My mind returns to thoughts of Gatz and to a possible date. I mean, he’s nice, driven, intelligent, thoughtful, attractive…all the attributes a woman wants in a man. He’s easy to talk to, understands my passion for photography, and he’s listened to me go on and on about my travels. He’s even talked about possibly studying abroad!
But, I’m planning on leaving soon. You can’t very well create and foster a relationship when you’re thousands of miles away from each other for months on end, now can you?
I don’t know. See! This is love and relationships. Always so complicated!
I pull myself up onto my elbows, brow knit, as I let Gatz’s face come into view. His strong jaw, that dimpled grin, those dark eyes. That confident but sensitive walk, and the way his eyes squint slightly more together when he’s listening intently. The way one corner of his mouth rides up when he’s teasing me, and the way his ever-so-slight underbite reveals itself when he tries to stifle a laugh. The way he talks about his poetry, the way he lit up when he talked about his little brother, the way he said he thought adoption was “pretty damn cool.”
I swallow the lump that’s growing in my throat. “No,” I breathe out. I look down at my lap, leaning harder back onto my elbows. I’m being ridiculous. Gatsby Carter and I are just friends. Right?
I groan and toss my head back. I don’t know. I mean, would it be so bad to go out on a date with Gatz? One simple date? He’s willing to go to the book club with me, so maybe a date’s not so unimaginable. And where’s my be open-minded and take chances self, anyway? Why not give this a try?
I pull my head forward, looking back down at my lap. “Maybe,” I whisper. I retrieve my book and settle back down, ready to finish the novel and leave thoughts of Gatz for tomorrow’s book club meeting. For now it’s just me, some inspiring photographs to rifle through for Robin’s maternity session, maybe a bit of red wine, some relaxing jazz, and some Zelda Fitzgerald.
***
“I’m glad tonight we had such a great turnout with invite-a-friend,” Steve says, standing up from his chair and folding it. “And Emily, Save Me the Waltz was a good read. Not conventional, but good.”
“Thanks,” I say, fanning the pages of my paperback copy.
“It was unconventional,” Susie says with an air of insouciance. “But I appreciated the autobiographical bits in there.” She snickers a bit as she, too, folds her chair.
I look around at the small group of book club attendees as they pack their things and begin to call it a night. I’m actually a tad surprised that Ben didn’t make it tonight. Not that I care; it’s just a little peculiar, that’s all. I shrug. Maybe it was too awkward a situation for one of us. Oh well.
I glance over at Gatz, who’s still seated, also casually flipping through his book. I give a small but assured smile. I’m really glad he came.
“Well, I’m glad everyone enjoyed it,” I say.
“Almost everyone,” Erin says exhaustedly. “It’s an uninteresting and much too wordy book. The choppiest novel I’ve ever read.”
“Yes, well,” Steve says with a forced and unsettled grin as he moves to arrange the folded chairs against the opposite wall. “Not every book is for everybody.”
“I enjoyed it,” Gatz says to me, leaning over. “Of course, I think Ms. Zelda’s husband was the true genius of the two, but Save Me the Waltz was a good read.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say with a flick of the wrist. “You’re biased because your mom had an unhealthy obsession with only one of the greatest pieces of American literature.”
“And, arguably, the greatest tortured hero of American lit,” Gatz adds, head tilted in a rather enticing way.
I clear my throat apprehensively and say, “Allow me to go all feminist on you and defend Zelda. She wrote with honesty. And in a frickin’ mental hospital. Not bad for being in a padded cell.” I laugh.
“Semi-autobiography,” he points out with a handsome smirk. “Semi-honesty. And let’s not even begin to talk about how she ripped off, however subtly, This Side of Paradise.”
“Ha, ha. Okay, okay.”
Gatz stares at me with a look I can’t quite read.
“So…” I stammer out, looking down at my watch. “I’ve got to catch the bus in twenty. A friend’s having me go get baby shower decorations at the crack of dawn tomorrow.”
“I’ll walk with you,” he says, standing up.
We walk out into the cold night air, and I wait at the foot of the library’s steps while Gatz unlocks his bike from the rack.
I have some nervous butterflies flitting about. I said I wouldn’t allow myself to dwell on the Gatz matter anymore prior to tonight’s meeting, but all last night I tossed and turned in bed, wondering if I was acting desperately or being delusional considering Gatz all of a sudden. I just couldn’t get him out of my mind. And now here I am, standing here, alone with him under the beautiful Seattle night sky, and I’m still thinking about him…about the possibility of us.
Suddenly, when I’m around Gatz, I feel all of these weird emotions and unexplained nervousness. I’m anxious, but it’s exciting. Tonight actually might have been my favorite book club meeting ever, simply because Gatz came along! The way Gatz and I clicked when we talked about the novel tonight, the shared smiles, the unexpected gaze here and there…
I swallow the frog in my throat quickly and give a small shiver.
“Shall we?” he says, gesturing to the pathway, loosely gripping his bike’s handlebars.
I blink rapidly to try to clear my mind. “So,” I say, “what’d you think of the book club? And you can be honest. No Zelda half-truths.”
He makes a couple low, quick-beat laughs. “It’s great,” he says, pushing his bike along with one hand. “Would love to join and come back next month.”
“Great,” I say more huskily than I want.
“And, if you’re interested, the invitation’s still open to come to the coffeehouse for another poetry reading.” His voice is low, guttural, absolutely sexy! Goosebumps begin to cover my arms, despite the warmth of my wool coat. “But under one condition,” he adds. He stops walking, the click-click of his bicycle’s spindles and spokes ceasing.
“Yeah?”
He twists his lips from side to side a couple times, looking off a ways.
“You’re not going to make me write a poem and read it on stage, are you?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
“Emily,” he says, looking into my eyes, “I’m going out on a limb here.”
“Okay…” I swallow hard.
“I don’t want things to become weird between us,” he says at last. “We do work together and all.”
“Oh, no,” I cut in, shaking my head brusquely. “Absolutely not. Just friends, going to poetry readings…book clubs…” I feel myself flush crimson. God, I want to crawl into a hole right about now.
“No.” He flips the bike’s kickstand down and takes two steps nearer me. “Not friends.”
“You don’t want to be friends?” I splutter out.
That adorable dimpled half-grin of his begins to crack, his underbite barely revealing itself, and he gives another low chortle.
“Emily,” he says, rocking his head, “you’re making this incredibly difficult.” He timidly puts one hand on my waist. “I’m trying to ask you out.”
“Oh!”
Then, just like that, he draws himself to me. His hand on my waist squeezes just a touch, then his lips meet mine.
I’m so overcome with surprise and excitement that I give in to the moment, parting my lips and letting Gatsby kiss me sweetly, tenderly. His lips are supple, his kiss so soft, so right…
“Whoa,” I whisper when we part.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he says in that same low, guttural voice. “Kiss you. Ask you out.” He moves closer and entwines his hands in mine. “That’s the condition.” He gingerly slips one hand back to my waist. I raise my eyebrows, urging him to go on. “We go to the coffeehous
e together, on a date. A real date. You give me a chance to get to know you better without the aprons and the recipes and the game of blind dates.”
“All right,” I say in a crisp, sexy voice. I tentatively slip a hand in one of his coat pockets and pull myself to him. Our chests are nearly pressed together, and I swear my heart is beginning to pound harder and harder. He might even be able to hear it.
“A real date,” he says softly.
The butterflies are dancing wildly about my stomach now, and it feels wonderful! My thoughts of Gatz, of me, of us, are not so crazy after all. It feels right; it feels comfortable; it feels really good.
“Tomorrow there’s an open-mic night,” he says coolly, “and I just might want to do another reading. I wrote another poem about you.”
“What?” I ask, bewildered.
“Cheesy, I know.” He slinks back, giving an awkward shrug, and I remove my hand from his coat pocket, burying it in my own.
“No,” I say. “I’m just—what do you mean you wrote another poem about me?”
“I wrote one—it’s not my best, but I wrote it when I was kind of disappointed—” He looks off to the side. “Okay, really disappointed,” he corrects quickly, catching my gaze, “that I wasn’t part of your dating game.”
“Oh, that!” I say with a wag of the head. “Forget about that.”
“Well, I wrote it. You know the one.” He gives a sheepish expression.
“I do?”
Then it hits me! “Awww,” I sigh. “Yes.” It was the poem I heard him read at Greenwich V that one night!
“Cheesy, I know.” He tilts his head to the side, his wild and wavy curls falling about.
“I don’t think it’s cheesy,” I say, barely above a whisper. “Not at all.”
“So…then…it’s a date? Tomorrow night?”
I can’t help myself; I lightly push back some of his curls and I smile. “Oh, Gatsby.” I raise my shoulders up high, then drop them with a loud sigh. “It’s a date. Definitely, it’s a date!”
“Awesome.” He exhales loudly. “Emily, it’s taken me forever to gather the nerve.” He looks at me abashedly.
“Forever, huh?” A curious and flattered grin covers my lips, and I hug my arms to my chest. “Why’d it take you so long?”
“Oh, come on.” He lolls his head, then nudges at the bike’s kickstand and leads the way along the sidewalk. “Every day you and Sophie talking about your slew of hot dates.”
“Well…”
“It drove me crazy having to hear about them. Utter torture.”
“Crazy?” I bite down on my lip. “Torture? Wow…”
“Not to mention Chad,” he says, totally taking me by surprise.
“Uh.” I hold up one hand. “What about Chad?”
“The way you guys kid around with each other. The fact that you two, uh, went on a date.”
“It wasn’t a date, Gatz,” I clarify. “He saved me from being stood up. As a friend. And, trust me,” I make a flat-line motion with my hands, “no way is there anything between Chad and me. No. Way. You’ll have to trust me on that one.”
“All right,” he says appreciatively. “Then I was a slowpoke. And, might I add, I was totally confused when you asked me here to the meeting weeks ago, right when you were seeing one of the guys in your…” He moves his index finger in a circle. “…game.”
“What?” I make a flirtatious face.
“I thought you were asking me out on a date when you asked me to this book club deal, then I got all confused, realizing this wasn’t a date…” He scratches at his head. “Thought you were into me, then you weren’t. Then you’re single and no more blind dates and…” He stops at the bus stop and looks into my eyes. “I’ve wanted to go out with you for a long time, Emily Saunders.”
For some reason the words long time ring loudly in my ears, run over and again in my mind, while I stare into those chocolate eyes of his that I never really realized were so dreamy. Images of Zambia, the application, packed bags, a stamped passport, an airplane midair all flutter into view like a flipping picture book. A hole starts to grind its way in my gut, and I blurt out, “Gatz, there’s something I have to tell you.”
“Yes?” His tone is cool.
I fly out a hand, as if I’m demonstrating something, and say, “There’s this project.” I squeeze my lips together hard for a second. “In Zambia. I’m going to apply.”
“Do you leave tomorrow?”
I wrinkle my face and shake my head slightly. “Nooo.”
“Then great.” He takes my hand in his. “So we can still go out on our date.”
I can’t help but laugh through a growing grin.
“The way you’ve talked about your travels, about Zambia,” he says, taking one step nearer, “how you really want to go over and make a difference there…” He shakes our hands. “That’s who you are, Emily, and that’s part of the reason I like you so much.”
“So you’re cool with it?”
He tilts his head back and looks up at the sky in a melodramatic way. “I just got a ‘yes’ from a girl I’ve been crushing on for months to go out on a date tomorrow. Of course I’m cool with it, with you!” He fixes me with a warm gaze.
“All right then,” I say through a smile. “It’s a date.”
“Come on,” he says, pulling me tightly to him. “Waltz with me?” He makes a silly, lopsided grin.
“Waltz with you?” I laugh out.
“Cheesy, eh?”
“Yeah, well, I like a little cheesy.”
Gatz draws me in for another kiss as a light breeze picks up, sending his bike to fall against the bus stop sign. One hand tangles itself in my braids, the other squeezing tightly on my waist. I lean further in, slipping my arms around him and giving in to the moment. The moment when I decide to take a chance on Gatsby Carter, the one who’s been there all along. It’s like a waltz that’s been waiting to be danced, and danced, and danced.
Epilogue
chance |tʃɑːns|
noun
• a possibility of something happening
• the occurrence of events in the absence of any obvious intention or cause
Love’s a funny thing. It can come in the most obvious of forms, like in a heavy photo album jam-packed with all sorts of photos from trips around the world. It can come in the most veiled of forms, too, like the co-worker with whom you share smiles, a few jokes, and, as it turns out, a whole lot in common. It comes in all ways, shapes, sizes, forms; it comes at any time, and often when you least expect it. Sometimes you’ll find it when you hunt it out, but I’ve heard that true love usually comes knocking when you finally stop searching.
What makes a love a true love, after all? What constitutes a real and lasting kind of love? How does anyone really know a true love when it’s there? Is it the promise of marriage? Marriage itself? Creating a family together? Is it forsaking all others, no matter the past, the present, the future?
I finger my heavy pewter ring, squinting at it as the bright sun shines down and sprays a small glitter of light around as it meets the ring.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I don’t know where fate will turn or where the winds will whip me to next. I’m still no expert on love and relationships, but I do know that when I stopped searching for love something amazing and special and real happened in my life. Would I call it love? Or true love?
I slip my ring back on and grip my camera. I squeeze my eyes shut, surrendering myself to the not-so-distant chorus of children’s laughter and chatter, surrendering to the sun’s strong, hot rays, the balmy scent of summer not long off here in the African wild.
Now, I’m not absolutely certain, but I have a pretty good feeling that true love develops when it’s one that demands you take a chance. It requires risk. It’s taking one giant leap of faith when you have absolutely no idea what fate has in store for you. But you know that whatever the future may hold, you don’t want to go it alone. You want to let the wind swee
p your sails across those charted and uncharted waters with that special someone who wants to experience that very same traveling adventure as you, with you, no matter where you find yourselves.
“Miss Em-a-lee?” comes the deep voice of Humphrey, the local leader of the well-repair project I’m proud to be a part of here in gorgeous and wild Zambia.
“Yes?” I let my heavy camera fall against my side and I stand up, walking over to meet Humphrey.
“The post,” he says, handing me one cream-colored and wrinkled envelope.
“Thanks,” I say, wide-eyed and excited that I’m already getting mail one week in to my project.
I resume my seat on the dirt path at the edge of the village, where the local children dash and stop every few minutes in their mad game of “race you to the edge of the world.”
I peel a small corner of the envelope away when the cacophony of the children’s game rings out again. I quickly bring my camera up to my eye and focus in on the approaching children.
Click. Click-click.
I only know how to take one day at a time, slowly making my way along life’s path and living each day to its fullest. But I think there’s something to taking a chance and letting yourself find a potential true love where you least expect it, and maybe when you’re not even looking for it. Even when it finds itself nearly ten thousand miles away.
I pick the envelope back up and can’t fight the smile that grows as I tear into it. The moment I shake open the single sheet of college-rule notebook paper, a small collection of loose papers about the size of index cards fall free and scatter about the dusty, earthen path.
As I pick up each note, one after another, my smile grows and grows. They’re poems, each one titled Emily: 01, Emily: 02, Emily: 03, and so on. A poem for each day I’ll be in Zambia for the next two months.
I blow away the specks of earth from one of the cards and sniffle back a bit as I read on.
It’s only been a couple of months, but I’ve found someone worth taking a chance on. Sure, a temporary distance between us so early on in our relationship might sound daft to some. But everyone’s got their own story—their own life’s path—to live and explore. Who is anyone to judge? Who is anyone to decide what will or will not work out if you don’t take a risk and try?
When Girlfriends Take Chances Page 29
