Page 73 of When There Was You
“Yes.”
He gestures for it with his fingers. “I want to review this before you send it.”
I hand it over, and my nerves take a fresh turn. The publisher is going to read my article, which is about one of his oldest friends. If I haven’t done it justice…
“I’ll give it a spin, and we can discuss it over lunch tomorrow.”
Say what? “Oh, uh, okay.”
“Don’t be nervous. I’m sure coworkers have regaled you with stories about my vicious red pen, but my edits have helped every writer become better. That’s the only goal.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. A business lunch then. I can do this. What choice do I have? “Thank you. I appreciate your professional input.”
He winks again and strolls out the door.
Fresh sweat trickles from my armpits and I hustle to the breakroom and buy a Coke from the vending machine. After chugging the cool drink, I dial Hamilton Restorations and ask for Butch. My pen taps against my notepad until his voice breaks the silence.
Instant comfort. “It’s me.”
“Sundance. What a pleasant surprise.”
A smile edges my mouth. “The article is nearly finished.Should be able to fax it over tomorrow. Just wanted to give you a heads up.”And hear your voice.
“I’ll let my dad know. If you’re happy with it, Ms. Hall, he surely will be.”
“Way to keep it professional, Mr. Hamilton.”
“Hmm. I like the sound of that leaving your lips.”
Now I’m sweating for an entirely new reason. “Whenwillmy lips see you again?” It’s been a few weeks, and I’m jonesing to see Butch worse than I craved a cigarette after quitting.
“Not soon enough for me. I’m trying to arrange this weekend. Are you free?”
“Yes, absolutely,” I exclaim, cringing at my obvious overeagerness. “I could head your direction if it’s easier.”
“No,” he answers quickly—maybe too quickly. “This is your first fall in Virginia and Mother Nature puts on a hell of a display. I want to take you for a drive, show it to you. That cool?”
“I’d love that.”
“Call you tonight?”
“It’s my favorite part of the day.”
“Mine too, baby.”
Dread greetsme shortly after I open my eyes; the expected lunch with my boss looms large. I dress conservatively in a black turtleneck and tan slacks. I sweep my hair into a basic ponytail. I’m fully aware of my efforts to downplay my assets, blend into the background, seem less attractive...and the lunacy of it. I shouldn’t have to do anything different—I’mnot the problem here.
As I cinch my hairband, the questions erupt. Did Don approve of my article? Did he slash it to smithereens? Does he doubt I’m talented enough to write for his magazine?
Despite my personal disgust for Don, I still value hisconstructive criticism. Heisthe publisher, which means he’s a seasoned pro—not just a seasoned scumball who hits on his employees.
Optimism prevails, and for good measure, I talk to my reflection in the mirror: “This is a working lunch. Nothing more.”
As I drive to the office, Ozzy’s “Crazy Train” plays on the heels of a Huey Lewis & The News song, and I blast the fuck out of it, attempting to quell my nerves. In addition to the anxiety of this impending work scenario, the memory of last night’s phone call with Butch floods me with a weird combination of elated and skittish. Our dynamic constantly teeter-totters: mash the gas or slam the brakes.
It’s hard not to push the pedal to the metal when he says things likeI protect what’s mine—and will go any lengths to ensure you are safe, loved, and properly fucked. But Butch has admitted trust issues. Secrets. And possibly legal troubles, which he alluded to the day we met. Whatever he’s waiting to reveal until he’s ready. If ever.
I can’t exactly fault him when I’m trying (and failing) to hang onto my autonomy. Lord knows Butch makes it difficult; he’s charming, complimentary, easygoing, and ridiculously attractive. The kind of handsome where I could forget my own name, let alone my mission in life. Yet in my deepest, messiest, broken parts, I’m wary of getting attached… or worse, falling in love. Especially with a man who can’t trust.
