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“But what I said to Max isn’t the point. That’s not part of my presentation—you’ve dragged me off script. The point is, the subclause is gone. Over. Ripped up like the little fella demonstrated.” I point at the guy on my screen who’s still bashing himself on the head. “And that’s all that matters.”
I pull back my shoulders and transform back into Presenter Dude. “This is why we ask for questions to be saved for the end,” I tell her. “Because the audience doesn’t have the full picture until then.”
Charlotte rests back in her seat with a look somewhere at the intersection of shock, wonder, and fury. It’s impossible to tell which one is going to win.
But there’s no option other than trying to put that behind me and move on.
I flip to the next slide and stride the four steps it takes me to span the width of this tiny room. Because that’s what confident, successful presenters do—they take up space, they own the room.
I read the words on the screen. “Point two. You Don’t Make Me Want to Puke.”
Charlotte titters, lifting my heart with a little hope.
I move straight to the next image, an animation of the ponytailed woman on her knees endlessly vomiting while a different man, less bulky than the first, mops it up over and over again.
“I’ve never sat with anyone while they vomited, Charlotte. If you’d asked me, I would have said someone else’s puke would make me barf too. But I was happy to do it. Because it was your barf. And somehow that was different.”
I tap the pencil on my palm and slowly walk the four paces back. “I don’t know how this will turn out. But if, some day, one of our grandkids asks me when I knew we were meant for each other, I’ll tell them it was when you threw up your guts in my recycling bin.”
She drops her head, and my erratic heart stops for a moment. Was the grandkids thing too much? She lifts her reddened face—it’s smiling. Thank God. Hopefully she was just embarrassed by the vomit reference, rather than horrified by the thought of us having a family. At least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself for now, or I’ll never get through this.
Next slide.
This is a scary one to read out. “Three. You Make Me Feel Like Me.”
She drops her shoulders, bites her top lip, and gives me an aw look.
“I don’t have to fit into a mold when I’m around you. I’m not the little brother, or the Most Studious Son, or the boss who has all the answers. I’m just me.” And that’s something I processed only when I was writing this presentation. What the hell took me so long? “And I think we’re good for each other—two parts that fit together to make something way bigger.”
I move to the next slide. The ponytail woman and vomit-mopping man now stand side by side. One side of each character is shaped like a puzzle piece. They slide toward each other and, lo and behold, they’re a perfect fit. When their edges lock into place, the cartoon couple disappears in an endless burst of fireworks, shooting stars, and exploding hearts.
“Charlotte, I have never felt as relaxed and at ease around anyone as I do with you. You completely accept me for who I am. You don’t tell me I should be out at swanky social events, or schmoozing clients at conferences, or doing flashy showcase demonstrations of our latest software.”
She clasps her hands over her mouth, and her eyes glisten in the light from her desk lamp.
Am I turning her around? Getting her back on side?
“You don’t think it’s weird that I’d rather stay home, order a pizza, and eat it on the sofa in front of a movie or TV show I’ve already seen a hundred times than go to the opening of the latest ‘it’ restaurant. You don’t think I’m boring because I’d rather repot some plants and have an early night than go to an industry party. You might tease me mercilessly about it all, but you accept me as I am.”
My eyes meet hers, and I’m so flooded with emotion I’m not sure I can get the next bit out. I point at the words on the screen and read them aloud again. “You make me feel like me.”
“Oh, Elliot,” she murmurs, clutching at her heart.
The urge to scoop her up is overwhelming. But I need to be certain that’s what she wants before I take that risk.
I cough, and swallow, and generally try to get a grip.
“Point four.” Good, my voice is back. I nod to the screen where the words “Massages on Tap” have appeared.
Now she closes her eyes and lets out an incredibly sexy throaty chuckle.
“I always knew you were extremely talented. But until that morning in Plainsville, I had no idea your hands had their own specific talent.”
She covers her face and shakes her head. “Stop,” she says with what is either an irritated snort or an embarrassed laugh. It’s hard to tell.
“Charlotte.” I try to muster the teasing tone we’ve always had together. “Please don’t waste this animation that took me forever to get right, by not even looking at it.”
Slowly, painfully slowly, she starts to lift her head. My heart leaps into my mouth. Please God, let that have been an embarrassed laugh and not an irritated snort.
