Can I See You Again?

by Allison Morgan

  “I met a girl.”

  Oh.

  My gasp draws his stare. I met a girl. Pressure builds around my throat and I swallow hard. Of course he met a girl. Look at him. He’s beautiful. Do not tear up, Bree. Do not.

  Though I’m certain despair clouds my eyes, I maintain my composure and force a smile. After all, he owes me nothing. It saddens me to know that not only has another woman captured his heart, but I’ve blown my chance at a relationship, even a friendship, with this guy. This lovely man. It says a lot about the type of person he is, showing up today, handling our business breakup face-to-face, rather than with an impersonal text. He’s a great guy. And, though it sucks—Lord, does it suck—I need to accept the fact that just because I fell for him doesn’t mean he fell for me. Everything was for show.

  “Okay . . . um, certainly . . . a girl . . . yes, that’s what I’m here for . . . that’s good.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking you for advice . . .”

  “No.” I purse my lips. “Of course not.”

  “We’ve been through a lot, but water under the bridge, right?”

  I’m drowning in the water, but go ahead. “Right.”

  “And since I’ve curtailed your success rate—didn’t you say I’m your two percent?—this new relationship of mine bumps up your odds.”

  Yes, okay, I got it. You like a girl. “It’s no problem. What can I do to . . . help?”

  He leans forward.

  Whoever she is will get to stroke her fingers through his thick hair and— Enough, Bree. It’s over.

  “You see, I’m confused.” He laughs, tossing his hands in the air. “You women are so hard to figure out.”

  “Yes, well . . .”

  “She wrote me this note but it makes no sense. I’d hate to misinterpret a clue. I swear you women speak a different language. I’m hoping you can decode the meaning.”

  Read your love note? Gee . . . what fun. “Sure, what does it say?”

  “That’s the thing. I have no idea. But here, I took a picture of it.” He scrolls to a photo on his phone and hands it to me.

  It nearly slips from my grasp as I stare at a picture of my giant sand plea. I read the message washed away by the waves. CA—I—YO—AGA.

  “Oh, God, Nixon, I—”

  “Hush,” he teases. “Can’t you see I’m trying to flirt here?”

  His smile pulses heat through every neuron in my body. I press my lips together, holding back my wide grin. “Sorry. Go on.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “It means that she’s incredibly sorry to have been reckless with your heart. It means that you make her a better person. It means she misses you.”

  “Wow.” He shakes his head. “You got all of that from just a few letters?”

  “Well, I am good at what I do.”

  He stands and tucks his phone into his front pocket. “That answers that. And, Bree, I’m glad to see you’re no longer hiding your scar.”

  I peek at my new tattoo. “Yeah. A friend of mine said I shouldn’t.”

  “That friend sounds super smart. Thanks for your help.” He turns to go.

  “Wait.” I hurry around my desk and meet him, face-to-face. “You’re going?”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “Um . . . because . . .” Why are you going? “I hoped you’d stay. I hoped to talk a little more. Maybe we could grab a cup of coffee or something?”

  “Coffee?” He folds his hands across his chest. “Someone once told me dinner is the slow seduction.”

  My heart flutters alive again. He does like to see me squirm. “That person is a genius.”

  “I don’t know. It took her a while to figure things out.”

  “Yeah, I bet she foolhardily considered herself an expert on reading people and completely misread you.”

  “You think?”

  “I do.”

  “What happened to history?”

  “What do they say? The past isn’t meant to be repeated.”

  “That’s the best you’ve got?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Pity.” He drifts closer.

  We stand inches apart, separated only by our breath.

  “Tell me, Nixon Voss.” I lift my lips toward his. “Can I see you again?”

  He reaches for my forearm and tenderly kisses along my scar before placing my palm against his chest. Then he lifts my chin with his finger, hovering his mouth above mine. “No coffee.” And with that, Nixon kisses me.

  His lips explore mine, soft and slow.

  His body presses tight against my own, solid and certain.

  And while I’m wrapped in his strength and his tenderness, I take notice of his body. My mind wanders from his mouth to his neck, down his chest to his legs, mapping the feel of his skin against mine, his curves, his angles, his bends.

  I realize he and I have no lengthy history, no shared past. No comfort of the common.

  His body, his mind, his soul—all of him—is new and obscure. Unknown.

  But this no longer frightens me.

  I no longer crave safety of the familiar.

  I no longer yearn for the past.

  I let myself go, lost in Nixon’s kiss.

  It’s time to make new history.

  Don’t miss Allison Morgan’s funny and endearing debut novel

  The Someday Jar

  Turn the page for a special excerpt . . .

  Available now from Berkley!

  Don’t panic, Lanie.

  Don’t freak out.

  Don’t shove your hand into the paper shredder. It won’t fit.

  Sifting through the contracts piled high on my desk—I swear twelve trees are chopped down each time a house is sold—checking the trash can and digging through my purse, I find nothing. Nothing!

  How is this possible? I’m twenty-seven years old with dental floss, multivitamins, and spare staples in my desk drawer. I have no past due library books or expired tags on my car. I never litter. Never chew with my mouth open. I lift heavy things with my legs, not back. A responsible adult by any account. Yet, someway, somehow, I’ve carelessly gone and lost the single most important thing I shouldn’t lose. My engagement ring.

  “Lanie?” Evan, my fiancé, calls from his office.

  Crap.

  “Just a minute.” I push my chair aside and search underneath the desk, finding no more than a few paper clips and a fuzz ball. Apparently, the maid has gotten a bit lax with the vacuuming. Oh right, that’s me.

  “Where are you?” he calls, sounding closer this time.

  Quick to stand, I bonk my shoulder on the desk and hear the silver picture frame of the two of us from last year’s Realtor Awards ceremony fall over.

  “Oh, there you are.” Evan strides toward me in his crisp Armani button-down shirt and creased pants, with a smooth gait that only good breeding spawns—his mom’s a tenured English professor at Stanford and his dad’s a venture capitalist. Evan is smiling, the same smile that garnered him a number six spot on last month’s most-attractive-businessmen poll in the Arizona Republic. More than his Ken-doll good looks and crackerjack genes, Evan’s a proven asset in the real estate community. He’s respected and admired.

  And he’s mine.

  But great. Just great. I’ve gone and lost his token of love.

  Obviously, I could ask him to help me search, but what would I say? Hey, funny thing, I’ve misplaced my ring. You know the one—diamond-encrusted platinum band, passed from generation to generation. Wasn’t it your great-grandmother’s?

  As a perfectly timed distraction, the office door swings open and in walks my dear old friend, Hollis Murphy.

  He’s decked in his usual navy blue, one-piece jumper. The matching belt droops around his waist. He smooths his thin white
hair with a finger comb, and his cheeks and nose, laced with a few broken capillaries, flush pink.

  My whole world just got brighter.

  “Hollis, what a nice surprise.” I slide around the desk and open my arms for a hug.

  His skin is cool and clammy, he smells of too much cologne, and staleness heavies his breath, but I don’t care. I love this old man.

  We met several years ago, when I crashed my shopping cart into the side of Hollis’s truck. In my defense, People had just released the Sexiest Man Alive issue and a shirtless Ryan Reynolds, along with each one of his gloriously defined abs, was pictured on page thirty-seven. Who wouldn’t be distracted? Besides, it was only a scrape. Okay, dent. But Hollis was forgiving and we’ve been friends ever since.

  He grasps my hand and says, “Zookeeper chokes to death eating an animal cracker.”

  Nearly every time we talk, Hollis rattles off a peculiar obituary. It’s a sick ritual and I’ll likely rot in hell for making light of someone else’s misfortune. Still, I can’t help but chuckle. “That’s awful.”

  “Good one, don’t you think? My Bevy clipped it out.”

  “How is Mrs. Murphy?”

  “A slice of heaven. Today is our fifty-fourth wedding anniversary.”

  “Congratulations!” I say, making a mental note: Send Murphys wine. “Any special plans?”

  “She’s making meatballs tonight. My favorite.”

  “Sounds perfect. When will you bring Bevy by? In all this time, I still can’t believe we’ve never met. I’d sure love to meet her.”

  “She says the same about you, but I swear that woman never has any free time. She’s busier than the tooth fairy at a crackhead’s house.”

  Evan approaches, extending his hand. “Mr. Murphy, it’s nice to see you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “To what do we owe this honor?” Evan asks.

  Hollis fishes in his pocket and pulls out a candy cane, his favorite treat that he carries year-round. He offers it to me. “Just came by to give Lanie-Lou something sweet.” He eyes me, waiting for my answer.

  “Because every woman deserves a candy cane.”

  “That’s right.” He squeezes my arm and says, “Everything good?”

  “Everything’s great, thank you.” Except for the fact that I can’t find my ring. I quickly scan the carpet.

  “All right,” Hollis says. “I’m off.”

  “Good to see you,” Evan says.

  “Give Mrs. Murphy my best,” I say, walking Hollis outside.

  “I already gave her my best this morning,” he chuckles, and then he drives away.

  Evan waits for me beside my desk. He holds out his open palm. “Look what I have.”

  Damn. He found it first.

  I step toward him, conjuring up a witty explanation like, Silly little bastard, that ring must have legs, but words escape me as I stare into his hand.

  He doesn’t hold my ring. He doesn’t hold the symbol of my future. He holds a piece of my past. My Someday Jar.

  “My God.” I try to hide the tremor in my fingers as I reach for the glass crock. Nostalgia surges through me like a desert flash flood and all at once I smell my dad’s cologne masking his one-a-day cigarette habit and hear his voice, usually light and high-spirited, pivot adamant and stern when he said a dozen years earlier, “This jar is for your goals and aspirations, Lanie. None too big. None too small.”

  “Where did you find this?” My voice is no steadier than my hands.

  “In a box at the bottom of my office closet. Found your ASU graduation cap, too. Maybe you can wear that to bed later?” He teases, but he must see the focus in my eyes because he strokes my arm. “What is it?”

  I lean against my desk, my body heavy with sentiment. “This is my Someday Jar. A gift from my dad. God, I haven’t seen it in years.” The last time I held this, I wore bubble-gum-flavored lip gloss and braces dotted my teeth. With the jar close to my ear, I give it a little shake and listen to the slips of paper tumble inside.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Fortunes.”

  “Fortunes?”

  “Yeah. Every year for my birthday Dad took me to the Golden Lantern, a Chinese restaurant in Mesa.” I half smile, remembering the dome-shaped chandeliers covered with crushed red velvet and dangling tassels decorating the dining room. “They had this wall with dozens of fortunes pinned to it. Dad plucked a handful of slips, flipped them to the blank side, and said, ‘Write your own fortunes, Lanie. Create your own path.’”

  I remember scribbling Learn something new on the first slip, thrilled with his nod of acceptance as I tucked the goal into the jar.

  Now, as I rub my thumb along the nicks in the glass, a lump forms in my throat. “Dad made me promise that I’d empty the jar. He made me promise I’d claim my own stake in the world, fulfill my desires and dreams. He made me promise I’d do this . . . before I got married.” I’d forgotten that last part until just now.

  Evan tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Your dad was never afraid to throw caution to the wind, was he?”

  “No, he definitely wasn’t,” I whisper, staring at the jar.

  “You okay?”

  I shake my head to clear it and force a little laugh. “I’m fine. It’s just an old piece of glass that brings back a lot of memories, I guess.”

  Evan pulls me close and holds me for a minute.

  Though it serves no purpose but longing and regret, I let my mind wander to my childhood days with Dad. The days when pancakes were dinner, chocolate cake was breakfast, and jokes and laughter filled our bellies in between. I hate to admit it, but I wonder what Dad would think of me now, so different from the carefree teenager he knew. Would he be proud of the woman I’ve become or disappointed by my structured life? Worse yet, indifferent?

  Evan steps back and says, “Listen, I don’t mean to rush this moment for you, but I’m in a tight spot and sure could use a favor.”

  I blink away tears foolhardily forming in my eyes. “Yes, of course. What is it?”

  “Can you pick up Weston Campbell from Sky Harbor Airport, executive terminal? He’s flying in from Los Angeles.”

  “A new client?”

  “No, a business associate of my parents turned family friend. You’ve never met him?”

  “The name doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “Well, anyway, he’s going to lend me a hand with an upcoming project.”

  “How will I spot him? I have no idea what he looks like.” For some reason, the name Weston Campbell evokes an image of a wirehaired and well-fed Irish farmer stabbing bales of hay with whiskey breath spewing from his toothless grin. I should work on being less judgmental, but honestly, where’s the fun in that?

  “No problem recognizing him.” Evan aims his phone’s camera in my direction. “Smile.”

  “Wait.” I set the jar on my desk and comb through my shoulder-length brown hair, fluffing the bangs that hover over my Irish green eyes, thankful I wore my favorite sleeveless dress cinched above the waist with a ridiculously cute Michael Kors belt. “Okay, go.”

  He snaps a photo of me.

  Dang. I think my eyes were closed.

  “This is Lanie Howard.” He punches at the keys. “There, I forwarded your picture to him. All you have to do is stand outside the security gates and he’ll find you. The executive terminal isn’t very big.” Evan slides into his jacket and steps toward the leather-framed mirror hanging on the wall to study his reflection. He swivels his head side to side and checks for any budding “parasites,” as he called the two gray hairs discovered earlier this year on his thirtieth birthday. “I’d go myself, but Weston changed his flight and I’ve got that 1031 Exchange lecture tonight.”

  “What time is Weston arriving?”

  “Six.” Evan spins around and catches me peeki
ng at the clock. “I know, the Cardinals game. Maybe you’ll miss the first half, but you’ll be home in time to catch the rest. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.” He winks. “You’ll take care of Weston for me?”

  Waiting in a stuffy airport is the last thing I feel like doing, especially if it means missing a Monday Night Football game. But Evan’s in a pinch and business outweighs pleasure, so I hide my discontent with a smile and reply, “Sure.”

  “Great. Weston’s staying at the Biltmore. Just drop him there.” Evan slips his hands around my waist and pulls me toward him again, my Someday Jar wedged between us. His lips brush my neck and he whispers, “I’m such a lucky man.”

  After his quick kiss, I watch his Mercedes drive away, then slump into my chair. With the tip of my forefinger, I trace the jar, top to bottom, following a crack. “Promise me you’ll explore life,” Dad had said with narrowed eyes and hands clasped around mine. “Promise me you’ll color outside the lines.”

  Now, here I am, a grown woman, many years later, wondering if I should twist off the cork. Reach beyond my comfort zone and tackle my ambitions, challenge myself like I vowed. Should I color outside the lines?

  My inbox chimes with an e-mail, jarring my thoughts to the present. Glancing toward the computer and spotting the lotion bottle, I’m reminded why I took my ring off—for age-defying, triple-moisture smooth hands—and see the jewel behind the knocked-over frame.

  Thank God. With relief, I slip the ring on my finger and decide that my future is what deserves my attention, not the painful reminder of days behind. I tap the jar’s brittle cork and drop the keepsake into my purse. Those days are gone.

  An hour later, I lock the office and head toward my car, juggling an armful of files and a ringing cell phone.

  “Hey,” says Kit, my best friend of countless years. She’s chewing on something, odds are a papaya granola bar, as she lives off those things, admitting they taste like cardboard, but loves the fact that they can double as a kickstand for her son’s bike, should the need arise. “Want to catch the game and share a plate of greasy potato skins?”

  “God, I’d love to, but I’m on my way to pick up a colleague of Evan’s, then hurrying home to catch what I can of the second half with a mound of paperwork piled on my lap. Dammit,” I say as much to myself as her, “I need to swing by Nordstrom’s. Evan’s out of shaving cream.”