I sat silent. The article told him everything, and that was easier than talking. And this way, his eyes were looking down, focused on the pages. There are first moments when the eyes tell one’s real emotions, before the brain reminds them to bank and hide. Finally he looked up.
“Everyone reads theTrib, Sam. All Chicago will read this—all your friends, my friends, my co-workers. You should’ve given me a heads-up.”
I stared at him.
“Don’t give me that, Sam. You hand me this paper and expect me to be happy for you. I need time to digest this. And, by the way, Valentine’s Day was supposed to be fun.”
“I wanted to tell you the truth.”
“You did that.” He shook his head. We stared at each other. It was hard, but I refused to be the first to look away. He shifted his eyes and relented—a touch. “This my copy?”
I nodded, completely deflated.
“Sam, listen.” Josh reached over and lifted my chin. “I’m sorry. You’ve really caught me off guard. I’ll take this and read it again. Let’s enjoy tonight, okay?”
We made inane chatter and ate our dessert. He was mildly affectionate the rest of the evening, but distracted. I felt like he was going through the motions of being a boyfriend without feeling them.
He didn’t ask me to stay. He waited while I hailed a cab, and when it arrived he put his hands on both sides of my face and kissed me, long and slow. Kisses have meanings, I have learned: some are light and playful, others search, and others promise . . . This one? I pondered it and came to no decision—decidedly undetermined.
I feel the same way,
Sam
MARCH 5
Dear Mr. Knightley,
TheTribuneinterview was ten days ago. I didn’t write you because I didn’t know what to say. I do now; but I’ll keep this in order.
I met with Susan Ellis and Kevin McDermott downtown at the Tribune Tower. It was very exciting, which never works in my favor. I got nervous. I didn’t fall on my face, but I certainly didn’t blow them away. It was a mediocre interview—because, let’s face it, I’m mediocre. And while I worked hard not to retreat into well-worn fictional friends, making myself appear stellar was beyond my reach.
A few days after the interview, my article came out. The timing was good for me; this way, I entered the interview with a shot at a good first impression. The other way around? Game over.
I’m enclosing a copy for you. Can you believe the layout? No one told me it’d be a four-page spread, complete with pictures, bold type, inserts, the works. I almost regret sending them some of the photos. I assumed they wanted them for context, not content.
Kyle called, and I burst into tears when I heard his voice.
“We did it, Sam. We’re in print! Did you see my picture? We look great.”
“We sure do, Kyle.” And as soon as we hung up, there was a knock on my door. Mrs. Conley stood there with the paper in her hand.
“Sam, is this you?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Conley. I wanted to tell you. I hope you don’t think I’m a bad influence—” I couldn’t breathe.
“Stop, Sam. This doesn’t matter to us. Though it does explain a few things.” She smiled.
“It does?”
“My children fascinated you. The way you watched them, watched all of us. I felt like we were in a petri dish. And the way you talked.”
“Yeah, you probably met a lot of sides of me.”
“I only wish you’d told us. I’m sorry if we made you uncomfortable.”
“Please don’t say that.” My issues are not her responsibility.
My cell rang and startled us both. She quickly added, “I don’t want to keep you, but I want you to tell the kids. I won’t show them the article. How about dinner this week?”
