Breathe. It’s going to be okay.No, I’ll come down. Be right there, I write.
Okay, he responds, with a winky face emoji.
I put on my jacket and my black and gold crossbody purse, check myself one more time in the mirror, grab my keys, and head out.
Double parked in front of the building I see a white SUV. A man hops out of the driver’s side. He is taller than Scott by at least two inches. His thick brown hair is styled with some type of product, and it’s definitely long enough for me to run my fingers through. His eyes are flanked by dark lashes and well-groomed brows. As he walks toward me, I recognize him, but not just from school and not just from the picture on his website.
Holy shit, I realize.I recognize him from my manuscript.
When I write, I create visual pictures of my characters in my mind. This is an exercise I learned in college—it helps me feel like I know them more intimately if I can picture them, like you might picture a friend or a relative.
I created Connor Yates—and he looksexactlylike Colin Yarmouth. That outfit—the khakis with the white collared shirt, the muscular legs beneath, andoh my Godthat perfect ass—it’s all right there in front of me. Like I dreamed it into being.
And he’s smiling. His wide friendly grin forms tiny crows’ feet on the sides of his eyes, and his allegedly unused laugh lines outline his cheeks as his arms open wide to embrace me in our very first hug.
“Hi,” he says.
He is strong, and he’s not afraid to show signs of genuine happiness about our unexpected reunion. The feeling is so incredible, I could cry. I swear, after Scott left, there was definitely a small part of me that thought I would die alone. Just me and Dorian Gray, who couldn’t even show an ounce of emotion when I was freaking out all afternoon. I never thought another guy would look at me, much less a guy who looks likethis.
“Hey,” I half whisper.
He releases me. “You look great,” he says, still smiling.
“Um, yeah, you do too,” I say, dumbfounded.This is a dream, right?
He steps away and takes a long look at me, like someone who caresabout art might look at a painting. (I’m not that girl, unfortunately, so I’m merely hypothesizing.) “You look sort of the same, but also different. Don’t get me wrong, you were cute in high school, but now—”
Well, here it is. I knew the other shoe would drop if I waited a minute.“I know,” I say. “I’ve looked into adult orthodontics. I just don’t have the money.”
He laughs. “You’re ridiculous. I was gonna say—”
“It’s hereditary, you know. Bad teeth.”
“Will you shut up and stop interrupting me?” he says. “You look beautiful.”
Inside, I die. Outside, I laugh, and I’m pretty sure I snort a little.
We get in the car and stumble through the first few lines of small talk as I direct him towards Luna Bella. There’s no valet because it’s a Thursday night, so he parks the car and grabs a file folder with a pen affixed to the outside from his backseat.
Inside, the hostess seats us by the window, and I’m careful to give Colin the seat facing the footbridge to Manhattan Beach. It’s the prettier view. She hands us menus and we discuss the options. When the waitress comes, Colin orders the chicken parmigiana and I order the shrimp francese, each with a ginger ale and a house salad.
“No Midori sour tonight?” he asks, after the menus are gone and we’re alone again.
I chuckle. “Nope. This is a business meeting, right?”
He nods, picking up the folder and setting it in the space where the cloth napkin is. “Yes,” he agrees. “I conduct all of my business meetings by candlelight.”
My chest gets tight. “So?” I gesture at the folder. “Scale of one to ten. How bad is it?”
He shakes his head and takes a sip of newly delivered ginger ale. “Nope. That’s not how this is going to go.”
“That bad, huh?” I joke.
“Yes,” he nods. “It was so bad that I couldn’t even tell you about it over the phone. I had to come to Brooklyn to soften my comments with salad and shrimp. That was the only way,” he says.
“Will you please just tell me?” I say straight-faced, the smile in my heart undoubtedly illuminating my face.
He clears his throat. “You’re really talented,” he says. “And, my God,sofunny. Some of the phrasing—I mean, where do you come up with it?”
