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Thirty-Three
AFTER THE NIGHTI got, um, shot in the head, Glenn made Taylor cover the first two weeks of my Korea assignment so my million-dollar injury could heal completely. He offered to have Taylor take the whole thing, but I declined. “No more giving Taylor my assignments,” I said.
“Good point,” Glenn said.
Jack waited a respectful length of time for my emotionally-alarming-but-not-all-that-lethal-or-even-painful injury to heal… and then he talked me into trying our date again.
He said, “Can we just have a do-over?”
“On what?”
“The date.”
“The date?” I asked. “The one that almost got me killed?”
Jack nodded, like Yup.
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m good.”
“I just need a do-over,” Jack said. “And so do you.” Then he leaned in closer, marshaled all his handsomeness, and said, “I promise you won’t regret it.”
Did I want to walk up Jack’s driveway in ridiculous footwear and nervously ring his doorbell again, even knowing for certain that WilburHatesYou321 was in custody?
Not a chance.
“Let’s just do something else,” I said. “Mini golf. Bowling. Karaoke.”
But Jack shook his head. “I had some very specific intentions for what I was going to do to you in that moment, and I really need to see them through.”
“You mean the moment when I showed up at your door all nervous and you flat-out rejected me?”
“Let’s note for the record that I was saving your life.”
“But I got shot anyway.”
“Grazed,” Jack corrected.
I thought about it. Could I bear to try again? I studied him. “You’re trying to re-create the date?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Jack said. “I need a version of that story that does not have Wilbur in it.”
I could see the value of that. “Fine,” I said.
“Tonight,” Jack said.
“Fine.”
“And wear that red dress.”
I sighed. “The one I bled all over?”
“You washed it, right?”
“I mean… yes.”
