by Hope Tarr
Joe sent me a postcard from Europe, and he called me when he returned. He told me all about his fabulous trip, and when he finished, he asked me out to dinner. And that’s when I told him that while he was away I’d gotten engaged to the guy I’d been seriously dating. He congratulated me, wished me all the best, and that was it.
Well, not exactly. The problem was that I was only engaged for a few weeks when I realized I was making a mistake. The man I’d become engaged to was a good person, and I cared for him deeply, but I knew in my heart he wasn’t The One. He hadn’t done anything wrong, but he just wasn’t the right person. I waited a few more weeks before breaking things off with him, just to be certain I was doing the right thing and truly knew my own mind. But I was sure. I wasn’t engaged to the right man.
Now, at that point, I wasn’t positive Joe was necessarily Mr. Right—I only knew the man I was engaged to wasn’t him. After I gave back the ring and ended my engagement, I took a bit of time to reassess and get myself back together again.
And then I called Joe.
I’ll never forget that phone call. Keeping in mind that this was the days before cell phones, his sister answered. She told me Joe was in Indianapolis for the week for work and staying at the Marriott. I called the hotel and was connected to Joe’s room. When he answered, it was clear there was a party going on—lots of laughing and noise and chatter. Joe explained that since he’d been at the hotel for several weeks for work, he was a “regular,” and at his request a small piano had been moved into his suite. All his co-workers were there, and Joe was playing Beatles songs. I told him I was calling to tell him I wasn’t engaged any longer, and I wanted to know if his dinner invite was still open. He didn’t say yes—he shouted it. I wasn’t sure if that was because he was really happy or just because it was so noisy, but I took it as a good sign. He told me, months later, that when I told him I was engaged, he’d actually cried—a sentiment I thought was so sweet it made me cry.
That phone call took place in September 1984, and by the following spring I was sure Joe was The One and I knew he felt the same. In July 1985, we went to a Chinese restaurant for dinner after work. Joe was acting really weird—very nervous, which was odd, as he’s normally very calm. After dinner I excused myself to visit the ladies’ room. Now, this might fall under the category of Too Much Information, but it’s pertinent to the story, so here it is. Back in 1985, women wore pantyhose. It was July and it was hot, and after using the facilities, I had a heck of a time pulling those stupid pantyhose up my sweaty legs. It was like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube. Because it was a difficult feat—one I was determined to accomplish without destroying my hose—I was gone for a bit of time. When I returned to the table, Joe had this unnerved look on his face. He said, “What took you so long? Dessert is here!” He pointed to a silver bowl with a scoop of half-melted chocolate ice cream with a fortune cookie on top.
Since I didn’t really want to explain the sweaty legs/pantyhose problem, I just said, “Sorry,” but I was thinking, Wow, he must have had a really bad day at the office.
I picked up my somewhat soggy fortune cookie, broke it open, and pulled out the fortune. It read: I love you very much. I turned it over. The other side read: Will you marry me?
At least now I understood why he’d been acting as if he had a grenade in his pants all evening. I looked him in the eyes (his were wide and very deer-in-the-headlights), leaned across the table and whispered, “Honey, I think the waiter really likes me.”
For several seconds, he didn’t say anything. Then all the color drained from his face. “The waiter didn’t write that,” he said, sounding totally panicked. “I did!”
I instantly felt bad for teasing him, because there was no doubt he was totally freaked out. I assured him I knew he’d written it and told him yes. Yes, yes, yes! The next day he sent me a dozen roses, and we began a yearlong engagement that culminated in a beautiful wedding. Four and a half years later we welcomed our son, Christopher, who has grown into an amazing young man. He graduated college last year and now runs an organic farm. Last year, for our twenty-seventh anniversary, Joe and I visited Las Vegas.
He bought me front-row tickets to the Donny and Marie show—so I could see the first boy I ever loved with the last boy I’ll ever love.
And that is just one of the gazillion reasons why I still love him all these years later and why he is at the heart of every hero I’ve ever written.
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jacquie D’Alessandro has written more than thirty books spanning the historical, paranormal, contemporary romantic comedy, women’s fiction, and non-fiction genres. Her books have been published in over twenty-one languages. Jacquie grew up on Long Island, New York, graduated from Hofstra University and now lives in Georgia with her husband and son. No matter what genre she’s writing in, all of Jacquie’s books are filled with two of her favorite things—love and laughter. Visit her online at www.jacquied.com.
Socks with Sandals
By Katana Collins
It was painfully humid out and beads of sweat gathered at the nape of my neck as we walked the five blocks to the art supply store. I was a freshman in college and had just met Eliza, the girl who would become my lifelong best friend.
The store was swarming with students. The air conditioner hummed from above and goose bumps covered my glistening arms as it spit frigid air over my body in short, sharp hisses. My corduroy overalls made a zip noise as the pant legs brushed against each other and the straps kept falling off my shoulders, down past my dark blue shirt. The stiff material brushed against the soft skin of my bicep. I could feel the handkerchief I wore as a headband starting to slip, and I tugged it back into place between pinched fingers.
I reached for something called a rubber brayer. As my fingertips brushed the hard plastic casing, a deep voice spoke quietly from my right side. “You won’t use that. They always say to buy it, but I’ve been drawing for years and have never needed one.”
I looked to the right without moving my head, my body frozen in its position. He was tall, towering more than a foot over me. He had chiseled features: an angular nose, a strong chin and a jawline so sharp, it could slice through glass. His brow bone was so pronounced that it cast a shadow over deep-set blue eyes. His muscles rippled beneath his black wifebeater, and he wore faded jeans and Chucks. Two earrings hung from the cartilage of his left ear, and his light brown hair, though short, curled around the outside of the bandanna he had tied around his head.
I released the tool that was in my hand. All I could answer was, “Oh.”
He nodded and brushed past me, not smiling but not frowning. Not much of a talker, apparently.
After about thirty minutes, my basket was full of pencils, charcoal, paint, brushes, newsprint, and any other generic art supply you could think of. Eliza and I were already heading to the long checkout line, and when we reached the end, we prepared ourselves for a long wait. Standing directly in front of me was the guy in the orange bandanna. Eliza didn’t seem to notice him. I quickly turned my back to him. Still, I kept shifting my weight back and forth, knowing he was within earshot.
Eliza’s basket was spilling with even more junk than mine, and she rummaged through it, making sure she hadn’t missed anything from her list. “Are you taking any photography classes this quarter?”
“No. I probably could have switched my schedule in order to, but I figured that’s what everyone would be trying to do.” The metal handle of my basket was starting to pinch the skin on my forearm, so I shifted it to the other side.
Eliza still didn’t look up. “Yeah, I saw my advisor today. I didn’t want to have to wait to start classes within my major.”
There was a huff, a stifled laugh, from bandanna guy in front of us. Eliza looked confused, and my eyebrows rose defensively. I continued, ignoring his outburst. “Did you manage to get a theater class in, too?”
Eliza was still looking over my shoulder at the guy behind me. �
��No, I could only choose one battle, so I went with photography.” After she finished this sentence, she mouthed the words, Do you know him?
I shook my head, and when I turned to look over my shoulder, he was already glancing in my direction with an arrogant tip to his lips. “That’s true,” I looked back at Eliza. “I figured since I was auditioning for the fall musical, I didn’t need to take a theater class right now.”
This time he belly-laughed, without even attempting to swallow or hide it.
“Excuse me.” I spun to face him. “Does our conversation amuse you?”
He put a closed fist in front of his mouth, trying to compose himself. “I’m sorry.” He said the words, but they just didn’t seem sincere. “It just explains so much.” He said this in a way that suggested I was supposed to know what he was talking about. He paused, and I raised my eyebrows, my gaze returning his blankly. He continued, “You know. You. Being an actress.” His smile was bright and showed a row of beautifully straight teeth.
My eyes narrowed. “Yes, I am an actress. And that explains what exactly? My natural charm? My ability to clearly catch your attention?”
“I was gonna say your loud mouth.” He laughed, mischief flashing in his crystal-blue eyes. “So what are you doing at this school? Acting is hardly an art form.”
He was trying to get a rise out of me. I felt like I was back in kindergarten, and he was the boy who sat behind me, tugging on my braids. “You’ve obviously never seen me act, then.”
“Touché.”
“So what is it you study, Mr. Arteest.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, I am a sequential art major.” He stopped there, without further explanation.
“And what is that exactly?” I tried to elongate my spine to appear taller in front of him.
“It’s, uh, like illustration.”
Eliza cut in, her voice sharp. “Sequential art isn’t illustration…it’s comic book art.”
I laughed louder than I intended and had to press my lips together in order to stop. “Let me get this straight…in your mind, comics are more of an art form than theater?”
His long arm reached around, rubbing the back of his neck. “To be fair, I never claimed to be an artist, either.” He grinned. “Which dorm did they put you in?”
“Turner,” I answered, nodding my head in the direction.
“How’s the food there? Pretty bad?”
“No, actually,” I said. “It surprised me how good it was.”
With a quirk of his lips, he opened his mouth to say more as the sales associate at the register shouted, “Next!” I could have thrown my charcoal right at her face for interrupting us. Bandanna guy made his way to the counter, taking a moment to glance once more at me from over his shoulder.
I paid first, leaving Eliza inside at a register and went outside for a reprieve from the frigid air conditioner. As I pushed open the doors, I saw him waiting there for me, leaning against the brick of the building with one foot propped up behind him. I smiled and shielded my eyes from the bright sunlight. “Well, hey again.”
“Hi.” He was squinting one eye tighter than the other in the sunlight. “So I was thinking, the dorm food can’t be that good.” He spoke in an exaggerated tone. “You need a real meal. Like at a restaurant. With me.”
I smiled, dropping my one free hand down to my thigh. “I think you’re right.”
“I’m Sean.” He handed me a piece of paper with his name and number on it. As his hand reached across to mine, I noticed him looking intently at my bag. His direction shifted, and he reached in and pulled out the rubber brayer from before. “I thought I told you that you didn’t need this.”
I plucked it from his grasp and tossed it back into my bag. “I don’t trust a man’s opinion who doesn’t consider what I do an art form.” While I was saying this, Eliza came outside carrying two shopping bags.
I brushed past his shoulder, and as we were walking Eliza leaned in to me. “You really don’t need that, you know.”
I didn’t look at her but spoke through the side of my mouth. “Shh, I know. I’m returning it tomorrow.”
He was picking me up at 7:30 P.M. I had an hour to get ready, although it had been all I thought about all day. Eliza sat on my bed as I rummaged through my closet, desperate to find the perfect outfit.
My head was tucked between clothing that draped off of hangers. Spotting a colorful blue and brown wrap dress, I seized it with my right hand, flinging it off of its hanger and held it up to my body. “Yes?”
Scrunching her nose, Eliza shook her head. “It’s trying too hard.” She had a point. And what if he showed up in jogging shorts and Adidas running shoes? I didn’t know where he was taking me. I had to go with something casual that also looked mature, especially since the first and only time we had met, I was wearing overalls. I bit my lip and fell onto my bed into a heap of clothes I had already looked through. The clock on my nightstand blinked 6:38. Less than an hour to pick an outfit, style my hair, and do my makeup. I originally thought this would be plenty of time. It had never taken me more than half an hour to prepare for a date in high school. But, then again, I had never been asked out by someone as old as Sean before. He was almost twenty-one. I had just turned eighteen a month before. He was a junior. I was a freshman. As an eighteen-year-old girl, this age difference felt wild and dangerous. And it baffled me; I hardly seemed his type. He was tall, muscular, worked out constantly, was on crew. And I was…well, I was me. A typical teenage girl fresh off the bus from the suburbs. Wide-eyed, driven to change the world, and not yet tainted by its sadistic jokes. I sat up, leaning on my elbows. On the floor lay my crumpled jeans I had worn to class that day. They were a dark stonewash color and still clean. Well, basically clean. I sprang off my elbows, grabbing them and a few other articles and scuttled into my bathroom to change. I emerged from the bathroom wearing the jeans, which sat low on my hips in an understated, sexy way, a long-sleeved dark green boatneck shirt, a snakeskin belt with a sparkly marcasite buckle, and faux snakeskin mules that peeked out from under the hems of my jeans. Liza’s eyes lit as she saw me, a smile spreading wide across her face, and she clapped as if I had just given an amazing performance.
I was wearing my brown plastic-rimmed glasses and Liza sprang off the bed. Walking at me, she reached out and yanked the glasses off my face. “Overkill.”
“Liza, those weren’t just for show. I can’t see without them.”
Fifty-two minutes later, I had put my contacts in, straightened my hair, and put on makeup—even eyeliner, which I absolutely detested. No matter how I tried, I always ended up poking myself in the eyeball.
“Well?” I held out my hands, doing a little twirl.
Eliza nodded, approving. “Perfect.”
There was a knock at my door; two large thumps that caused me to jump nervously. I forced myself to walk slowly to the door, my legs itching to run, and when I looked behind me, Eliza had jumped up as well and was following at my heels. “Be cool,” I whispered at her, which she answered with an exaggerated eye roll.
I swung the door open, and there he stood. He was as good-looking as I remembered him being. Wearing aviator sunglasses despite it being twilight, a red plaid shirt with the buttons open, revealing a gray wifebeater underneath, dark jeans, and lastly, when I reached his feet…open sandals with bright white socks. I inwardly groaned, hoping Eliza wouldn’t notice the last detail.
He removed his sunglasses, and his eyes traveled the length of my body, leaving a shiver on my spine in its wake. If he was trying to be subtle, he failed miserably. “Wow, you look great,” he said.
“Thanks,” I sighed, relieved that I hadn’t worn a dress. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” I smiled back at him. He leaned to the right, looking over my shoulder. “Hey, Liza. Good to see you again.”
“Should we get going?”
“Sure.” He smiled. “Oh, you should grab a jacket. It’s supposed to get chilly tonight.” I turned to go into my clos
et but realized if I were to do so, he would see what a mess it was. In my frenzy of getting ready, I hadn’t thought to clean up a little. I made a mental note for next time.
Sensing the panic in my eyes, Eliza handed me her denim jacket that was draped over her arm. “Here,” she said, “I forgot you wanted to borrow this tonight.” I exhaled my held breath and reached out to take it from her, silently mouthing, Thank you. She sent me a wink as the jacket slipped from her grip.
Our dinner was lovely and casual. Conversation flowed as easily as the chocolate fudge out of the lava cake we shared. The restaurant was only a short drive from the beach, and after dinner, we found ourselves walking along the pier.
His hand snaked into mine, lacing our fingers. His eyes widened. “Your hands are freezing.”
Even with Liza’s jacket, I was still cold, the wind from the ocean whipping around our faces, whistling a romantic tune in our ears. It was crazy to me how drastically the weather could change down here along the ocean. His hands curled around my waist and lifted me onto the railing of the pier. Taking off his fleece, he pulled it over my head.
A moment passed as his gaze lingered on my face. As though he was taking inventory of every little detail. I fidgeted and rubbed my hands together to rid myself of the chill. I slipped off my shoes and carried them in one hand when we resumed walking.
The sand was refreshing and cool as it squished between my toes. Without my realizing it, he had stopped walking, giving my hand a tug and swinging me around so that we were face-to-face. My breath shortened and caught in the back of my throat. Tilting my chin with his index finger, he lowered his face to mine and kissed me. The warmth of his mouth branded my lips, and I stiffened against him. It was a man’s kiss. A man’s desire. The first kiss I’d ever experienced that truly made me feel like a woman. A tornado rushed from where his lips touched mine and spiraled all the way down my body to my toes. I was immediately warm again, pleasure ripping through my senses. He ended the kiss, his blue eyes darkening. Instead of going in for a second kiss, he wrapped his arms tighter around me and picked me up in an embrace. My nose buried into the curve of where his neck turned into his shoulder, and my lips eventually rested there. His skin tasted salty like the ocean. He lowered me back to the sand, and my arms unraveled from his neck, squeezing the taut muscles at his shoulders. I was dizzy and feared I would fall if I let go too quickly. His skin, though tan, looked nearly translucent in the moonlight. He pressed his forehead to mine and reached up to cover one of my hands with his. Lowering it to his side, we continued walking, but in the opposite direction, back to his car. Ocean waves crashed against the jetties and then fizzled, retreating deeper into the sea.
