by Roya Carmen
“I really don’t think we should call them,” I say, putting on my best all-business face. “I don’t think it’s a very good idea.”
Gabe seems disappointed. “You don’t think having fun with a cool couple is a good idea?”
Right. I know where he’s going with this—the woman looks like a Maxim cover. Gabe always talks me into things. But not this time.
“Not this couple. Not with the way she was looking at you all night.” If he thinks I hadn’t noticed, he’s sadly mistaken.
He smiles and closes the distance between us. “C’mon…You liked the looks of him too,” he points out as he wraps his arms around my waist. “It could be fun,” he adds, his expression playful.
“You know exactly what fun like that leads to.”
“I’ll behave,” he promises.
“Oh…it’s not you I don’t trust…it’s her.”
“I promise I’ll be good…if you promise to be good too.”
And we both laugh a little.
Maybe I’m being a little neurotic. I’m always blowing things out of proportion. I’m sure they’re not interested in playing naked Twister together. All we’re talking about is probably a nice dinner out. And Gabe’s right—we are completely anti-social—we need more friends.
Damn, part of me wants this, despite every bone in my body telling me not to.
“I heard about the flowers,” Gwen tells me the first chance she gets. “Sylvia told me all about them.”
Yep…Sylvia has a big mouth. She’s probably told the whole staff.
“They were from that couple you met on Saturday night, right? That gorgeous lust at first sight guy,” she whispers.
I can’t hide anything from Gwen.
“Yes,” I mouth, looking nervously over my shoulder. I’m kind of embarrassed about this silly crush. It is utterly ridiculous—I’m acting like a foolish teenager.
“And they left their number?” she asks, her eyes bright. “Did you call them?”
That Sylvia sure didn’t skimp on the details.
“No,” I say with conviction, “of course not.”
“And I hear they were purple roses. How fun.”
“Lavender actually. I didn’t even know those existed.”
“That’s interesting.” Her brows arch together, in deep thought. “I wonder what that means.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, red roses mean romantic love,” she explains, her big brown eyes staring out into the empty school hall. “And yellow roses mean friendship. But I have no clue what lavender roses mean.”
“I don’t either.” I’d never thought about a hidden meaning in the flowers. But now I’m curious.
“We are so Googling this,” she shrills.
“Uh…I was kind of hoping to eat my lunch.”
She drags me by the arm. Our heels click loudly against the tiled floor. “This is way more important than sustenance, sweetie.”
I stand there, chomping on my wrap, admitting to myself the truth—we are shameless—acting like giddy junior high girls. Gwen is definitely guiltier than I am. She’s even bouncing up and down a little on her chair, her long tresses dancing. She types in “lavender roses meaning,” and in no time, she finds what she’s looking for.
“Oh…my…God,” she whispers, in slow motion. She turns to me, slack-jawed “Love…at…first…sight.” Her words are carefully measured. “That’s what it means.”
My breath catches. My heart pounds. I feel my face flush. “It…d-does not,” I struggle to say as my eyes devour the screen.
“I wonder if they have any clue what they just sent you,” Gwen says, eyes still fixed on the screen. “Most people don’t realize that colors have special significance when it comes to roses.”
“You’re right. Probably doesn’t mean anything. It’s most likely just a coincidence. I’m sure they just like lavender,” I add, not quite convincing myself. “I told you he was wearing a purple shirt and tie.” This makes it too real. This needs to be a coincidence. A silly one-sided crush is one thing, but a strong mutual attraction is another altogether. This spells t-r-o-u-b-l-e.
Gwen turns to me, wide-eyed. “Are you going to call them?”
I can’t. I just can’t.
“God, I want to,” I confess. “But what about the whole ‘I shouldn’t mess up what I’ve got going with Gabe’ thing?” I ask, almost pleading her to talk some sense into me and convince me to do the right thing. “I shouldn’t, right?”
She bites her lip, pondering my question for a beat. “Yep, you should probably just ignore the flowers,” she finally says. “But jeez, that’s going to be practically impossible. I know you…”
“You’re right.”
She twirls a lock of hair and perks up. “But then again…we’re probably just talking about dinner here. They’re married…you’re married. But…you could be playing with fire…you just never really know with these things.”
I start to wonder if Gwen is living vicariously through me. She wants to see where this goes. It’s her own little live-action soap opera. But unfortunately, soap operas always have drama, and the last thing I need in my life is drama.
“So you think I should throw out the card?” I ask, still convinced that if anyone can steer me in the right direction, it’s probably her. She truly wants the best for me—she’s my best friend.
“Yep, I think so,” she says, turning to the screen. “That’s what you should do, sweetie.” But then, she turns to face me again. “But one thing I do know is,” she says, her voice soft. “You’ll always wonder if you don’t call.”
She’s absolutely right.
“Let’s do it,” I tell Gabe as soon as he gets home from work. “Let’s call them.” As I’m saying the words out loud, I feel like I’m jumping into a cold lake in the middle of October. I can’t help but wonder if I’m crazy.
“Are you sure?” he asks, a grin stretched across his face. He’s into this as much as I am.
I tell myself I’m being way too dramatic—I’ve been reading too much into things. We’ll probably get together and share a lovely meal. And once the initial attraction fades, we’ll get to know each other and become great friends.
“Why not? We always complain we don’t have enough couple friends.”
“That’s true. Are you calling them tonight?” he asks, hanging his jacket.
I’m putting the final touches on supper—spaghetti and meatballs and a garden salad. “Later tonight, after we put the girls to bed.”
Claire and Chloe are sitting at the kitchen table, drawing on blank sheets of paper. Gabe walks over to them and kisses them both on the tops of their heads. “I know two little girls who are going to bed early tonight,” he teases, with that mischievous smile I love so much.
“We are not,” Chloe says with conviction. “No way.”
“Yeah, we are not,” Claire echoes her big sister.
I laugh a little—there’s no way these two are going to bed early.
Gabe and I are simply going to have to wait to see how this little soap opera pans out.
Telephone receiver in hand, I open my desk drawer and retrieve the card. I’ve asked Gabe to give me five minutes—the last thing I need is him hovering over me. I can’t believe how nervous I feel. It seems ridiculous that I should feel so on edge. I’ve done this before…it’s just a phone call, for heaven’s sake.
As I stare at the gorgeous bouquet of roses on my desk, the line rings repeatedly and relief washes over me—yes, I can leave a message—so much less awkward.
But then, he answers.
Damn.
“Weston Hanson.” His tone is very formal and business-like, and I realize I’m probably calling his cell, not his home phone. I’m still reeling from the shock of his voice when he says, “Hello,” with slight irritation in his voice.
“Oh…hi…” I stammer. “Hi, Weston, it’s Mirella…from the—”
“Hi, Mirella.” His voice is soft and swee
t, just as I remember it.
“Uh…hi,” I hesitate. I’m not sure where to start. “Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like them.”
“I do.” I say, wishing this conversation wasn’t so damn nerve-racking. I’ve got nothing more—my brain is off the clock.
After a few awkward seconds, he’s the first to break the dreadful silence. “Bridget and I…were wondering if you’d like to go out with us…again?” he asks, his words hesitant. I can tell he’s a little nervous too, and it helps me relax a bit.
“Of course. We would love it,” I reply, trying to sound unaffected.
I am so affected.
“Great,” he says, his voice cheerful. “Do you two like Malaysian food?”
I’m not quite sure how to answer that. I know I like Chinese food, and Thai, but not Japanese. But I’ve never had Malaysian food, and I don’t really want to admit that and confess that I’m just a plain, boring, unworldly suburbanite—I am speaking to Mr. Sophisticated & Worldly here.
“We love it,” I finally say.
He laughs softly. “You certainly had to think about that one for a while,” he teases. “Are you sure you love it? Because—”
“Well, you know…I just haven’t had it for a while,” I explain. Geez, we’ve barely said three words, and I’m already making up crap, trying to impress this guy.
I can’t start off like this.
“I’m sorry. I’ve never had Malaysian,” I finally admit. I hear laughter on the line, and I am mortified. I feel like such an idiot.
“Well, would you like to try it? It’s quite good.” His voice is sweet.
“Sure, why not,” I say, hoping I’ll like it. “As you can probably tell, we haven’t been around as much as you.” I’m unexpectedly very comfortable talking to him.
“Not a problem. We look forward to introducing you to new things.”
Wow.
What does this guy have in mind? I’m curious.
“Do you enjoy art?” he asks.
Now this, I know about, probably not nearly as much as he and Bridget do, but still, I know a few things. “I do. I love a good painting,” I tell him before I can take the words back. I love a good painting? Who says that? I sound like an imbecile.
He laughs a little. “Well, I love a good painting too, Mirella. We can enjoy them together. I’m sure we’ll have a great time.”
Is he mocking me? I’m not sure I like that. But his voice is so damned sexy, I don’t care.
“Bridget has a friend who has a showing not far from the Malaysian place we like. We thought it could be a fun night.”
“Sounds great. We’d love it.”
“I know this is short notice,” he says, hesitating a little, “but the show is next Saturday…are you available?”
I think about it for a second.
We’re not available. We’re having dinner with Gabe’s parents. But we have dinner with them all the time. I’m sure they can take a rain check this one time. But…we’ll have to make an excuse. We can’t just tell them we’re blowing them off to go do who-knows-what with the hottest couple we’ve ever met. That might just sound a little depraved.
“Uh…hello?”
“I-I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I just had to think about it for a minute.” I twirl a strand of hair—an old nervous habit of mine. “Yes…I believe we’re free.”
I am such a little tramp.
“Great, sounds like a plan. We’ll call you with the details.”
“Sure.”
I give him my cell number and say a quick good-bye.
And as soon as I hang up, I long to hear his sexy voice again.
“Drop it, Gwen,” I snap, between bites of my grilled chicken pita.
Gwen, who is munching on an apple, doesn’t seem to care what I think. When she wants to do something, she does it. “Let’s go to the office and satisfy your urges,” she says playfully.
“Let’s not,” I deadpan.
“I know you’re just dying to know more about him.”
She’s right. I am.
I down a sip from my neon pink water bottle. “But it would make me feel like such a creepy loser. I’m not Googling him. I told you before.”
A smile slowly stretches across her face. “But you want to, don’t you?”
I smile.
She knows me too well.
I want to so much…it is literally driving me bonkers.
“C’mon. Everyone does it. It doesn’t mean you’re a creepy stalker.”
“Well, maybe a little peek…”
“Atta girl,” she squeals.
“What’s up?” Sylvia asks as she walks into the lunch room.
“Uh…” I stammer. “Nothing.”
“We just have a few things to catch up on in the office,” Gwen tells her as she gathers our lunches off the table.
We’re glad to see no one is in the office. I gather we wouldn’t look very professional Googling crushes. But heck, everyone does it…
Gwen has officially taken over. If she’s the one sitting at the keyboard and doing the actual typing, I can theoretically say I’ve never cyber-stalked him. She enters his name in the field and lets out an, “Ooh.”
There are a lot of entries. I want to take it all in quickly and then sprint off. I am so mortified at myself.
“He’s a popular man,” she says, clicking on the first link. “Sustainable initiatives to help your bottom line…keynote speaker…Dr. Weston Hanson,” she reads out loud. “He’s a doctor? Did you know that?”
No I didn’t. What?
“Are you sure you’ve got the right guy?” I ask, confused.
She clicks on the photo attached to the article, and my heart does a little cartwheel. It’s definitely him, dressed in a sleek suit, looking delicious.
“Yep…that’s him.”
“He is…gorgeous,” Gwen gushes. “I totally get the obsession now.”
I am not obsessed. Well, maybe a little. A little wee bit.
“Geez…the guy’s got about a million letters after his name,” Gwen says, still clicking away like a wild badger. “Practically the whole alphabet…a Bachelor and Masters of Architecture, a PhD…”
Oh…that kind of doctor.
“He’s really smart,” I add, like I actually know the guy.
“Yeah,” she concurs. “Went to MIT…Harvard.”
God…this guy is so out of my league.
Which is fine.
Because I certainly don’t have any intentions.
It’s just a little crush.
Okay…a big crush…I admit it.
“Dr. Weston Hanson, in collaboration with MIT engineering students,” Gwen goes on, seemingly proud of her very efficient cyber-stalking skills, “is overseeing a mentorship research program on applying solar energy technology in loft development building.”
“That’s cool,” is all I can think to say. I want to stop her, but I can’t help wanting to know more.
“Building a Greener Future,” she goes on. “Sustainable Urban Development. Panel of Experts. Weston Hanson, Architect, President and CEO, Hanson and Hersch Developments…”
She’s clicking away at lightning speed—the woman should have been a court transcriber. She finally lands on a Wikipedia page. I lean in to get a closer look. I can’t help but be curious—the guy’s got his own Wikipedia page, for crying out loud. What stands out to me is the bit about him entering college at the tender age of twelve.
“He was some kind of kid prodigy,” Gwen points out the obvious. “His IQ was tested at one-sixty-eight,” she adds. “Is that high?”
“I would say so. Einstein’s was estimated to be in the one-sixties or one-seventies.”
“Incredible.”
“I think we’ve seen enough,” I finally manage to say, feeling a little ridiculous. I know way too much about him. I will live in constant fear throughout dinner—he might know I’ve cyber-stalked him if I spill somethi
ng I know about him that I shouldn’t.
I start to feel nauseated. “Let’s stop, okay?”
“Oh…look at this. He’s on the Board of The Children’s Hospital of Chicago,” she reads aloud, clicking away. “Gorgeous…brilliant…and altruistic too. This guy’s a gem.”
I know.
“Ooooohhh,” she swoons. “Look at this. He apparently donated five million dollars to some Cancer Research Center…five million dollars,” she repeats for emphasis, her eyes practically bulging out of her head.
Wow. I can’t wrap my mind around that much money.
“Gorgeous…brilliant…altruistic…and rich,” she gushes.
Enough. Enough.
“Okay, enough already Gwen. I think we know all there is to know. This is really reaching the point of cyber-obsession.”
“What are you girls looking at?” Sylvia chimes in. I didn’t even hear her come in. I can’t help but wonder if she’s spying on us.
“Oh…nothing,” Gwen tells her, quickly clicking off.
“You girls look like you’re up to something.”
“Of course we were,” I joke. “Aren’t we always?”
Sylvia smiles and eyes us suspiciously.
“I love your skirt,” I add, trying to distract her. Anyone who knows Sylvia knows a conversation about fashion will do the trick.
“Thanks,” she says, beaming. “I had an impossible time trying to find a top to go with it…”
And she goes on.
And I barely hear a word.
All I can think about is Weston.
Chapter Six
I want to see you again.
“DID YOU EAT ANYTHING AT ALL TODAY?” Gabe asks. “I saw you make lunch for the kids, but I haven’t seen you eat anything.”
He knows me too well. He knows I can’t eat when I’m nervous.
“I’ve been sustaining on lemonade and gum all day,” I confess.
He shakes his head a little. “Bad girl.” He reaches over me, opens the glove compartment, one eye still on the road, and hands me a granola bar.
I take it but have no desire to eat it. “I can’t eat.”
“Why are you so on edge? They’re just people. Just relax and have a good time. It’ll be fun.”
