“For when you puke,” Nate said. “Because I have no idea where those pants are. The airport lost my carry-on.”
She heard a squeaky-choking sound, sort of like an exotic bird getting strangled by a wild monkey, then realized by the wide-eyed looks on everyone’s faces that the sound was coming from her.
Probably explained why she was having trouble drawing her next breath.
“Is she okay?” someone asked.
“Maybe she should breathe into the paper bag,” said another voice.
“Is now a bad time to ask for more details about that lip bump on the bridge?”
MCKENNA
“You know how they say not to go grocery shopping when you’re hungry? I see why they say that now. Only I didn’t go to the grocery store. I rushed to the airport. And instead of being hungry, I was nauseated, frazzled, sleep-deprived, and a little bit bonkers.
“Fine. A whole lot bonkers. Next time I promise to eat some crackers and take a nap before I come to the airport.”
NATE
“Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I almost wish Winky Wendy had shown up instead.”
The first time Nate read one of Rainer Maria Rilke’s poems he was tucked away in the back corner of the Lipscomb University campus library, a lonely freshman, killing time on a Saturday afternoon.
Most of the friends he’d made were local to Nashville and liked scampering home on weekends to do laundry and eat home-cooked meals. Since Nate didn’t have a car and Bugle was a good hour-and-a-half drive away, he always stayed on campus—one of the big reasons for his loneliness.
The other big reason probably had something to do with the fact that his preferred means for killing time on a Saturday afternoon was thumbing through poetry books. Old poems, new poems, he liked them all.
That particular Saturday, Nate had been flipping through the pages of a poetry book written by the musician Jewel back in the late nineties when another book slid onto the table next to his arm. “Have you tried this one yet?” a soft-spoken voice said.
The voice belonged to a man in his late fifties, Nate guessed, wearing round glasses and a graying beard. At first Nate assumed he was a librarian, then noticed the khaki jumpsuit and cleaning cart off to the side.
“Uh, no,” Nate said, sliding the book closer. “I don’t think I have.”
“You should check it out.”
Nate did. Then the following Saturday he checked out another recommendation. And thus began his standing date every Saturday afternoon discussing poetry with the man who quickly become a friend, then soon a beloved mentor.
Instead of loneliness, Nate found kinship.
Instead of shallow talk, Nate found a deep well of meaningful conversation.
It was his mentor he turned to whenever he needed a safe place to vent about his dad. His career choice. His relationships. Anything, really. Because his mentor always had a way of offering Nate the exact words he needed—even if they weren’t the exact words Nate wanted to hear.
Well, old friend? Got any words of advice for me on this one?
Now, Nate gripped the steering wheel, willing the memory of that soft-spoken voice to fill his mind.Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Rilke. Of course. Nate had seen that one coming. What he hadn’t seen coming—at all—was the redhead currently seated next to him. Talk about beauty and terror. She was here. The woman who’d gotten under his skin. The woman he’d been trying to forget.
She was here here here.
He needed her to go go go. The sooner the better.
He was having a hard enough time as it was making headway on the B&B’s to-do list. Last thing he needed was a chaotic gorgeous distraction landing on his doorstep.
He should have sent her back to the airport. Alone. With a one-way ticket.
“I’m telling you,” Nate said, adjusting the air conditioning, “this trip is a waste of time.”
