Right now he’s smiling at me. He’s got his feet propped up on his desk, like he’s right at home. He’s wearing brown leather sandals. “So to tell you the real truth, I’m actually hiding out here. My apartment is about the size of a hamster cage, and I have this roommate who rehearses operatic duets in the bathroom with his girlfriend. Something about tile providing the best acoustics. I don’t know.”
“And what? You don’t think opera is more important than showers?”
“Of course. Opera is more important than everything! At least that’s what I’ve learned. But every now and then a guy just wants to brush his teeth without the third act of La Bohème happening all around him.” He laughs and picks up the gnome and says almost shyly, “Okay, so now can I tell you the real reason I’m here?”
He looks so adorably serious and vulnerable holding that silly little thing that I almost want to go over and hug him. “There’s another real reason? Is this when you tell me you’re planning a takeover of Tiller Publishing or something like that? Stealing trade secrets?”
He laughs. “Nope. The real thing is that I’m writing a novel,” he says quietly, as if this is a shameful secret and he might be overheard. I know the feeling. “And there’s something about the vibe here that makes it kind of a good place to work on it. I don’t know, but I like working on it here.”
I nod, and for some reason—though I haven’t mentioned my novel to any other person there—I find myself telling him that that’s why I’m there, too. Then I’m suddenly terrified he’s going to suggest that we read each other’s pages or form a writing group or something hideous like that, so when my cell phone rings, I’m relieved. It’s Judd.
I shrug to signal to Adam that I have to take this.
“Hey, so how did Talia vote?” says Judd.
“She thinks we should do it,” I tell him, walking back to my own office. I smile at Adam. “She says you’ll be like a faithful Saint Bernard.”
“Well,” Judd says. “I’m not so sure that’s the most flattering thing anybody’s ever said about me. But does this mean what I think it means? We’re a go?”
“Judd, nobody on earth uses that terminology for marriage. You don’t say ‘we’re a go.’ And anyway, I’ve still got a coffee date with a firefighter tomorrow. Remember?”
“Of course I remember,” Judd is saying. “The way I see it, we’re just one heroic firefighter away from wrapping this up.”
“‘Wrapping this up’? Again, Judd, this is not—”
He laughs. “Okay, okay, so what do the romantic guys say?” He makes his voice go to what he considers romantic but isn’t. “Let’s see. I’m pining for your answer, sweet Phronsie. Your eyes are like molten pools of lava . . .”
“Stop it,” I say. But I’m laughing. “So listen, I’m going to be home later. You want to come over? Have dinner? And maybe . . . ?”
“Oh. Can’t,” he says. “I forgot to tell you last night that I agreed to go camping overnight with Sean Johnson and his two boys. They’re picking me up in a few minutes, as a matter of fact.”
“Judd! Don’t we have the thing with Russell and Sarah tomorrow evening?”
“We’ll be back in the early afternoon. I think Sean just wants me to go so his kids won’t outnumber him. And so I can fight off bears if need be.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, all right. Have fun. Don’t get eaten by bears. See you!”
“Enjoy your firefighter,” he says. “Bye.”
Enjoy your firefighter? Enjoy your firefighter? I sit there, contemplating all the levels of that statement. Does he really mean it would be fine with him if I met someone else? He does. I think he really does. He’d be happy for me if I fell in love with someone else. He is absolutely non-possessive, non-jealous—and I’m sorry, but I hate that.
I turn on the computer and see an email Darla has written me about my problematic author. I have been in charge of Gabora Pierce-Anton for years now, one of the superstars of children’s literature—only now she’s written a book that is politically and racially insensitive, and it’s up to me to deal with her.
We’ll discuss this at the staff meeting on Monday, Darla wrote. I have some disturbing news about her plans for a book tour.
Great. Love disturbing news at a staff meeting! And really, really love that Darla won’t tell me what it is in advance so I can prepare.
Adam shows up at my door. He’s holding his backpack. “I’m taking off,” he says. “See you Monday.”
“Okay. Good to see you. Hope you get to enjoy the day.”
But he doesn’t move. Just stands there, smiling at me. “And hey—are you—I mean, did I discern from that phone call I was eavesdropping on . . . um . . . that you’re getting married?”
“Am I?” I laugh, flustered. “I’m—well, I’m thinking about it. This guy is my oldest friend from childhood, and he thinks we should get married because we’re getting up there in years—haha—and sick of dating, and we didn’t meet anybody else yet.” I throw my hand out into the air in what is meant to be a cute, dramatic gesture of carefreeness, and instead hit it on the filing cabinet. I try to keep my expression neutral so he doesn’t see that I’m in so much pain I’m seeing stars.
“Oh.” Adam shifts the backpack to his other shoulder. “Is this one of those pact things? Like you get to a certain age and then if you haven’t met someone else, you marry each other? Like some kind of romantic comedy thing.”
“Well. No. Not really. He just sprung this on me last night. You know. The way one does. You know, the old ‘let’s get married because we haven’t met anyone else’ thing.”
What is wrong with me? Why am I talking like this? Like none of this matters to me. When I know that if Judd wanted to cancel his camping trip and stay home and have sex with me—well, that might seal the deal right there. If it was good enough, I might even cancel the firefighter.
“Huh,” he says. “Well. Congratulations? Maybe?”
“That sounds about right,” I say. “Congratulations maybe.”
“And hey, good luck with your novel.”
“You too. Also, I guess it goes without saying that we won’t talk about this, right?”
“Correct.”
After he leaves, I turn on the computer and open the file with my novel and read the last chapter I wrote. It’s blah. I crack my knuckles, then pack up my files having to do with my problem author, who I suspect is about to become The Bane of My Existence, and I make my way home.
I go out for coffee with the firefighter the next afternoon. I tell myself this is giving falling in love a chance to bat last. I even dress up for the occasion. My best blue silk shirt and really nice black pants with no rips in them. I straighten my hair with the flat iron, even.
I am halfway hoping he’ll show up in his firefighter suit, smelling vaguely of smoke and heroism. I hope that he’ll have ruddy skin and bloodshot eyes. He’ll be tender and solicitous. He’ll have recently saved a few children and some elderly people, and he’ll be so humble about it that I’ll have to drag the story out of him. I will be swept off my feet, and I’ll have to explain to Judd that true love does exist after all, and I can’t marry him.