Living Out Loud

by Staci Hart

I took it, tugging at the cellophane wrapper before popping it into my mouth. It really did make me feel a little better. Or maybe my mouth just needed something to do so it would shut the fuck up already.

  Either way, when I spoke again, it was with a little more control. “He’s not a good guy. I know because he dated my sister.”

  I told them an abbreviated version of what had happened with Sarah, and their faces grew heavier with every word.

  “Okay, I see the problem,” Cam started. “And we all know you’re into Annie.”

  “It’s that obvious, huh?”

  “Like a blinking neon sign, dude,” Rose said, opening and closing her hands at me like they were in fact blinking lights.

  I sighed and closed my lips around the sucker stick, working that candy like I might find answers in the middle. “I had this big, stupid plan to take her out today, but he was here to take her on a fucking date. A date! And now I feel like a fool and a creep and a loser while she’s fawning over that asshole.”

  “Are they together?” Rose asked.

  “I mean, they’ve known each other for, like, five minutes. They’ve never even been on a date—until today.” I sulked.

  Cam nodded. “Then there’s still time. You just need a plan. I don’t think you’re wrong to want to get her away from him. And I’ve seen you two together at work. It’s obvious you guys have chemistry.”

  “Cam,” Rose warned.

  “What?” she asked innocently. “You even said you saw it too, so don’t act like I’m off base.”

  Rose rolled her eyes.

  “I’m just saying,” Cam said, turning back to me, “until it’s, like, official, I feel like you’ve got some wiggle room. You could ask her to the historical costume mixer. I know she loves historicals, so I have a feeling she’d be way into it.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “Yeah, I guess, but we’ll both be working.”

  “What other ideas do you have?” Cam asked. “You should have seen her talking about your day together. Based on that alone, I’d say you definitely have a shot.”

  The thought only made me feel more miserable. “I was thinking about asking Rose for tickets to the ballet. One of Annie’s things on her list is to see a Broadway show.”

  Cam lit up. “Oh my God, do it. Take her to the Russian Tea Room and the ballet. Do it. Do it!” She bounced in her seat. “Rose, get him tickets!”

  Rose laughed. “I can get you tickets, easy.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little obvious?” I asked.

  “Well, why be subtle? It’s romantic, and she’ll feel like a princess,” Cam insisted. “If there’s anything between you, she won’t be able to avoid it after a night like that. Think of it like…like a litmus test.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t even know if she’ll agree.”

  At that, Cam smiled with mischief on her mind. “Well, you know I’ll help however I can. Need me to create an elaborate ruse? No prob. Well-placed encouragement? Consider it done.”

  And just like that, my fluttering hope was back, and my sense of self-preservation was shot. “You think I can honestly make it happen?”

  “I know so. Don’t you worry.”

  And for a brief, blissful moment, I let myself believe.

  Annie

  I took Will’s arm and let him usher me out of Wasted Words, but my mind was turned back to Greg.

  He was upset, and I was the reason.

  If I hadn’t had plans with Will, I would have gone with Greg on the donut scavenger hunt in a heartbeat—not just because I enjoyed spending time with him so much, but because I really wanted to talk to him. I had a million questions for him but no opportunity to ask.

  He’d remembered my mention of something in passing, found a way to see it through, and come to work on his day off to deliver it to me. The gesture was considerate and kind, and telling him no hurt—not just because I wanted to go, but because of the look of disappointment on his face.

  I wanted to see Greg happy, wanted to make him happy, wanted to give him a million yeses. And I would have, if it hadn’t been for Will. Who was, if I had to guess, the other reason Greg was so upset. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye when I said goodbye.

  Judging by the testosterone fumes left lingering in the air, I thought they’d had words again, and I wanted to know what they were. It was no surprise they didn’t get along. I knew Greg was protective, and if Will had hurt his sister, Greg would have defended her with his last breath.

  And I was itching to hear the story from Greg. Because what Will had said, especially about Greg hating him for having money, didn’t sound like the Greg I knew at all.

  I knew Greg well enough to know that he was solid and loyal and honorable. He wouldn’t lie, and if he had a problem, there was probably just cause.

  On really thinking about it, I realized I knew him better than I’d fully admitted. There was a strange connection between us, something latent and natural. It just was. We just were.

  It was a reminder of how little control we had over chemistry. When you typically met someone, you found commonality, connections, topics for conversation, but it was some level of work, even if it was enjoyable work. It took effort. But sometimes, we met people we fell into stride with so naturally that the connection required no thought or cultivation; it threw all of your other relationships into shadow by the sheer brilliance of the light.

  That was Greg and me—easy and uninhibited, a joining of two streams to make a river.

  Which is why he’s such a great friend, I told the part of myself that imagined it could be more than that.

  “You okay?” Will asked as he opened the car door.

  “I was just thinking about Greg,” I said before climbing in.

  Will stiffened, waiting for me to scoot all the way in before getting in behind me. “What about him?”

  “Did you fight? He seemed upset.”

  Will rolled his shoulder in a shrug. “He doesn’t like me, Annie, and he never will.”

  I frowned at the prospect that they’d never get along. “You can’t be civil?”

  “I can. I don’t know if he can.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” I resolved, the conversation already working in my mind.

  He let out a sigh. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

  “Psh, I run strictly on hopes.”

  That earned me a little bit of a smile.

  I changed the subject in the interest of not ruining my first date. “So, where are we going?”

  He reached for my hand. “You’ll see. How was your day?”

  “Largely uneventful until there at the end,” I teased. “How about you?”

  “The worst. I’ve been waiting all day for this.” He smiled, a sweet, genuine curve of his lips.

  “Where do you work?”

  The smile faltered. “I’m in between things right now.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. College and adulthood,” he said. “I graduated from Yale last year, but I’m not ready to lock into a career. Fortunately, I’m in the unique position to do absolutely nothing for as long as I want.”

  I chuckled. “Must be nice.”

  “It is. My parents even approve; can you believe that? My dad said he took a few years off to travel and said I should do the same.”

  “Well,” I started, “if you’d lived a couple hundred years ago in England, you would have been a gentleman. Like, that would have been your job—to do nothing.”

  He shook his head with mock regret. “I always thought I was an old soul.”

  I laughed, and he pulled me a little closer until I was leaning into him.

  “Speaking of gentlemen in historical England…”

  “That’s an unexpected segue.”

  “Speaking of,” I continued, “there’s a costume mixer at the bar later this week, and I was wondering what you were doing Friday night.”

  One corner of his lips rose. “Are you asking me on a date?”


  “I guess I am. That is, unless you’re dead inside and you hate costume parties.”

  “I love costume parties, especially costume parties I get to attend with a gorgeous girl on my arm. What’s the theme?”

  “Well, it’s historical night—we’re supposed to dress up as half of a fictional historical couple. Guys who wear cravats get five-dollar wells. Otherwise, they won’t dress up.”

  A laugh burst out of him. “Yeah, I could see that. So, who do you want to go as? Lizzie and Darcy?”

  My mouth popped open in surprise. “You know Pride and Prejudice?”

  He shrugged, but he looked mighty proud of himself. “I was a lit major.”

  “You took a course on Jane Austen at Yale?”

  “I took a class in romance in classical literature. Pride and Prejudice was at the top of the reading list, as was Byron, works from each Brontë sister, Shakespeare’s sonnets—to name a few.”

  I stared at him, so blissfully stunned, I couldn’t speak for a moment. “That might be the hottest thing I’ve ever heard a man say.”

  He pulled me a little closer. “Oh, but you haven’t even heard the good stuff.”

  I laughed to stop myself from sighing and melting into him like warm butter on a biscuit.

  “So, no,” I said, trying to get a handle on my brain, “not Lizzie and Darcy—too predictable. I was actually thinking of doing a newer historical. My first thought was to pick one of Julia Quinn’s couples. Have you heard of her?”

  “No, I haven’t, but I don’t read much romance.”

  “That’s fair, but these aren’t just romances; these are fairy tales. They’re the most satisfying, entertaining stories, books that touch your heart, make you feel, make you want to sing and dance and laugh and cry, all within a few pages,” I said earnestly and with a little too much enthusiasm.

  He smiled down at me. “Well then, I’ll have to read one. Which one should I start with?”

  “Would you really read one? Really?”

  “Of course I will,” he said on a laugh.

  “Well,” I said excitedly, “my favorite is Eloise’s book, but—oh! Francesca’s, ugh, it’s so good, and there’s this big, beautiful Scotsman. But maybe…” I thought for a second, assessing his face like I was going to determine what color he would wear best. “You know, I think you should read Anthony’s book. Enemies to lovers,” I said with a waggle of my brows. “I’ll pick one up for you at Wasted Words. We have a billion copies or something.”

  “A billion? That’s a lot of books. So, which couple should we go as?”

  “Sophie and Benedict,” I answered definitively. “It’s a Cinderella story, and her gown is just beautiful…” I trailed off, my heart sinking. “I don’t know where I might actually get a dress like that.”

  “I bet I can find one. My brother’s on Broadway, and he has access to, like, a billion costumes.”

  I gaped, slack-jawed again. “He sings on Broadway? Like, the Broadway?”

  “The one and only.”

  I couldn’t even wrap my head around it. “What’s he in?”

  “Right now, he’s in Hamilton.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  He shook his head. “I’d never joke about something so serious as the theater.”

  I laughed.

  “I can get tickets to pretty much anything too, if you want to go.”

  “That would actually blow my mind. I might not survive.”

  “As long as it doesn’t blow your heart, I’ll take you.”

  “No promises on that either.”

  The car pulled over in the park, and Will straightened up, smiling. “Ah, we’re here.”

  He opened the door and slid out, extending his hand, which I took. A moment later, we were walking toward the reservoir.

  “You took me by surprise, Annie,” he said as we approached the place where we’d met.

  “A fainting girl will do that, I’ve heard,” I teased.

  “But it’s more than that. You’re just…different.”

  “Good different or bad different?”

  He pulled me to a stop. “Good. Definitely good.” And then he turned me around to face a grassy knoll where a gorgeous picnic lay, spread out over a massive plaid.

  I sucked in a breath, swinging around to face him. “Will, it’s perfect!”

  And as I tugged him toward the blanket, he laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound.

  A charcuterie board was stacked with freshly cut meats and cheeses, a basket stuffed with bread was at its side, and another little tray held tiny jars with sauces and spreads. Another board held crackers and more cheese—glorious cheese—and was broken up by bundles of grapes and stacks of apple slices. There were trays of tarts and chocolate-covered strawberries, blocks of white and dark chocolate. It was a bona fide feast, laid out on a navy-and-emerald tartan.

  “How in the world did you manage all this?” I asked as I sat, wide-eyed, to one side of the spread.

  Will sat opposite me, still looking absolutely delighted. And delightful. “Well, would you think I was an asshole if I said my cook put together the picnic?”

  I laughed, a little shocked. He had a cook. Of course he had a cook.

  “And then I had my assistant come set it all up and wait for us so no one jacked it.”

  I raised my eyebrows, smirking as I stacked cheese and sausage on a cracker. “Your assistant?”

  He flushed a little, rubbing the back of his neck, but he was smiling. “I know. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Well, thank him for me. Or her?”

  “Him.”

  I felt a petty measure of relief that it wasn’t a woman. “It’s perfect. Today is perfect. Yesterday was perfect. Everything’s just…”

  “Perfect?”

  I laughed and popped the cracker in my mouth.

  Perfect.

  A few hours later, we were sitting in the back of a horse-drawn carriage, circling Central Park. The sun had set, and it had gotten colder, but I was warm, tucked into Will’s side under the heavy blanket.

  He’d been the best sport, not teasing me when I broke out my camera a dozen times to note the moments. But I hadn’t told him about my list, which made it that much sweeter when he didn’t lose his patience or seem bored while I fooled with the charcuterie board or when I asked him to take a selfie with me. In fact, he’d asked me to take two so he could have one too.

  I sighed, feeling lazy and happy and a little like I was dreaming as we ambled around the park. Neither of us had spoken for a while, the silence between us content, the time marked by the clop of the horse’s hooves and the gentle swaying of the carriage.

  “You know,” I started, “when my dad died, I made this list of things I’d never done before.”

  He pulled me a little closer but didn’t interrupt.

  “We lost so much. Not just him, which was devastating on its own. Mama lost her legs, and we lost our home, our lives. And I wondered, How will we ever survive? How can we dust ourselves off and go on?” I took a slow breath that left me in a puff of smoke. “So, I started writing down all the things I’d never done, things I wanted to do. Ways to fill up my life and my heart. Because I didn’t want to live quietly anymore. I wanted to live loudly. I didn’t want to wait for life to come to me. I didn’t want to experience it through books and music alone; I wanted to do the things that inspired me.”

  “Has it worked?” he asked quietly.

  “It has. It’s given me hope when I thought hope was lost.”

  Will didn’t say anything for a moment, and neither did I.

  “So,” he said, breaking the silence, “what kinds of things are on your list?”

  “Oh, lots of things—most of them silly, some of them not. Like, I wanted to eat a hot dog out of a cart and traverse the Brooklyn Bridge. There are some books I’ve always wanted to read. I want to eat ice cream when it’s snowing and dance on the beach in the moonlight. I want to live, and my list exists as a way
to make that living tangible and achievable.”

  Will didn’t speak for a moment, but when he did, his voice had a strange quality to it, velvety and wondrous.

  Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—

  Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

  And watching, with eternal lids apart,

  Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,

  The moving waters at their priestlike task

  Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores…

  “I can never remember the—” he started.

  And my throat tightened as I recited the rest.

  Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

  Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—

  No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

  Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,

  To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

  Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

  Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

  And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

  “Keats,” I breathed. “I love that poem.”

  “It describes you exactly, I think. You’re a wonder, Annie. I’ve never known anyone quite like you.”

  I turned in his arms and looked into his eyes, emboldened by our connection. “Did you know that this entire date was on my list?”

  He smiled. “Is it?”

  I nodded, feeling a rush of anticipation zip through me when his gaze dropped to my lips.

  “What else is on this list that I should know about?”

  “I’ve never been kissed.” It was a permission wrapped up in a request, and I held my breath as I waited for his answer.

  His eyes caught mine and held them. “How is that even possible?”

  I shrugged and looked down, my confidence faltering.

  But he touched my chin and lifted it until our eyes met. “Well,” he said softly, “I think I’d like to be the one who crosses that off, too.”

  He leaned in, our breath mingling, and then…he kissed me.

  For something I’d thought so much about, something I’d anticipated for so many years, I found myself stiff and still and unsure. His lips pressed mine—not too hard, not too soft, wet but not too wet.

  Perfectly adequate by all scales I had at my disposal—which, admittedly, weren’t vast.