“Want some?” She offered me one of the bags. The one with the Gummi bears.
“No, thanks.”
“Triscuits?” she said, offering another bag. I smiled and shook my head.
“I always eat when I’m upset,” she said. “I can’t help it. It’s the only thing that helps.”
“It doesn’t seem to be working.”
She laughed briefly but just as quickly the laugh was gone. “Ice cream is really the best, but it’s kind of hard to bring on an airplane.”
“I’m sorry you’re upset. Do you want to talk?” I asked.
Her face crumpled again and she put down the bags to pull a tissue out of her purse and wipe at her eyes.
“My boyfriend and I broke up,” she said.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, well, it was my idea.”
“Then why are you crying?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice rising. Her eyes welled up and she reached into one of the bags and shoveled Gummis into her mouth. “I don’t know if it was the right thing to do,” she said with her mouth full. “I feel so awful. If it was the right thing, why would I feel so awful?”
“Change is hard,” I said. “Why did you break up with him?”
“He’s boring,” We looked at each other. And then I laughed, a big “Hah!” escaping from my throat before I could stop it.
“I know,” she said. “That’s terrible, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not,” I said. “I was just expecting something more concrete, like he cheated on you or he beat you or something.”
“I wish he had. Well, not beat me, but something that would give me a good reason.” She chewed heartily and wiped at her eyes.
“How long were you together?”
“We’ve known each other practically our whole lives.” She pronounced it lavs. “We started dating in high school, six years ago. I never dated anyone else.”
“Oh my,” I said. She was so young. She had her whole life ahead of her. If she was bored with the guy now, what would happen in ten years? Or even five? He wasn’t likely to get more interesting. “You really should,” I said, freely dispensing advice. Me, the relationship queen. “Even if it’s just to make sure he’s the right guy. You’re too young to stay with someone you’re not sure about.”
“But everybody thinks we’re perfect for each other,” she said.
Isn’t that always the way?
“It doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks. It only matters what you think,” I told her.
“But I don’t know what I think. He’s a really good guy and we have a lot in common. And our families are really good friends.”
“Well, that’s all very nice,” I said in my new role as Dr. Phil, “but you’re the one who’s going to have to live with your decision.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “I know. But I have to live with my family, too. What they think is important to me.”
She turned her face back to the window, crying again. “He really is a good guy,” she said without turning.
We arrived in Tampa a little early and I drummed my fingers on the armrest as we sat on the runway waiting for our gate to open. When we finally parked at the gate, passengers stood patiently in the aisles while my stomach fluttered. People who hadn’t said a word to each other for two and a half hours now chatted amiably.
“Are you here for business or pleasure?”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Oh, you should try this great new restaurant while you’re here.…”
“Really? What high school did you go to…?”
The young woman in the window seat had packed up all of her little bags and zipped up her tapestry carry-on. She stood. She was less than five feet tall and fit neatly under the plane’s low ceiling by the window.
“I hope you’ll be happy whatever you decide to do,” I said.
She nodded and smiled. “Me, too,” she said. “But how do you ever know if you’re doing the right thing?”
She was asking me? She had no idea who she was talking to.
“You don’t,” I said. “You just forge ahead and hope for the best.”
* * *
Finally we disembarked and I walked through the terminal, moving quickly past slow-moving families and dawdling travelers. Didn’t they know I was in a hurry? As I got closer to the main terminal I saw people waiting ahead, just beyond security. The fluttery feeling in my stomach came back and I took a breath to calm myself.
I focused on a woman in front of me, her big butt jiggling softly underneath her silky floral-print skirt. Bad outfit. She should have worn something less clingy with a long jacket. I looked down at my own ensemble: gray pants, white blouse, black vest. Had I worn the right thing? Should I have worn something more feminine? More festive? More casual? Sexier? Oh god.
I squinted, looking ahead for someone with a handwritten sign, but didn’t see him. Maybe he forgot. Or changed his mind. Maybe he had an accident on the way to the airport.
When I got past the security area I stood, searching the crowd, seeing some smiling faces, some anxious ones, occasional shouts of recognition, waving, hugging. But no Patrick.
I checked my cell phone but there was no message. No text. So I waited, tapping my foot, wondering what I’d do if he didn’t show up. Perhaps he was waiting outside by the baggage claim area, but I worried that if I went down there he’d show up here and we’d miss each other. So I stayed put, trying to be patient. Not my strong suit.
I pulled out my compact and checked my reflection. My face was flushed and shiny, with fine wrinkles around my eyes and mouth that made me want to rush right out and get a shot of Botox. Since I couldn’t do that I applied fresh lipstick, checked my hair, made sure nothing was hanging out of my nose or stuck in my teeth, and put the compact away. Then I heard someone shouting, “Libby!” and turned around to see Patrick weaving his way through the crowd, waving his sign. CARSON PARTY, it said, and I laughed out loud.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, standing in front of me looking casually handsome in jeans and a salmon-colored T-shirt.
I could feel my smile taking over my face. “It takes a real man to wear pink,” I said.
He flexed his muscles. “You bet,” he said, and grinned.
“For a minute there I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I know, I know. Traffic was nuts. I was going crazy.” He wrapped me in a big bear hug, just as I’d imagined. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered in my ear.
It felt good to be in his buoyant presence. He smelled of shampoo and a slightly spicy aftershave. His hair curled softly on his neck. So far so good, I thought. But who knows? Maybe by tomorrow we’d be on each other’s nerves. Maybe I’d find out he chewed with his mouth open and belched at the dinner table. Maybe he spit in public. Maybe he was a total slob. Maybe he left the toilet seat up.
I laughed at my thoughts and Patrick pulled back and looked at me.
“What?” he said. His eyes sparkled, fine lines fanned out happily in the corners.
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just glad to see you.”
He kissed me fully on the lips, a long, lingering, head-spinning kiss that made me feel seventeen. I felt the color rise to my cheeks. It reminded me of the excitement I’d felt when he kissed me so many years ago. It had made me tingle with the rightness of it. There was promise in the air back then, a promise unfulfilled. Maybe that was a little of what I was feeling now, even though I knew there was a huge chance it wouldn’t work this time around either. But you never knew, did you?
His hand caressed my cheek as if it were made of the most delicate glass. “Come on,” he said, taking the handle of my rolling bag in one hand and draping his other arm across my shoulder. “I promised you soft-shell crabs and drinks with umbrellas in them.”
“On the beach?”
“Absolutely.”
There would be waves lapping at the shore and the s
etting sun painting the sky with shades of orange and red. We would toast to whatever this would be. Right this minute it felt so easy and right, like being on a picnic or playing catch in the backyard. But that could change in an instant. If I hadn’t come to see him, though, I’d never know. And the thing is, there’s no rewind button in life. If you don’t take advantage of the opportunities when they present themselves, they’re lost to you forever.
I couldn’t help thinking of how Michael had looked on Wednesday as he left my house, the disappointment in his eyes, the straightness of his spine as he walked out, and it made me sad. The young woman on the plane had asked how you ever know if you’re doing the right thing. I was surely the worst person in the world to answer that question but I thought my advice was valid: just make your best guess, forge ahead and hope for the best.
As we walked to Patrick’s car I had a little fantasy of us sitting in front of a fireplace somewhere twenty years from now in matching La-Z-Boys, sipping steaming cups of tea, companionably reading the paper and glancing up occasionally to smile at each other. And then the warmth of the sun and the tantalizing pressure of his arm on my shoulder brought me back to the present. It was surreal to be walking by his side, and exhilarating, and I felt a gladness I hadn’t felt in a long while. It made me appreciate that I still had an entire undiscovered life ahead of me.
Fifty wasn’t a death sentence, it was just a number. Just a word. And it didn’t have to be a holy-shit kind of word. I could still plant possibilities in the garden of my future. Some of them would take root, others would not, but nothing could grow if I didn’t plant it there.
What I knew in that moment was that I would enjoy being with Patrick for as long as it would last: a day, a weekend, a lifetime. And if it didn’t work out I would be fine. I didn’t need another person to make me happy. Maybe love was in my future or maybe I’d depleted the relationships the universe had allotted me. Still, I had a good life, wonderful family and friends, a good job with interesting clients. I had Rufus. Maybe I’d get a dog. Maybe I’d sell my house and move downtown. Maybe I’d audition for Project Runway.
It was all out there if I wanted it.
I felt a lifting in my heart, and sighed. Patrick smiled down at me with such pleasure that it made me blush. “It’s going to be a great weekend,” he said, opening the door of his SUV.
He stashed my bag in the back and then climbed into the driver’s seat. He put the key in the ignition and slapped the top of the steering wheel with both hands, a look of pure joy on his face. “Ready?” he asked.
I laughed. “Ready,” I said.
Acknowledgments
I want to say thanks to Judi Tepe, my best friend, for her love, support, and encouragement all the years of our friendship (most of our lives). To all my “readers” over the years: many thanks for your thoughtful comments to Debby Keim, Barbara Hill, Jan Lewis, Teresa Borden, and especially Karen Gillis (oh man, I hope I haven’t forgotten someone), and all the people in my various writing workshops whose names I don’t remember but whose feedback was invaluable.
I have to acknowledge my favorite writers, even though you don’t know who you are, because you’ve kept me entertained and inspired, you’ve struck me dumb with awe of your talent, and you’ve encouraged me to write without even knowing it. And to Mrs. Allen in third grade at Fulton School, who read my first short story aloud to the class and gave me an A+.
Many thanks to my editor, Brenda Copeland, who got me and the story I was telling, and to my copy editor, Sara Sarver, who saved me from certain embarrassment.
Thanks to my cousin Len for being inordinately proud of me, and thanks to Dave for inspiring this story.
And most of all, thanks to you, my readers.
About the Author
SAMANTHA HOFFMAN is a runner, reader, film buff, tech geek, blogging queen, personal assistant, chef, wine enthusiast, volunteer, animal lover, sister, friend, lover of life, and … oh yes, a writer. Her stories have appeared in The Corner Magazine (London), Chicken Soup for the Dieter’s Soul, and numerous other print and online publications. She also writes a popular blog about life in Chicago, at www.samanthahoffman.com. What More Could You Wish For is her first novel.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
WHAT MORE COULD YOU WISH FOR. Copyright © 2012 by Samantha Hoffman. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Kerri Resnick
Cover photograph © Tooga / Getty Images
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Hoffman, / Samantha.
What more could you wish for / Samantha Hoffman. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-00303-4 (trade pbk.)
ISBN 978-1-250-01581-5 (e-book)
1. Self-realization in women—Fiction. 2. Marriage proposals—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.O4786W47 2012
813'.6—dc23
2012004634
e-ISBN 9781250015815
First Edition: August 2012
What More Could You Wish For Page 20
