Emily's Reasons Why Not (11 page)

He sits silently, understanding and at the same time looking puzzled, which is the perfect frame of mind for the unfinished story I am about to unload on him.

I look in his eyes. “I want to avoid the fall and help myself recover.”

So I begin.

Baseball is supposed to be America’s favorite pastime. The players are the darlings of pro sports, those tight pants, great
butts, strong upper torsos—not to mention the forearms—the legacy of men like Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, and Roger Maris. A bat, balls, ins, outs, and apple pie, right? Plus they just look so nice swinging that wooden stick at ninety-five-mile-an-hour fastballs in front of all those fans. The crack of the bat. The smell of fresh-cut summer grass. White chalk on the dirt. Home runs. Grand slams. Perfect games. Makes it hard to remember that it’s only a game when you read about it in the paper every day with all the other facts of our time.

Nine months ago I was relaxing with my computer open on my lap in a small hotel lobby that looked as if it was decorated by Laura Ashley herself. The drapes, carpet, chairs, and couches were covered in pale pink, yellow, and green prints of flowers and paisleys. Lovely on first glance, but after a while I began to notice the smaller details, like the cigarette burn next to my black Prada bag resting on the arm of the chair. Hotels, even really nice ones, are different when you stay there for weeks on end. You see the stains left by the people who came before you.

I am in Pittsburgh. Avery, my boss, has sent me to handle the on-set PR for one of our network’s low-budget movies. It has no stars other than a fifty-foot suburban river snake who feeds on the homeless as part of a government conspiracy to rid the city of its unwanted. Need I say more?

I am glad to be out of Los Angeles, even if it is Pittsburgh, which isn’t half as bad as I figured it would be. The people are friendly, and at 130 pounds I am considered thin where in L.A. anything over 110 is pushing the high end of the blimpometer.

I haven’t had the flutter, been kissed, or had sex with an
other
person
since Craig nine months ago. Nine months with no physical attention other than hugs from the girls, Josh, and Sam. More than anything, I think I just miss being touched. God, I miss holding hands. But …

I am feeling healthy and strong in my independence. By myself and okay in my hotel, where I have plenty of good conversations with Beth the concierge. She’s twenty-two with purple spiked hair and thinks that it is “totally cool” that I get to work on a movie set.

After three weeks and four days in the hotel, I find interesting places to work on writing the press kit other than my room. Today I lounge in the lobby after saying good morning to Todd, the front desk manager, and Alan the doorman.

Clicking away on my laptop, I look up from the glowing screen in time to see a six-foot-two, 220-pound all-American dreamboat with dark cropped hair and blue eyes walk off the elevator and head toward the Starbucks at the entrance of the lobby. My eyes follow his strong, beefy, thirty-something shoulders across what must be a fifty-inch barrel chest. Tight abs are clearly visible through his white T-shirt leading down to yummy hips. From the backside, his baggy Lucky Brand jeans add a nice touch to his perfect bubble butt.

Holy …

Flutter, flutter
.

Batwoman!

I thought I’d be safe in Pittsburgh, but instead I’m stuck, motionless, simply blinking in awe. Cozy in my overstuffed chair, I watch him slip out of sight into the coffee shop.

I am suddenly feeling very, very thirsty for a latte.

Standing in the Starbucks line behind him, I smell his hair, still wet from the shower. I want to reach up and run my fingers through it. I close my eyes and take another deep breath. He smells like hotel soap mixed with sweet Paul Mitchell hair gel and maybe a hint of Hugo Boss cologne. I exhale and open my eyes.

“Your usual, Emily?” the Starbucks girl asks me.

“Yep. Thanks, Jen.” I look down, a little embarrassed as Jen yells “triple-venti-nonfat-no-foam-three-Sweet’n-Low-latte.”

I step to the side and Mr. All-American turns and smiles at me.

I am taken aback by his boyish face, which has the most perfect, deep dimples and cleft chin that I have even seen. My mouth is agape. I may have shoestrings of drool falling from the sides of my lips. Not sure. Mesmerized. Transfixed.

His cleft could give Kirk Douglas’s a run for its money. It isn’t that he is model gorgeous. It is about the entire package, equipped with special features that seem to jump out and scream “sexy and sweet and blessed by God.”

I am weak in the knees. I haven’t felt weak in the knees, well, since David over two years ago. But even when I first met David, it didn’t feel like this. There seems to be something unique, something that feels familiar about him, something that just clicked inside me. Weird.

I get my triple-venti-nonfat-no-foam-three-Sweet’n Low-latte before his mocha frappicino is ready.

“It must be helpful to know people,” he says with the slightest hint of a Boston accent.

“And be a good tipper,” Jen pipes in.

“With a nice smile,” Ted the coffee guy adds as he hands me my drink.

Group support! Couldn’t have planned it any better.

“Thanks.” I can feel the blood in my cheeks. I wonder if I am red. I can’t help but give an ear-to-ear smile at Mr. All-American with the man-boy face and walk away.

Be calm, subtle, coy, not too flirty.

I look back over my shoulder at him and …

WHAAAPPPP! My nose hits first, followed by my forehead, as the door to Starbucks is closed and I have just schmooshed into the glass. I am the crash-test dummy in the head-on collision minus the airbag plus the piping hot coffee. It shoots all down the front of my white sweater.

Fuck! Fuck-n-A!

“Hot, hot, hot, hot, hot! Ow, ow, ow!” I grab a bunch of napkins as American Pie Dimple Man watches me try to shake the coffee out of my sleeve.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yep, perfect. I think it’s more of a second- than a third-degree burn. I’ll be fine.”

He walks toward me and I nervously scoot out of his way. Jesus, he must be six three. Wow! He reaches for the glass door and holds it open.

I am frozen, looking up, studying his blue eyes like a schoolgirl with a crush until I realize he is holding the door for me.

GO! my self-respect silently screams. I read the sign like a runner on second heading for third. The third base coach is sending me home. I hit the bag and run for it. The throw is on the way. There’s a play at the plate. Did we win or am I, more than likely, once again out?

“Thanks,” I say with coffee all over me.

He stands outside Starbucks, sipping his cool frozen frappy, watching my knee-length jean skirt and coffee-stained sweater cross the lobby.

Slumping back into the chair with my computer, I feel defeated. I blew it. Head low, I eye the brown stain growing on my favorite white sweater.

Carefully, I rest my coffee between my thigh and the inside arm of the chair, then begin again to read my computer screen.

Unbeknownst to the homeless who use the river to bathe in, a scientifically designed river snake has been covertly added. It has become a game of cat and mouse as Walter, the mayor of the river shanty-town, has learned that the government is responsible
.

Wow. That sucks. I hit the delete button, look up, and Mr.

All-American Perfect Dimples is peering down at me.

I smile back. He sits in the chair across from me.

All is not lost!

I wonder if he knows that his smile could melt Cruella De Vil’s heart.

He drinks his coffee, opens a
USA Today
, removes the sports section, and begins to read. His eyes glance over the top of the paper. I can feel him looking at me. I continue to type on my computer.

jflhalgklhdkljalkhdgljalkhglkhalkhglhljak

I stop typing and glance up. We are looking directly into each other’s eyes, separated only by three feet of oak table and four feet of bad carpet.

He doesn’t look away. He just keeps gazing into my eyes as if he knows me. Our moment of eye contact has gone on many seconds too long. Yet neither of us look away.

“R-r-r-reese,” a Cuban guy says, approaching, rolling the
R
. “R-r-r-r-reese.”

My future Mr. All-American boyfriend looks up.

“We going hor-r-r what?” the Cuban guy demands.

Reese looks back at me, flashes a pearly-white grin with just the slightest hint of shyness, and gets up with his paper tucked under an arm. Fidel Castro’s cousin leads him away. UGH!

This is that defining moment, the moment when you pass a perfect stranger in the crosswalk or perhaps waiting for a cab and … you know.

You know somewhere in your heart and soul that you are connected to that stranger. Maybe it is because we are all connected in some way. Perhaps we knew them in a past life. I am not sure what gives us that feeling, but it was definably there with Reese. It was powerful, and it was real. The question that must be answered in a split second was to play it safe and just stay silent, walk away alone in the metaphorical crosswalk of life, left to wonder, “Was that my soul mate?” or risk making a total fool of myself and get shot down by a complete and utter stranger.

“Make it a great day,” I say as he walks away.

Slowly, he turns and looks at me. I glance at his back foot as it twists unconsciously into the carpet.

“What?”

“I said, make it a great day.” I’m feeling really stupid now.

“What’s your name?” he says, low and sweet and slightly bashful.

“Emily. Emily Sanders.” I stick out a hand over my computer.

He shakes and holds it.

Electricity just shot through both our bodies. I giggle.

“Reese Callahan. And Emily Sanders, you have already made it a great day.”

He lets go of my hand, shakes out his arm, and then grins that grin that says, “Yeah, I felt it, too.” “Nice meeting you.”

And walks away.

“It has been two days since my lobby encounter with Reese Callahan. What kind of name is that?” I ask Jimmy the bartender as he sets down a martini in front of me. I look up at ESPN
Sports Center
on the TV above the bar.

“Irish,” says a voice behind me. I don’t turn around. I just look at Jimmy.

My face scrunches. “About six foot, dark hair, nice smile?” I ask Jimmy. Jimmy nods.

“Emily Sanders.” Reese pulls out a barstool. “May I?”

I gesture to the chair like Vanna White turning a vowel on the letter board.

“Corona,” he says to Jimmy, “with a lime, please, if you’ve got one.”

That was how it started between Reese Callahan and I. The beginning.

Sitting at the bar, 1:14 A.M., Jimmy is putting the chairs on top of the tables. Reese asks him for two Coronas and we head upstairs. He is walking me to my room.

I open my hotel room door and can feel him brush against me as he holds it open.

“Do you want to come in for a minute?” I try to sound like Marilyn Monroe, but it comes out sounding more like of a low-talker. Who am I kidding? A minute. An hour. A night. A lifetime.

“Sure.” He follows me in and looks at the pictures of my mom, Grace, Reilly, Josh, Sam, all framed next to the computer on my makeshift desk in the corner.

“Great dog. What’s its name?” he says, studying the picture.

“Sam.” I pop my Corona and open his.

“Thanks.” He sits down on the edge of the bed.

I sit down next to him. Both of us drink our beers on the foot of my king Serta as awkwardly as high school freshmen. “So, are you in town on business?”

“Yes, I am. Three days. I leave tomorrow.”

My face must have changed because his expression turns sympathetic and knowing. “I’ll be back in two weeks. Will you still be here?”

“I’ve got three weeks and five days left in the lovely
William Penn Hotel. Then it’s back to California, and maybe Arizona to visit the family.”

He starts laughing.

“What?” I’m embarrassed I might have said something wrong.

He pokes himself in the chest. “Iiiiii live in California and Arizona.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “I knew there was something familiar or, hmmm … I dunno know … something about you”

“Where?” I ask.

“San Diego part of the year and Scottsdale the other part.”

“Almost perfect. I live in L.A. and my family is in Phoenix. Why do you go you back and forth?”

“Work,” he says. “I work in San Diego and live in Scottsdale.”

“That’s one hell of a commute.”

He sets his empty Corona down on the night table and gets up. “Can I call you?”

“Are you leaving?” I quickly stand and throw my body in front of the door, blocking any possibility of his escape. The door is now to my back. There’s one way out and that is through me. We are face to face. I look up into his blue eyes. We stand for what seems like an hour in an instant.

Is he going to kiss me or what? I can’t take it anymore. I move to the side because if I don’t, he may sense my need to rape and pillage him. He touches my hand, wrapping it in his. “Where ya goin?” he asks as he gently lifts my chin, leans down, and presses his lips to mine.

Wet. I am wet. I am frozen, hot, and bothered. There is no other kiss that has ever been better. Slow, tender, my breath in his. Breathe. I almost fall back onto the wall. Yet he pulls me close, catching me, keeping me safe, engulfing me in his body, his huge, strong, perfect body.

I sooooo want to throw him on the bed even if just to cuddle into him for a lifetime! But I must appear to be a nice girl. Wait, I am a nice girl. I just want these feelings to keep tingling me that way!

His smile grows on his perfect face with the perfect dimples. “Emily, I’ll be back in two weeks, but we have tonight. Let’s just take it slow.”

He eases me down on the bed and lies next to me. He props himself up on his elbow, and we begin a conversation that keeps me listening and asking questions for hours. Who is he? Why do I feel like I’ve known him for a lifetime?

Reese grew up outside Boston, in a small town with three brothers and one kid sister. He loves dogs and kids and romantic movies. I can’t really explain it, but he feels like the yin to my yang. We stayed up kissing, talking, and hoping all night that the sun would never come up. Hoping that this connection would never go away.