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“And her David loved her. He had the biggest heart.” A lump forms in my throat, preventing further speech, so I simply bring Hannah’s hand to my cheek and close my eyes. Bringing Hannah here has felt so right. I feel closer to her now than ever.
“Is it hard coming here and seeing all the places he used to be?” she whispers.
“Yeah, but it’s awesome, too.” I tell her about how Mom and Dad used to eat popcorn and play backgammon every night before bed, and she instantly understands the poignancy of Mom asking her to perform the ritual tonight. In fact, Hannah is so moved, she tears up.
“I feel so honored,” she whispers. “I had no idea it was such a big deal.”
“My mom already adores you.”
“I adore her. How could I not? There’s so much of you in her. Or I guess, the other way around.” She leans in to kiss me, and soon, we’re making out—and then making love, quietly, with both of us giggling every time one of us makes a sound that could conceivably travel to my mother’s bedroom across the hall.
When we’re done, and Hannah’s lying naked in my arms, a palpable serenity washes over me. A sense of peace and rightness. I’ve known since day one Hannah was meant for me. But seeing her with my mom and getting to witness how seamlessly she fits into my family has taken my certainty to a whole new level. She’s The One. Indubitably. The only question now is how long this eager beaver will be able to wait to tell her so on bended knee.
31
HANNAH
“Babe, you were Buffy and that interviewer a vampire,” Henn says. It’s his way of pumping me up about the job interview I had today with the PR department of a major movie studio. For the past twenty minutes or so, while baking cookies in my new kitchen in LA, I’ve been telling Henn every detail I can remember about the interview, while Henn offers non-stop words of encouragement.
“The job is as good as yours,” Henn declares after I’ve wrapped up both my storytelling and the task of putting mounds of cookie dough onto cookie sheets.
“If I get the job, I don’t know how I’ll ever thank Reed for getting me the interview.”
“Not to diminish Reed’s act of kindness,” Henn says, “I don’t think it took a whole lot of time or effort on his part. All he had to do was text Isabel and ask her to call the head of the PR department at the studio. I bet Isabel was thrilled to do a favor for Reed. She probably thought it would help her accomplish her dream of making Reed finally fall madly in love with her.” From what Henn’s told me, Reed’s been dating the up-and-coming actress, Isabel Randolph, off and on for several years now, and it’s become painfully obvious to everyone but Isabel she’s far more invested in the situationship than Reed.
“Even so,” I say, “I feel like I should do something nice to thank Reed for helping me so much. This apartment is incredible and even getting to interview for my dream job was a dream come true.”
“Babe, you’ve already thanked him enough, both in person and on Instagram.”
I turn on the oven light and peek at the rising cookies in the oven. “Does Reed like chocolate chip cookies? I could make him—"
“Sweetheart, no. Have you seen the man? He’d never risk softening his abs of steel for the fleeting pleasure of a cookie in his mouth. Truly, you’ve thanked him enough.” Henn leaves his bar stool to pull me into his arms and give me a little peck. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll eat the crap outta those cookies.”
“Thank you. It does.”
Henn kisses my cheek. “Do you want me to hang some more stuff on the walls? I’m feeling kinda handy.” He grabs my ass. “Oh, wait. That would be handsy.” When I laugh, he squeezes my ass again. “I can’t get enough.”
“Too late. You already offered and I’m dying to hang those prints from the flea market.” I pinch his ass. “But I’ll definitely take a rain check on you’re handsiness, sir.” I put my hands on my hips and look around. “Where did I leave the hammer and nails yesterday, that’s the question?”
We search the spacious apartment and finally find the items on a shelf in the hall closet of all places. At my urging, we head to my bedroom next, where I’ve decided said prints shall go. Where, exactly? I have no idea. For several minutes, Henn asks me which one goes where, and I make him move the frames up and down and over, repeatedly, trying to make my decision. Before I’ve decided, however, Henn’s phone rings—and when he looks at the screen, he says, “Sorry. I should take this.” He puts down the framed print in his hands and presses his phone to his ear. “Why, hello there, Captain Morgan. How’s it going, sir?”
