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So. I’m meeting my mystery man for a dinner date.

Sam. I’m meeting Sam for a date.

The thought surrounds me as I walk down the hall toward a meeting, emotions filling me to the brim.

It’s not really so much the I’m-meeting-my-mystery-man-for-a-dinner-date part that’s troubling. I long to meet this man. He’s become a part of my thoughts every waking (and sometimes sleeping) hour of the day. He is brilliant. Witty. Blunt, yes, but in a way I’ve come to respect. And more than anything, someone I’ve come to wish was my companion everywhere.

Everywhere I go, everything I do, I find myself wishing he was here.

Watching Olivia and Ferris that night they tried to simultaneously jog in place while making soup while sealing invitations to their wedding. Oh, he’d think it was hilarious.

Sitting at the Tin Can with Lyla and watching the live band in the corner. Didn’t that guitar player look just like Brad Paisley? It was uncanny.

Standing in the courthouse hallway, seeing the loads of brides and grooms in line.

Well, actually, I didn’t think about him then. Not that afternoon.

But other than that, the other 95 percent of the time, my editor is perpetually in my thoughts.

The only slight problem is that I have a hard time connecting the intellectual, witty, companionable editor who so deliciously keeps me on my toes with . . . Sam. Sam, whose hobbies include being on the board of trustees at the YMCA and Rotary International. Sam, who took a week’s vacation last year to go to Branson, Missouri.

Branson, Missouri.

So, for the most part, I don’t.

I just pretend they are two completely separate entities.

But now? Now . . . I’ll have to face the facts. The fact that he is actually an incredibly fascinating human being who also happens to enjoy Funny Farm Dinner Feud shows. And talks for long periods of time about QuickBooks.

I’m the first in the room for a titling meeting—quite early, in fact—and catching a glimpse of my watch, I dump my stack of papers and computer on the table and start pacing. I’m only at 3600 for the day, pitifully low, and I’d try to make up for some of it after work on the way home except that the fundraising banquet is tonight. I drove so I could leave straight from work, dash home to throw on a two-sizes-too-small “warrior blue” dress after all, and fight traffic all the way downtown for the banquet. And if last year is a signifier of what’s to come, I’ll want to get in all the steps I can now so Olivia doesn’t pull me forward to be her “living example” again of how “we may feel like all hope is lost, but the truth is we just need to surround ourselves with positive influences who can motivate us toward becoming our better selves” (aka her).

My pace quickens and the length of my steps shortens until I look like a waddling penguin in a hurry.

There’s a shuffling noise, and I look over to see Sam just stepping through the doorway.

He halts.

Then looks like he’s walked in on me naked.

“Sam,” I say, halting immediately as my embarrassment grows. “Sorry . . . I’m in the middle of a step-a-thon race and . . . well . . .” I trail off awkwardly, realizing I don’t know how to finish my sentence.

Or paragraph.

Or conversation as a whole.

This is the first time we’ve really been face-to-face, alone.

We have been avoiding each other the past few weeks. I suppose he feels just like me, more willing to open up on paper than when someone else is looking straight into your eyes. After all, it’s so easy to be honest on paper, like when—

My face blanches as I remember, looking into his eyes.

Like when I admitted to that little toe-fungus issue I had not so long ago. How at the time, I was defending the character’s bath caddy and shower shoes in the gym and finished with the words, And that’s why you always use shoes in the shower. You never know what germs may be lurking about.

To which he had responded: I meant the whole unnecessary scene. Much as I appreciate a lesson in personal hygiene, the scene itself is the problem. She runs into him at the gym. We don’t need to know that afterward she showers while giving herself a lecture about athlete’s foot.

Oh, how embarrassing.

I mean, I know I shared these things, but I assumed I would just meet him and feel all risen above it, like I would just shrug and laugh a bit and feel like all of those awkward little secrets and personal stories would just bring us closer. Now, looking into his darting eyes, I know.