Page 7 of From A to Us

That surprised a laugh out of Nolan, and a quick surge of desire had him almost doing something stupid.

Eli waved at the mess on the floor. “Why don’t you deal with that, and I’ll get the water bottles.”

He was closer to them now, so Nolan shook his head at himself and squatted to shove everything back into the bag—including his own shirt button.

“You never told me why you were interviewing for new jobs,” Eli said, reaching up for the box of water bottles. “Why’d you quit your last job? You were excited about it when you told me about it last year.”

Nolan sighed and tossed the pens and pencils into an interior pocket of the bag. “It didn’t work out. The company had a couple of years of high turnover, so they wanted me to enhance their employee engagement program. So, of course, I started asking why there was such high turnover, and once I started digging, I uncovered bias and exclusion and bigotry and . . .” He sighed and grabbed the notebooks. One was labeled HST 2050, the other PSYS 2100. History and psychology classes, he assumed, presumably at the University of Vermont, judging by UVM Bookstore stamped across the top of one of the crinkled receipts. “Anyway, management didn’t want the level of truth I uncovered, so I got pushed into a regular HR role, handling payroll and conducting surveys and whatnot, and I was bored to tears. So I quit.”

“I’m sorry, Nolan. That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

He picked up the loose sheets of paper next, pausing when he noticed they were all addressed to the same person. Five sheets total, they were letters dated fifteen years prior, during the Trailblazers’ third season. Nolan put them in order from first to fifth and shamelessly read the first one.

Dear Annie,

Do you remember the day we met? Nikki introduced us, and all I could think was, “Damn. I’m gonna marry this girl one day.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Dude, you made the WORST first impression.”

It was Waterfront Park, remember? You arrived with Nikki, cursing her for dragging you out at seven in the morning to go jogging of all things.

“I only run to catch the bus,” I heard you say, and I immediately knew I had to meet you.

It was October and the morning was cold, yet all you wore was an oversized T-shirt and cropped leggings in a geometric pattern, like the temperature meant nothing to you. Nikki said something and you scoffed, and I couldn’t get over how unimpressed you were with the whole jogging group experience.

I never told you this, but while you were introducing yourself to the group organizer, I begged Nikki to introduce us. She told me I had no chance with you, and not only because you already had a boyfriend (that kicked me right in the gut, let me tell you), but because I was a dumb jock and you were all class.

Gotta love brutally honest friends, am I right?

But she towed me over to you anyway as the organizer was giving instructions . . .

And here’s where I made the worst first impression.

Me, while shaking your hand: What size shoes are you wearing?

You sighed and looked at me like I was about as interesting as the last baguette at the bakery.

You: Eight. Why?

Me: Because I think we could be sole mates. Get it? Sole mates? (I even went so far as to point at the soles of my shoes.)

Here you looked at me like I was as interesting as the last baguette at the bakery, and not only that, but I was the dreaded whole wheat. Does anyone actually like whole wheat?

You, to Nikki: Is he for real?

Aaaand here’s where my cool-meter dropped to about negative ten.

Me: Aside from being an athletic wear model, what do you do?

Nikki actually face-palmed, but you snorted a laugh.

Hope! There was hope on the horizon! If I could make you laugh, not all was lost.

Then I tripped on my shoelace like an infant learning to walk.

Cool-meter: negative fifty.