Footsteps sounded then, and I stared at the hole that connected us, waiting for the paper to rain back down into my apartment.
My phone buzzed.
Tate:As in Texas? And why in the world are you passing me notes through the floor?
Emory:As in Jane Austen. And play along!
It took a second, but paper did fly down toward me. Literally. He’d folded it like an airplane. I retrieved the note and unfolded its ends.
How many guys do you know that are familiar with Jane Austen besides literature professors?
Point taken. Besides Landon I’d never met a guy interested in books written centuries past that could still touch hearts today. Maybe I should have tried to use Tate’s language—music—instead of my own. Was there a song out there that conveyed everything I wanted to say? I bit my lip and glanced up. I’d already started this awkward exchange, I couldn’t stop now to listen to hours upon hours of music searching for just the right lyrics. And I sure as shootin’ couldn’t write them myself. I bent back over a fresh piece of stationary.
Jane Austen wrote a book called Emma about a matchmaker who couldn’t see what was right in front of her face.Whohad been right there beside her the whole time.
I folded the note in thirds, climbed the ladder, and slipped it up to Tate’s floor. My foot hit the bottom rung, when the crinkling of paper stopped me. Overhead, footsteps moved away, then back again. The clink of metal on metal and the rotation of screws. Something popped.
“What are you trying to say, Em? Talk to me.”
Tate’s voice was close, not muffled. I looked up and saw him hovering above the hole, his floor register gone.
This was it. Moving back to the table, I got one final piece of stationary and wrote. Plagiarized words spoken by Mr. Knightly to Emma, but ones I felt so deeply they could have been my own.
“If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” I love you, Tate.
One simple fold and I pressed the paper to my lips. I took a step up the ladder, then paused. I had to see him. Had to look into his eyes as he learned of my feelings for him. I might not be able to say the words, but I wasn’t ashamed of my heart.
I grabbed a screwdriver from a drawer in the kitchen, hiked up the ladder’s rungs, and twisted the screws until the vent covering fell into my hands. Tate peered down, his brown eyes warm.
“Say it,” he urged.
My throat closed under his gaze as I knew it would, so I lifted the note up. He reached down, our fingers brushing. I stayed rooted in place, feasting on his face, but then he moved out of sight. I took another step up, tried to widen my visibility. Where was he? Where’d he go?
Seconds passed. Minutes. Like weights, my feet fell down the risers. Gravity pulled my body toward to the couch.
That was it? No response?
“Em.” Tate’s voice pulled my head up, my heart lifting as my body rose off the cushions.
“Here.” A book hovered just below my ceiling and then plopped to the ground.
Color me confused. And curious. I walked over and picked it up. Turned the book to reveal the cover.Around the World in 80 Days.
Shut the front door. I confessed I loved him, and he gave me a book? Emotions warred. Uncertainty fogged the equal parts disappointment and expectation. Maybe there was something inside? An inscription or a part highlighted that would shed light on this bizarre twist of events.
I opened the front flap, and Tate’s handwriting greeted me.Here we go.I licked my lips as my eyes tracked the words.
I’ll pick you up Sunday at 10:00. Bring a sweater.
Twelve
I’d been sitting in my reading chair for the past three hours and still couldn’t get my thoughts and nerves under control. The clock read 9:45, and in fifteen minutes Tate would be knocking on my door. Even without coffee, my knee bounced at the rate of a toddler given an espresso. Don’t get me started on the activity going on in my mind. Women’s brains were like circuit breakers, a central hub of wires that all connected with each other, and information—emotion—traveled at lightning speeds. Right then my brain was a certifiable electrical storm, every wire pushed to max capacity.
Not even reading had been able to distract me. I’d been staring at the same page, reading the same paragraph I didn’t even know how many times. But the words never penetrated my consciousness. It was like there was a wreck on the nerve highway between my eyes and my brain.Ain’t nothin’ getting’ through that mess.
And so my thoughts circled.
I’d told Tate I loved him, and he’d responded with a date, time, andbring a sweater.What did that even mean? Was he blowing off my declaration? Ignoring my feelings, the way I had for so long? Maybe I’d gotten it wrong. Maybe I’d misinterpreted all the things I thought had pointed to him reciprocating my feelings. Even so, one thing was clear. Even if he refused to accept the shift I’d caused in our friendship, I couldn’t take back the words. Couldn’t shut off the flood of warmth that circled my body when he was near. The way my heart filled to near bursting at the tiniest thought of him.
