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And how . . . exactly . . . does he want to help?

Surely he doesn’t mean . . .

There’s no way . . .

Absolutely not.

I put the tip of my pen to my lip. Hesitate over how exactly to word my response.

Yes, I’d love that!

I scratch out the words as quickly as I write them. No need to sound desperate. Also, who does that? It’s like screaming, Kiss me! I want you to kiss me! in someone’s face just before they kiss you. Awful.

So . . . what do you mean? Like . . . you want to kiss me? Like we’re in second grade?

Ah! The moment I write my attempt at lighthearted sarcasm I feel an overwhelming surge of embarrassment and cross it out so frantically I rip a corner of the page.

Finally, after much pacing around the room, I find my reply.

I can use all the help I can get. What do you have in mind?

There. And before I can convince myself to blot it out again, I leave.

Chapter 17

I’d like to take you to dinner.

That’s it. He’s thinking dinner. I exhale as I read the neatly written words on the bottom of the page, my head still prickling. Of course he wasn’t thinking kiss-in-a-dark-room-for-educational-purposes.

That was an absurd notion, Savannah.

Insane.

He’s thinking dinner. Dinner at a nice restaurant where we finally meet face-to-face and discuss scenes for publishing purposes. Like reasonable adults.

But as I flip the page, I see he has written something else.

To clarify, a date. I’d like to take you on a date.

My heart skyrockets for about three seconds, and for a solid minute I don’t move. He wants to take me on a date. A first date. Like one of those dates we’ve discussed all along the margins in reference to other people and other situations. Except this time, it’s me. He doesn’t want to take some girl named Chelsea to the Catbird Seat to talk about how her gluten-free lifestyle changed her life. He wants to talk to me. Romantically. Because he’d like to date me.

I feel elated, as though I’m floating.

And yet . . . the end has come. The magic of this little room . . . about to end. He’s ready to leave the tree house full of songs and games and embark on the real thing. He’s moved to the ground and is beckoning me to come down at last.

I feel a little as though Peter Pan has grown up, and I’m not quite ready.

But we’re partners in this. And the game can’t go on when one half of the team decides to quit. I scribble, Would love to. When?

And from there, the conversation bounces back and forth throughout the afternoon.

Tonight. 7 pm.

I can’t at 7 pm. I have a fundraising banquet at 5. How about 8 . . . 30? 8:30?

Deal. See you at 8:30. Meet here?

Perfect.