He understood that after tonight, he would have to commit fully to the new plan. No more intentions, only action. He would do what her parents had asked of him, and he’d become the man Cadie needed him to be. No more wavering, no second guessing, no letting his frustration rise to the surface. All of that only stood to make it take longer, and it had taken too long already.
He also understood that he would do what he had to in order to remove all the passion and temptation from their relationship for now. Hearing it from her lips had opened his eyes. The constant awareness of the need to stop before they went too far. Walking the line. Working so hard to respect the boundaries they had set. He’d always looked at it all as his burden. He’d never imagined that resisting the temptation of being together was as difficult for her as it was for him, but clearly he’d been shortsighted.
Well, no more. He was willing to do whatever it took, as long as it meant they never had to go to war again.
5
7:00 (Back in the Time of Pigeons and Chromosomes)
I couldn’t remember a time when I had ever been nervous sitting alone in my own home—apart from the occasional finale of The Bachelor, of course. It wasn’t giddy anticipation causing the nerves, and they certainly weren’t the result of a sense of dread or fear that I wouldn’t receive my desired outcome. That was the thing. If I had a desired outcome, I sure didn’t know what it was, so I was going to do all I could to follow Darby’s advice and trust my gut.
But if I’m being honest, my gut was doing very little to elicit any sense of confidence.
I’d taken to my closet about an hour earlier and had attempted to trust my gut when it came to picking out an outfit. I figured that was an easy place to start.
Nope. I’d figured wrong.
I’m pretty sure I pulled every single item of clothing from my closet—apart from my old denim overalls, which even my conflicted, indecisive gut knew had no business being worn by a woman in her thirties, or any woman at all, really, outside of some sort of agricultural event, or 1994. All I knew for sure was that when Will showed up, I couldn’t allow whatever I was wearing to give him the wrong impression.
It’s awfully difficult to avoid the wrong impression when you’re not sure what the right impression should be.
Finally, after I had stood in front of the mirror modeling my best “It’s not you, it’s me” attire, along with a smattering of outfits that cried out “Kiss me again like you did outside the copy room,” I landed on the perfect compromise. I changed right back into the jade-colored blouse, black slacks, and black high heels I’d worn all day at work. Jade was definitely my color, so I knew I looked good. Good enough that he had actually dipped me when he kissed me—and surely that wasn’t an everyday occurrence for any woman who didn’t live in a Hollywood musical. But it was also obvious that I hadn’t put in any special effort or tried to impress him.
Maybe my gut knew what it was doing after all.
When the doorbell rang at 6:59, which debunked Will’s recently acquired reputation for being late for every date, I jumped up from the couch and then quickly sat back down—not wanting to give the impression of being eager. No one was present to witness my restraint, of course, and I did feel more than a little silly, sitting there alone, waiting for my gut to tell me it was time to open the door. Nevertheless, my gut appreciated the consideration and soon seemed to whisper, Okay, Cadie. Go ahead. I promise to try not to send you down the wrong path if you promise to never again wear that paisley vest in your closet, unless you’re asked to appear on a Blossom reunion.
I opened the door just as Will’s finger was making its way back to the doorbell for a second attempt.
My gut’s tiny streak of confidence was broken when I saw him. I couldn’t remember exactly what he’d been wearing at the office that day, but I was certain it hadn’t been the perfectly tailored three-piece suit I saw in my doorway. A suit? Maybe I did live in a Hollywood musical. I couldn’t remember ever hearing Will Whitaker sing—the occasional “bum bum bum” when “Sweet Caroline” broke out during a Red Sox game, and maybe a little karaoke sing-along here and there—but at that moment I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d found a lamppost to swing around as he serenaded me.
“Wow,” I breathed, accidentally.
Cadie! What are you doing? I could almost audibly detect my gut crying out. Do you know how difficult it is to break up with a guy after you’ve said “Wow” at the sight of him?
Fair point. But Will deserved that wow.
“I feel really underdressed,” I added, hoping to redeem myself.
“This old thing?” he asked with a wink as he walked past me into my apartment, kissing me as he passed.
I shut the door behind him and locked us in. “No, seriously, Will. I didn’t know that I needed to dress up. I thought we were just having dinner.”
“We are,” he assured me. “And don’t worry. I’ll take off the jacket and tie before we go, if you want me to. I just wanted to see what you thought. Do you like it?”
Did I like it? Did I like the way the bluish-gray somehow brought out both the blue and the gray in his eyes, simultaneously? Did I like the way it was so perfectly tailored to fit his frame that I was flooded with memories—and more dangerously, daydreams—of how it felt to be held by him? Did I like how the sight of him made me want to run back to my closet and pull out the fanciest thing I could find in hopes that he would take me dancing, so that time could pass much too quickly, in that way it only does when you want it to stand still?
“Not bad, Whitaker,” I finally said, forcing myself to sound nonchalant as I attempted to convince both of us that I was complimenting the perfect suit and not the man who wore it oh-so-perfectly.
Then my eyes finally made their way down from his eyes, his lips, his chest, and landed on his shoes. Attempts at a different brand of composure gave way to choking down giggles, and at that attempt, I failed disastrously.
“I know,” he said with a laugh. “I haven’t had a chance to shop for shoes yet. But don’t let that get in the way of the overall impression. Pretend I’m wearing something, I don’t know . . . leather and designer-y, I guess. And not quite so canvas and Converse-y.”
“It almost works. I mean, you can totally pull off the look of a celebrity walking down the red carpet in a carefully constructed style that is meant to appear breezy. Next time, I’d probably go with red or white, to really stand out against the suit. If you’re going to do it, do it all the way.”
“And maybe I should add a fedora to the mix?” He grinned slyly as he crossed the room with more swagger than he ever sported when he wore his usual attire of wrinkled, baggy khakis. It was ridiculous swagger, but it was swagger nonetheless.
“No,” I quickly replied as I shook my head and laughed. “No fedora. But the suit is very nice. Now, are you going to tell me the reason for the suit?”
“Well, I haven’t spent any time with my girlfriend in far too long. So there’s that.”
That swagger that had so innocuously been making its way across the hardwood floor of my apartment was suddenly focused intently on me. Not all that many steps are required to cross from one side of the space to the other, but each one he took was laced with trouble. Danger, even. Not that Will has a dangerous bone in his body, of course. Nonetheless, my gut could sense that it was at risk.
“That’s true,” I responded as I took a small and uncertain step back. “But I thought that football jerseys were more in line with the traditional dress code for midweek dates. Or track suits, maybe?” I had a feeling that I would have been much more able to focus on breaking up with him if he had been wearing a track suit.
One corner of his mouth crept upwards. “Is that so? Well then, I’m afraid I may have received some faulty intel.”
“How many times have I told you that the guys on The Field are not reliable romance sources?”
“Not even Ellis?” he asked as the other corner of his mouth rose to complete t
he grin.
Ellis Haywood. Former nose tackle for the Dallas Cowboys and current funniest guy in the studio on Sunday afternoons. Ellis is every bit as giant as you can apparently expect a nose tackle to be, but he also boasts the dance moves of Bruno Mars, the intellectual comedic chops that could have earned him a place in Monty Python, and a smooth, soulful singing voice that evokes thoughts of Luther Vandross.
Ellis is also a renowned ladies’ man.
“Especially not Ellis.” I laughed.
“But the guy knows everything, Cadie. I mean, he’s been married four times. If I can’t trust Ellis, who can I trust?”
“I don’t know. Just definitely not Ellis.”
I was so busy laughing that I had somehow lost track of how much closer he was getting to where I stood. Then, there he was. Right in front of me. Close enough to communicate with a whisper.
When that whisper spoke of work and sports instead of love and attraction, I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
“A big story is going to break tomorrow. Baseball.” When I said nothing he tagged on, “You know . . . the one with the bases and the innings. And Yankee Stadium has that rib joint you like with the amazing cheese curds.”
Again, he teased. Again, I swooned.
“Oh, baseball!” I laughed and put my hand on his bicep before I thought about it. It was a move that would seem flirty at the beginning of a relationship but which after four years could only be described as natural. At least, I would usually describe it as natural.
On this night, it felt flirty.
“So, yeah . . . a big story is going to break in the sport with the cheese curds. And guess what? It’s my story. Not a story I did some work on, or a story I wrote some copy for. It’s not even a story that I brought to Kevin, who handed it off to someone else. It’s my story, Cadie.”
“That’s fantastic!” I squealed as I threw my arms around his neck. He was so proud, and I was proud of him. For a moment—a moment that I suspected would be willing to stick around longer if I asked nicely—I forgot that it was an evening that held the promise of either becoming engaged or becoming single. I was just proud of him. Happy for him. I felt as if I were sharing in his success, because I was the one he wanted to share it with. I broke from his embrace but immediately grabbed his hand and pulled him with me to the couch. As we sat, I insisted, “Tell me all about it.”
“Okay, so, a few weeks ago, I was riding into work. I got on at 110th Street, like usual, and then at 86th, this guy gets on. He looked—I don’t know how to describe it, really. He looked nervous, I guess, but also like he was in the middle of a breakdown or something. Whatever. This is New York. I didn’t think too much of it. But then he says to me, ‘Hey, buddy. You like baseball?’ Just like that. And I knew I shouldn’t engage, since I figured he was probably not exactly right, if you know what I mean, but—”
“Baseball,” I said, completing his thought with a laugh.
“Yeah. I mean, what if he was in the middle of a breakdown because he had tickets to the World Series, and he wasn’t going to be able to make it or something? What if he decided to give me the tickets just because I was nice to him?”
“Well, that’s definitely reason to do the right thing and be nice to someone.”
He laughed. “Right? So I said, ‘Yeah. I like baseball.’ And that was it. He switched seats so that he was next to me, and he started talking. Just talking and talking, Cadie. He threw out all of these dates and names and dollar amounts . . . none of it made any sense. Until I heard one name. Gael Cuarón.”
Recognition dawned in my mind. “Didn’t he direct Gravity? And one of the Harry Potter movies, I think . . .”
Will tilted his head in confusion and then chuckled. “Strangely enough—given the context of the story and all—Gael Cuarón is a baseball player. Actually, he’s kind of the baseball player right now. Pitcher for the Cubs. More no-hitters than anyone else in the last fifty years.”
“That’s what I meant,” I responded sheepishly.
“I promise I’m getting to the interesting part soon.” He smiled and wrapped an arm around me to pull me closer to him. “So anyway, that caught my attention, and I started thinking back through all of the names he’d said. And the dates. Dates when records had been broken, or when Cuarón had pitched a no-hitter. Wild card games, division series games . . . I could place almost every single date.”
I didn’t question that, but I couldn’t help but be more than a little bewildered by it. Will is undoubtedly good at what he does, and a huge asset to ASN. And more than once I’d enjoyed eating buffalo wings and reading a book while Will singlehandedly won for our “team” at sports trivia night at Batter Batter Sports Bar in Chelsea. But I was still bewildered. There wasn’t anything that I had committed to memory as expertly as Will had sports facts—with the possible exception of all the dialogue from every Garry Marshall film.
“So the guy knows as much as you do?” I asked.
“The guy knows more than I do. The guy is the story. He has personally covered up about sixty major performance-enhancing drug incidents in Major League Baseball.”
He wasn’t kidding about getting to the interesting part soon. I sat up straight and pulled away so that I could look at him.
“He told you that?”
“He did,” Will answered with a laugh. “I can still hardly believe it myself. It was like he just needed to clear it from his conscience. He kept talking and talking—”
“You didn’t tell him where you work?”
“At first, I couldn’t get a word in edgewise! Finally, once he started telling me the details on Cuarón, and he mentioned the World Series, I stopped him. I said, ‘Look, man. I work for ASN. I won’t tell anyone else a single thing you’ve told me without your permission, but it seems like you’re ready to tell your story. And if you are—’”
“Oh my gosh, Will!” My hands clasped over my mouth.
“I know! I just knew it was my story. Sure enough, the guy wanted to talk, and I convinced him to talk to me. I checked everything out, got the go-ahead from Kev, and have been working on it nonstop over the past few days. We just filmed, and it airs tomorrow!”
I jumped up from the couch in excitement. “Are you telling me you just filmed? They put you on-air?”
“That’s why the network bought the suit. I mean, I certainly couldn’t afford this thing. And it was a sit-down, so—”
“So they never show your feet.” I laughed and threw my arms open. In a flash, he was standing along with me, his arms around my waist. “I’m so proud of you,” I said softly as we held each other.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry it’s kept me so busy over the past few days.”
“No! Of course. I completely understand.”
Suddenly I was back in the single-or-engaged headspace as I realized I meant that. Once I knew why he cancelled our date, I did completely understand. The only thing left was to figure out whether or not that really made a difference. After all, it wasn’t as if that proverbial straw could be removed and the camel’s back unbroken.
“You’ve been so patient with me,” he said into my ear before planting a gentle kiss on my neck, just below my earlobe.
There it was. The alarm once again began blaring in my ears and pounding in my heart. And my gut? Well, my gut didn’t have any clue what it was supposed to do. It all made sense. It made sense why he would be ready to propose. I knew what had changed.
A higher-profile job and a substantial jump in income could very well be the enticement Will needed to finally take a step toward a wife and family.
“So, can I assume that after this story airs tomorrow, you may be on-camera again?” I asked.
He pulled back slightly, though he didn’t release me. An excited smile overtook his face as he said, “Well, as Kevin so articulately put it, ‘Tomorrow will either bring a promotion or a pink slip,’ so . . .”
I gasped. “A pink slip?”
<
br /> Will shook his head and brushed off my concern. “Only if something leaks and the baseball commissioner has a chance to . . . oh, I don’t know. I don’t even want to talk about that. Really. It’s not going to happen. I was more thorough on this than I’ve ever been on anything else in my life. It won’t be a pink slip. The Magician is going to make my career, Cadie. I’m sure of it.”
“The Magician?”
He laughed. “Yeah. That’s what we call him. My source. Because he made so many things magically disappear. Of course, you know him better as the Pigeon . . .”
“Oh!”
He smiled as he watched me laugh, but the smile grew more subdued as one of his hands made its way from my waist to my hair. He tucked a strand behind my ear and then traced the strand with his fingers as it fell—across my temple, brushing my ear, gently down my jawbone and neck. When his palm reached my collarbone, the strand of hair ended, but his hand lingered. Eventually—too soon, too late—his fingers made their way upward on my throat, finally resting on my chin, which he directed his way as his lips made their approach.
“I feel like I owe you an apology for more than just the past few days,” he muttered as he placed soft kisses up and down my jawline. “It’s kind of been a whole year of misfires and miscommunication, I think.”
Tears sprang to my eyes. “You knew that? I mean . . . you know?”
He sighed. “Of course I know.” His lips ceased their onslaught and he held my face in both of his hands. “And I know things haven’t been the same between us for so long. I just . . . I just haven’t known what to do about it. I know that it’s not just about being ready. It needs to be right. So every second of every day for the past year, I’ve tried to do what’s right. Sometimes that’s really difficult. Sometimes, like right now. When something big happens in life and there is literally no one else I need to tell about it, and then I’m looking at you, and you’re so beautiful. And it’s just tough to remember that there is anything that matters more than you.” His fingers made their way through my hair. “I am madly in love with you, Cadie McCaffrey, and at the end of the day, I know we want the same thing—”
Wooing Cadie McCaffrey Page 6
