you can’t do better than Leo Burnett for advertising. I interviewed in New York, but found more innovative work coming out of Chicago.”
Sam: “Tell me about it. What are you working on?”
And off he went. I didn’t manipulate him, I promise. I genuinely loved hearing about his life and work. I learned he is the youngest of three boys, grew up in Cincinnati, graduated from the Miami University of Ohio before Kellogg, likes to play basketball and run, only reads magazines, and doesn’t like milk. See, lots of stuff.
And he has the neatest hands. He uses them when he talks, and I like the way they move. Is that weird? There must be something about hands from my childhood. I notice them—best not dig too deep into that one.
This is what I told Ashley and Debbie this morning: “We had a nice time. I hope he calls, but I gather he’s really busy.” I was ready to share all the silly details, but it was too mundane and normal for them. They didn’t ask for more.
Only Debbie replied, “Don’t worry, you’re too cute for him not to call. Let’s go grab a coffee.”
So we went for lattés and discussed finals. Back to the real world. Oh, by the way . . . I got a real kiss too.
Sam
P.S. Okay, that was unfair. So while it’s very tacky to “kiss and tell,” I’ll share some of the scene. Granted, thirteen-year-olds probably do this, but you’ll have to cut me some slack. I’d like to relive that moment too, and who am I going to tell, Isabella?
I had almost gotten sick as Debbie and Ashley raced around my living room cleaning while I dressed. They believed I would “invite him up” after our date. That hadn’t occurred to me, but it worried me throughout dinner. And as we turned into the Conleys’ driveway, my stomach dropped and my skin grew clammy. Panic is not just an emotion. It’s a very physical phenomenon. The butterflies fled my gut—crickets overtook them.
Josh parked right in front of the garage, and his previously quiet Lexus Hybrid sounded louder than a jet engine. Everyone could hear. Everyone knew what was about to happen—everyone but me.Does he open my door? Does he walk me up? Does he expect to come in? Do I kiss him? Does he kiss me? Enough!
“I had a wonderful time tonight, Josh. Thank you very much.” I reached for the door handle.
“Me too. I’d like to do this again.”
“Sure. Give me a call.”
“Sam?” He gently pulled my arm, turning me back and slightly across the center console. Before I had time to think, he kissed me. Not quick, but slow and soft. First it was a question, then he seemed to find an answer and he deepened it. I’ve heard all sorts of things about a kiss (melting, fireworks, music), but no one ever told me it’s a conversation: asking, accepting, deciding, inviting, giving . . . Questions posed and answered. After a few moments, my head spun and the car felt steamy. I pulled away to catch my breath.
“Shall I come up?” He brushed my hair back, and I couldn’t help but lean into his hand. His eyes seemed black in the dark car as they rested on my lips.
“I don’t think so. I don’t want Mrs. Conley to see your car here too late. Another night?”
“Do you care what they think? Are you related?”
“No, but they have four kids. They’re a nice family. You’d like them.” I reached for the handle and climbed out. I got halfway up the stairs when he called out the window.
“Sam, I’ve got meetings for the next few nights. Can I see you Friday?”
“I’d like that.”
“Great. I’ll call you.” He waited for a moment, then backed out as I entered my apartment.
So that was it. I once heard a wonderful line in a movie that the first kiss is not the one you judge. Instead all the meaning is in the second . . .
NOVEMBER 20
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’ve got even more exciting news than my last letter. But before I get to it, I need to tell you about school. I feel I haven’t been completely honest by avoiding the topic. Clearly I’m still here, but my last several Johnson assignments received Ds. I know that’s not great, but—
Who am I kidding? It’s horrible. I’ve never gotten grades like this. I’ve never seen so many red markings. It’s pathetic. I keep trying, though, and I submitted an article to theTribune. Publication can’t help but impress Johnson, right? I figure he’ll commend my drive, if not my writing. So you see, I have a plan and I’m still kicking . . .
Now on to the fun: I met Alex Powell today.TheAlex Powell! I’m sure you’ve read his books. They’ve all topped the best-seller lists and rightfully so. You should read them if you haven’t. Anyway, one of Ashley’s professors announced yesterday that he was coming to her class this morning, so Ash snuck me in the back.
Mr. Powell was such a surprise. At first I thought he was the TA. The guy looks about twenty. He talked for half an hour, then answered questions on his writing methodology, research, and favorite authors. He then thanked Professor Thomas and walked out. The whole class was in chaos, so I slipped out too. And banged right into him.
“Whoa. Isn’t there more to the class period?”
