“Is everyone okay? Did anyone get hurt?” Ellie is no longer whispering, and I can hear the slamming of a door in the background.
“Ugh, no. Listen, listen. It’s me…and…”—I clear my throat, containing my hysterics—“Malcolm.” I hear her mumble myname, but I continue, “He leaned against a door. A door, Eleanor! Which usually isn’t that big of a deal, right? People lean on things. It’s totally normal. But this time…” I pause and swallow the air that is now clogging my throat again. “I gasped.” The words come out like a secret I have been harboring for years.
Ellie’s laughter reverberates through the phone. “You what?”
“I gasped, Ellie, like the image of Malcolm leaning against a doorframe was so enticing that it just took the breath right out of me.” I throw my head back and listen to her cackle at my crisis. I stop pacing and plop down on a bench near the valet entrance, waiting patiently for her to collect herself.
I hear her suck in a breath and exhale slowly in a measly attempt. She forces her words out, “Why is this a bad thing?” I can hear her biting back her laughter for my sake. I guess I can appreciate her efforts.
“Because it’s Malcolm! What is going on with me?” I groan.
“Does this have anything to do with the Christmas party?”
I refuse to justify her question with a response because of course it does. It has everything to do with that Christmas party and that freaking mistletoe. Blocking the sun with my arm, I close my eyes, and memories of spicy breath and beard stubble take center stage in my mind.
“Well…” She pauses. “Are you starting to have feelings for Malcolm?”
“What?” I snap up, the sun blinding me as I reposition my arm for shade again. “I—no—I don’t think that’s what’s going on. I think I’m just out of my element. This whole dating thing has me confused and uncomfortable and scared. Maybe he’s just …” My words trail off as I watch the waves splash against the shore across the way.
“Comfortable,” she says matter-of-factly. It’s more of a statement than a question. “Malcolm is just comfortable and notat all scary. Maybe deep down you’re wanting something like that?”
“Hmm.” I let her words resonate.Comfortable. Maybe that’s what I’m missing. It’s not about the dramatic gestures, or the sparks, or the gold shimmering light shining around the man, clearly pointing out thathe’s the one. It’s about having someone I’m familiar with, someone I have a history with.
“I know this would take a lot of convincing, but…have you thought about talking to him?”
“Absolutely not!” I have a strict policy on what I do and don’t share with my friend, and my emotional, romantic feelings are firmly in thedon’tcategory. Malcolm is a wonderful listener and problem solver, but one thing I have come to learn about the man is that he isnota touchy-feely-emotions kind of guy. Getting him to share about his childhood was like pulling teeth. Granted, I quickly learned why he keeps those things under lock and key, and I don’t foresee him being up for a chat about feelings with me anytime soon. The man is anti-feelings. “He would never be up for that kind of conversation anyway. He’d just shut down,” I tell her.
“He could surprise you. Who knows?” Her sing-songy tone makes me think shemightknow. “Just give it a chance and see where these feelings go.”
“I—I don’t know. What if it goes wrong? What if that’s not what I’m meant to do?” I rub my temple and wince at the sweltering heat that has already baked the side of my face. “I just need the universe to tell me what to do. I’m too wishy-washy on my own to just decide to have that kind of conversation.”
“You need the universe to tell you if you should give a hot guy with a beard a chance?”
“I heard that!” Benny yells from the background. That poor guy can’t grow a beard to save his life. Muffled giggles andmovement happen on the other line as they whisper back and forth.
“I would just feel better if there was a sign—with clear instructions. It doesn’t even have to be a sign. A letter would be fine. Delivered by a seagull. Preferably right now!” I exaggerate loudly, speaking directly to the universe.
“Kate?” a deep voice beckons me from the entrance of the hotel. “Kate Stanley?”
My eyes strain in the sun as I search for the voice. And then I see him, the owner of the eerily familiar and all-too-real voice, walking my direction with a blaze of shimmery sunlight hitting his face like a spotlight.
“I hate you,” I mumble to the universe.
“What?” Ellie asks.
“You’re not going to believe this,” I whisper to Ellie as the man approaches, standing mere feet away. “Eric, hiiiiiii!” The greeting comes out in a painful stretch, and so does my arm, in a reluctant wave, as my ex-boyfriend approaches.
Ellie’s gasp on the other end rings in my ears, and I instinctively keep her on the line as Eric towers above my bench in the Florida sun. His dark skin glistens with sweat, and his arms are on display underneath a tight muscle shirt. My eyes snap up to his eyes, refusing to remember how those arms felt around me or anything remotely memorable about the man that broke my heart into a million pieces.
“Well, if this isn’t my lucky day. It’s good to see you.” His white teeth practically sparkle as he beams down at me.
I try not to gawk in awe, because the man is absolutely beautiful, and stand up to maintain a sliver of dignity. All my words are dried up from shock. “What’re—” I try to clear my throat, but it’s pointless. “What are you doing here?” I ask, sounding like a sixty-year-old smoker.
“I’m assisting Coach Dawson this year.” He points over his shoulder at a group of coaches standing inside the lobby. “He’s retiring in a few years, so I’m here to learn the ropes of running the camp.” He blushes at this, a sense of pride swelling in his eyes at his accomplishments.
At what he left Glendale for.
What he left me for.
