“Thanks,” he says then takes a long gulp. The man doesn’t like talking about sex. Maybe he should addthatto the spreadsheet.
The slight guilt I feel at embarrassing him is nothing compared to the glee of making him lose his composure. “Better?” I ask.
“Much better.” Setting the glass down, he typesDOBin the left-hand column.
This is going to take forever, and we’ll never even scratch the surface. “I have an idea.”
“No shit,” he says as he fills in his answer.
Birthday in September.I should be counting the days until I’m free of this “project,” but instead I find myself picturing a large get-together at Lilyvale, with a birthday cake to replace the wedding cake, the smell of a barbecue, the ringing laughter of people spilling from the patio to the porch to the river to the rose garden, a bonfire and marshmallows after sunset, fire crackling into the cool autumn air, and all the bedrooms occupied by people happy to stay over.
“Don’t be snarky,” I retort.
“I’m trying.” A semi-smile dances in his eyes.
“Are you, though?” He types in my date of birth, getting it right. “Okay, I guess you are trying.”Why is my voice so… unsteady?
“It’s a thing I have with numbers. I always memorize them,” he says. This time his mouth twitches. Is he full-on pulling my leg, or am I just delusional?
“Oh, you know how to make a girl feel special.”
He stays quiet, giving me nothing to interpret how he remembers my date of birth, but his leg resumes its bouncing as he creates new rows: major illnesses or accidents. Allergies? Food dislikes? First bike (how old were you). First car (make and model).
“Color of the first car,” I chime in, wanting to feel useful.
He types it in and continues, row after row, his long, strong fingers flying on the keyboard, his veined forearms flexing subtly. Sitting close to him, I tune into his breathing, inhale his scent.
God, what am Idoing?
I go sit next to the fireplace, taking a deep, calming breath as I look up to the ceiling where shadows are dancing.
“What did you say after allergies?” he asks. Our gazes lock for a fraction of a second. I’ve never opened up to anyone the way I’m about to with him. What is it about Noah Callaway that makes me feel safe?
“Politics and religion,” I answer.
He glances at the screen. “Got that. There was something else.” He pushes his glasses up and turns his gaze to me, squinting as if the answer is written on my face. “Oh right. Memories. Childhood memories. There. That should settle it.”
There’s something extremely sad about the way he types the final entry in the spreadsheet. “Don’t you think there’s something concerning about how a husband and wife can reduce their knowledge of each other to a spreadsheet?”
He pushes his glasses up his nose, a telltale sign of moderate nervousness. “That’s one way to look at it.” His voice falters, like he’s about to say something.
Silence stretches between us. “What’s another way?” I push him. So what if my feelings are on the line? I still want to know everything about Noah Callaway.
His voice is so low that when he answers it’s almost as if he’s talking to himself. But his gaze in unmistakably on me. It’s confession time. “People should start with that, would avoid heartache.”
This is the part where he opens up about how he’s not over his ex-fiancée, and my stupid little heart will cry silently while myface stretches into a comforting kind of smile. “How so?” I ask. This is going to hurt so good.
He comes to sit next to me in the other chair facing the fireplace, but instead of talking, he just twirls his drink, looking straight through it at something on the faded oriental carpet.
For some twisted reason I’m craving the heartache, because I push. “How was she—Anika?” My strangled voice barely comes out, protesting the pain my words are sure to bring me. Now I’m going to hear all about how she hopelessly owns his heart
He glances up at me, a flash of surprise in his eyes. Was she not the heartache he was talking about? He shrugs and takes a sip of whiskey. “She was your all-American woman, the girl next door.”
“That doesn’t really define a person. So she likes the Patriots like you do—
He stands. “I forgot that. Favorite sport, favorite team, favorite athlete. Let me add it.”
I ignore him and continue with my train of thought. “And she wears her ponytail through the strap of her cap and her Chuck Taylors are always as white as her teeth and she makes the best chili on the block. So what? Does that mean she knows how to comfort you when you had a bad day? Does that make her more understanding of your child’s night terrors? Or was she going to make Noah The Third a perfect, all-American boy who’ll be too neurotic to even talk to a therapist?” I can’t help but let my frustration seep through.What did he see in her?
