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She wants to know what I was like as a kid. Part of me wishes I could tell her that I was the coolest, as a little kid and in high school and always. Even if that’s not exactly the case. Chess club and my middle-school Agatha Christie phase would testify against me.
‘The truth is so much less awesome. I was the kid who did nerdy anatomy experiments, like standing on my hands and trying to drink a glass of water to see if I could swallow up—opposite direction of gravity and all that.’
‘I have so many questions.’
That makes me smile. I love the thought of her asking me all kinds of questions about the past and the present and the future. Ask away.
‘Good. Ask me tomorrow and we’ll never run out of things to talk about.’
‘Dr. Mercer, are you trying to get rid of me?’
‘Not even a little.’
‘That’s very good to know. Because you won’t find it easy. I’m a little stuck on you.’
She sends a picture of three rolls of tape—scotch, masking, and some wide roll of clear stuff that might be used for holding paperback covers on books.
Is this a declaration? Or just flirty word play? Because if it’s time for saying how we feel, I’m in. But I’d rather do it in person.
I decide to give her the pleasure of having the last word. But of course, I have to heart the photo.
I pocket the phone and wander around the room, checking out how the new decoration looks from every angle. I know this isn’t my specialty, but I have to admit that it does make this look less showroom and more living room. I like it. Lana wins again.
I can only stare at my own furnishings for so long before I get bored, though.
I text Nate Markham to see if he wants to come over and watch a game. He says he’ll bring a pizza, but he actually brings two pizzas and his girlfriend. Which is perfect, because London is an excellent football commentator. She knows everything about the game and most of the players, but she’s not emotionally invested in any teams, so she can give a running commentary that makes just enough fun of all of it (football, commentaries, how seriously Nate and I take this game) to keep us laughing even when the game’s not great.
Watching them snuggling into the side of the couch, I imagine tomorrow. Me and Sage, here in my apartment. Will she have a reason to cheer and throw her arms around me like London does to Nate? Will she put her head on my chest? Will I wrap my arm around her shoulders? Will we fit as perfectly as they do?
Sometimes it’s nice to have things to look forward to. And look back on.
It’s a good day, and in my mind, I keep going back to the best parts. The parts I spent with Sage. When we were at the dairy together, when we were driving along the wooded highway, when I held her hand, when she threw back her head and laughed, stretching her neck until it was all I could do to not kiss it. Seriously, that neck. And then there’s the way she smiles at me. Her confidence. Her comedy. How easily she tosses out comments like, “I’m stuck on you.” I mean, sure, it was an excuse to send me a picture of office supplies, but also? I’m sure she meant it.
I am definitely falling. And I really like the fall.
Tomorrow is going to be perfect. Everything is planned. Everything is ready.
18
SAGE
I’m not ready. Not that I’ve had anything important to do all day rather than getting ready for this date, but I managed to find things to fill the hours. My apartment is very clean. And I did an hour of yoga with London.
And I played the violin.
Yeah. I know. I kind of buried the lead there.
Partly because I don’t completely know how I feel about it, and I’m really working to keep it all at the back of my mind. Not to obsess. Not to make it a bigger thing than it needs to be. Not to return the violin and all its attending emotions to the front of the line of what’s in my head.
But the truth is, playing felt fine.
There was no surge of joy. There was likewise no surge of nausea. It took several minutes to tune up, since—wow—these strings haven’t been tuned in a really long time. And once it was tuned, I stood in front of the mirror, rosined and tightened my bow, and played a scale.
Then I played another one.
Then a fiddle tune. Then a section of a Vivaldi piece. No sheet music. Just muscle memory.
Did I hit some wrong notes? Yes. Did it make me cringe? Not at all. I don’t need to be good at this anymore.
