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The bookends, though. Those were more meaningful.
I know I shouldn’t save anything meaningful from him, but I also really like the bookends because they’re William the hippo. I tell myself it’s okay to keep them, and only I know why it really isn’t, so there’s no one to argue with me about it.
I grab a simple black purse to complete the ensemble and stuff it full of the things I know I’ll need tonight. I open my wallet to make sure I have cash for a tip, even though I secretly hope my date will be chivalrous and insist on paying for the first date himself. I’m not cheap, I pay for things myself all the time and I’m happy to pay for dates, too, but it feels decidedly unromantic when you’re out for the first time and the guy comes out and asks you to pay for your half.
Not that I have high hopes for this guy. The last guy Charity set me up with was a disaster, and I am honestlynotin the market for a new boyfriend right now. This Lance guy would have to be pretty incredible to change my mind.
But I guess a tiny sliver of me has hope.
I want all that, I really do. I want someone to love me. More than that, I want someone who isintoxicatedby me. I want kisses that ignite fireworks, warm caresses that express he truly can’t get enough of me.
For once, I just want someone to love me wholly and completely, without common sense or restraint.
I’ll give every bit of it back, I just…
I’ve never found anything close.
I guess I know it’s a fairy tale. That’s not how the real world works. Even if you find love and you get married, you wind up with a husband who laughs his ass off when you twist your ankle on the beach instead of rushing over to make sure you’re okay.
None of this is making me more excited to go on this date.
Smiling faintly, I grab my phone and text Charity. “Cough, cough.” I press send, then add, “Oh no, I think I’m sick…”
She responds almost instantly. “Then take a shot of Robitussin and get your ass in a cab.”
“Haven’t you heard? Romance is dead. Just let me stay home with Marie and watch Audrey Hepburn movies.”
“YOU ARE OLD,” she answers.
“We’re watching Sabrina next!”
“Cab. Now!”
I slip the phone in my purse and grab my keys, then I make sure to lock up and head downstairs to hail a cab.
As I burst through the door of my apartment building and emerge on the busy city street, I find all the noises and smells I expect when I leave the apartment, but one thing I definitelydon’texpect, too.
A limo is parked on the curb just outside my apartment.
I know it’s Calvin’s, because Hollis is standing outside of it with a black envelope in his hand.
You have got to be kidding.
“What are you doing here?” I ask cautiously.
“Calvin wanted me to deliver a message to you,” he says, holding out the envelope.
My eyebrows rise. “Did he lose my number?”
Hollis doesn’t answer, just continues to hold the envelope out until I take it.
Sighing, I finally do. I tear it open and yank out the note.
In Calvin’s overbearingly bossy script, it reads:
Hallie,
Don’t go on the date tonight.
