Thank You for Listening(97)

Nick dropped his chin in his hand and gazed at her. He tapped his temple. “Is it always like this in there? Does your neck get sore from holding that big brain up all day long?”

She snorted. “Anyway, it’s not ridiculous. It’s not bullshit. It is possible. It’s not fantasy or reality. A happily ever after is built by both, together, over a lifetime.”

Nick took a moment. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking the exact same thing.” Sewanee laughed, but he said, “No, seriously, it’s almost exactly what I was talking to Stu about on the boat ride back to St. Mark’s.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“What were you talking about?”

“Emerson and dolphins.”

Sewanee chuckled.

“After a thrilling dissertation on the striped dolphin’s migratory patterns and mating irregularities he brought up that Emerson quote: it’s not the destination; it’s the journey. And he said Emerson was ass backwards like me. That it is the destination and not the journey. Because only after you’ve arrived can you judge the merit of the journey. But then he said”–and here, Nick dropped into his dead-on Stu impression–“it probably wasn’t Emerson anyway, it was probably some bumper sticker writer and no one should take advice from a bumper sticker, or a has-been sneaker-maker for that matter, and did I happen to notice how each wine came in a different-shaped glass at dinner?”

Sewanee laughed, then, imitating her mom, said, “Stuuuuu.”

Nick laughed as well. “I think those two have a shot at HEA.” He sat back, took another sip, and assessed her. “So more Romance, eh?”

Sewanee sipped, too. “Maybe. Not necessarily narrate. Maybe direct some Duets. Maybe find the next Brock McNight.”

Nick had a particular look on his face.

She reached over, patted his forearm. “Aww, don’t worry. You’ll always be my first.”

He caught her hand as she pulled it back. He brought it to his mouth. Ran his lips from her wrist up along the side of her pinky. Kissed the tip of her finger. Then the center of her palm. Breathed in. “Done playing games?”

Her face opened like a flower. “Yes.”

With her other hand, she lifted her glass. He pulled back and lifted his. She quietly sang, “You’re the one that I want, you are the one I want.”

He grinned and returned, “Ooh-ooh-ooh.”

They finished the prosecco, stood, and left the table hand in hand.

AS THEY WOUND through the Ghetto and back to the center of town, the distant sound of a cello drew them into another piazza. In the middle, a lone cellist sat on a stool, hat at her feet brimming with coins, playing a sonata. After watching for a moment, Nick tugged Sewanee into his arms and began dancing.

As much as she wanted to get back to the hotel, this rhythmic swaying felt like the pinnacle of intimacy and she melted into him. “Can we stay like this forever?”

She felt his chuckle in her chest. “Yes. At least until we have to go back to the real world. Or get hungry.”

They continued dancing. Sewanee knew that beyond Nick’s humor, there was a sobering truth. She knew what she could expect from him in a hotel room; she didn’t know what lay beyond that. She felt safe enough in his arms to ask: “What happens then?”

“Are you asking what my intentions are?” She heard the smile in his voice.

“Kind of. Yeah.”

“Simple. I want to be with you.” At her silence, he pushed her away, coaxing her out into a lazy spin. “What do you want?”

Sewanee smiled back, but exhaled. Long and slow.

Nick reeled her back to him. “Remember, now: there’s nothing more attractive than a woman who knows what she wants.”

His tone was light, all unaffected nonchalance. But she also felt the slightest hint of discomfort.

“I want to know this is real,” she said. “But how can . . . is that even possible?”

“You want the Romance version or the Women’s Fiction version?”

She looked up at him. “Neither. I want the real-life version.”

He spun her back out, thinking. “We do long distance for a while. Until we can organize our lives in such a way that we can be together.” He pulled her back in.

“How?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“But how?”

“We just will.”

“How can you be so confident?”

“Because I believe in us.” He peered down at her. “Don’t you?”

“Of course.” She used the opportunity of ducking under his arm to break eye contact. “But there’s so much going on. So much up in the air. For both of us. Something could happen and then what?”

“Something will happen. Probably many things. We’ll get frustrated. Angry. We’ll disappoint each other. We’ll say things we don’t mean but deep down kinda mean a little.”

“Or worse.”

His feet slowed. “What’s going on?”

She tugged his shoulder toward her, willing him to recommit to the dance, even as she kept her gaze averted. “I think I’m scared.”

“Of?”

“You. You’re . . . you’re like some . . .”