Million Dollar Date

by Susan Hatler

  “You may not believe me, but Harrison and I used to bring beer up here. Beer we’d bought with my fake ID.”

  Cooper was right. I didn’t believe him. At all.

  “We’d sneak in and climb up here and drink and listen to music, sometimes until the sun came up behind us.” His head shifted and I felt him smiling down at me. “Or until some no fun cop came and ran us off.”

  I laughed softly. “Aren’t they the worst?”

  “The worst,” he agreed, rubbing circles along the top of my hand with his thumb. I thought I could sense a tremor in his fingers. “Any rule out there, I wanted to break. I rebelled against my teachers, my parents, and my counselors. The principal knew me by name and it wasn’t because I was on the honor roll. I spent more time in his office than I ever did in biology.”

  “It’s hard to picture you like that,” I said, shaking my head. No, I couldn’t imagine this Cooper. Had he worn his hair shaggy and unruly? Had he worn band tee shirts and partied under the bleachers after school? I felt like I was hearing about a person I didn’t know, a person entirely separate from the responsible, organized man I was leaning against.

  “I thought I was a cool rebel,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought I was living life to the fullest and that fences and responsibilities were chains holding me back. Harrison was my partner in crime, through thick and thin. My best friend.”

  I heard Cooper swallow and wanted to turn to see his face, but I remained still so I wouldn’t disrupt his confession—because that was exactly what this felt like, a confession. So, I kept my hand in his and my head on his shoulder. “What changed?” I asked.

  “It was our senior year and we were both seventeen,” he said, his voice almost too quiet for me to hear. “There was a rock concert just outside of Sacramento that we wanted to go to. But both of our parents had said no, of course. Harrison thought that missing the concert would be the end of the world, so I insisted we still go. I said we had to go. I said we were going to regret it if we didn’t. I said we had to live wild and free. And I convinced him to go out that night.”

  Chills crept up my spine. I waited.

  “I snuck out of my parents’ house with the keys to my dad’s car and then drove over and picked up Harrison from his house. He fell into the bushes beneath his bedroom window and we laughed about it all the way to the concert. The night was everything I’d hoped it would be. We’d had a blast. It was all perfect until a drunk driver ran a stop sign and struck our car a block from Harrison’s home. He died upon impact.”

  I stopped breathing. Harrison had died that night.

  “I got a scratch on my forehead and a settlement.”

  A lump formed in my throat the size of a boulder. I understood. I understood what Cooper wanted to share with me. I understood then what he meant when he said he wanted me to see more of him. He was more than just a cop, more than just a rule follower, more than just a robot.

  He had a story behind that facade. I’d made the mistake of viewing him as if he saw the world as just black and white. But he was more than that. He had shades of gray. And even more than that he had shades of color. He was kind and caring and thoughtful and fun. He’d made mistakes and had regrets and had dealt with pain and hurt and heartache.

  It was hard to know what to say when someone tells you a story like his. There never seems to be words that do what they should. No sentiment ever feels perfect. So I watched the sunset and rested my head against Cooper and thought about what I should say to him.

  “I see you, Cooper,” I said, nuzzling my cheek against his shoulder. “I see you.”

  I knew my words didn’t say everything I wanted to say, but he squeezed my hand and leaned his head against mine and I knew I had said enough.

  Chapter Seven

  Today was the day.

  Today was the day it would all be decided.

  Today was the day the committee would vote.

  But first I had to give my presentation. And before I had to present I felt pretty sure I had to hurl. And before I had to hurl I had to get an appetite so I had something in my stomach to hurl. The problem was that I kept pushing away everything Hannah tried to force feed me.

  “Abigail,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “You have to eat something or you’ll pass out up there during your presentation.”

  Hannah dangled a chocolate chip muffin in front of my face half like a mysterious talisman in an attempt to hypnotize me to eat and half like a dog treat I’d use to get Banana to obey.

  “I’m too nervous to eat,” I told her, biting my nails and glancing around the conference room at City Hall that was filling steadily with men and women wearing serious black suits and even more serious frowns. After my date with Cooper at the water tower something had changed inside me. He and I talked on the phone every day, met for coffee, and I couldn’t imagine my life any other way. But now it was the following Monday and I had to go in front of the committee for my one shot to save Reagan’s Rescue at the Barn. I was beyond petrified. “I’m sorry, Hannah, I just can’t eat. Too much is riding on all of this.”

  Regardless of my declaration, I eyed the chocolate chip muffin with interest, pondering whether or not they were semi-sweet chocolate chips. I started to reach for the muffin as Hannah grinned, but the sudden churn in my stomach stopped my hand and I groaned.

  “Hannah, go up there for me,” I said, shoving my notecards at her with sweaty fingers. “Please, please, please? Thanks, I love you. You’re the best.”

  “Dream on, girl.” She laughed, bit into the muffin and raised her eyebrows. “If you love me then you should present for my boss.”

  “Touché,” I grumbled. In my short law school career, I’d presented in front of large audiences periodically. It was kind of part of the job. But I never had a problem shoving chocolate chip muffin after chocolate chip muffin into my mouth beforehand. I knew why this time felt so different: I cared.

  I cared about the dogs these funds could save. I cared about my friend these funds could help. I cared about doing something I believed in mind, body, and soul.

  I hadn’t cared in law school, which was the reason I’d left. It was the reason I moved across the country, started a new career path, and became a different woman. It was the reason I changed my last name. Shoot, I thought, I still needed to change that on my license.

  That lingering task distracted me briefly from my crushing nervousness. The anxiety had just started to sneak back in when I noticed Cooper enter the room. His eyes searched the growing crowd and it made my heart flutter because I knew exactly who he was looking for: me.

  A smile stretched across his face and his eyes lit up when he saw me and I gave him a smile that rivaled his. Then he pointed to the door on the opposite side of the conference room. I assured Hannah I’d be right back and she gave me a wink.

  “Go flirt the good flirt,” she called after and dramatically thumped her forehead. “Silly me, I meant go fight the good fight.”

  I whirled around with heated cheeks. “Hannah!”

  She shrugged. “Whatever works.”

  Judging by the grin she couldn’t contain, she was far from sorry. I shook my head and weaved through the crowd to slip out into the quiet, empty hall where I found Cooper leaning against the wall. He looked up when the sharp clack of my heels hit the marble floor.

  “Nervous?” he asked as he took my hands in his.

  “No,” I lied. “Not at all. No sir. Nervous? Me? How could I . . . I mean why would I . . . I’m not nervous. You’re nervous.”

  He laughed and squeezed my hands as my nervous sputtering died off.

  “I shouldn’t be nervous,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m good at this kind of stuff. At least I used to be. In law school I was—”

  “Law school?”

  He stared at me like I’d just spoken Japanese. I smiled, loving that I continued to surprise him.

  “Yes, law school,” I said, pulling my shoulders back and standing u
p straighter. “Yours truly is a proud law school drop out.”

  “I . . . I just . . . law school?” It was Cooper’s turn to sputter. “Abigail Apple? Law? Rules and laws and rules and statutes and order and rules and—”

  “I think you might have said rules already.”

  “And gavels and codes and rules.”

  I shrugged. “You aren’t the only one who used to be different.”

  He’d opened up to me last week, which had brought us closer together. I knew that had been a big step for him, a painful, honest, big step. And as I looked up into his eyes, I knew I had to take that same step for him.

  I wanted him to see all of me. Not just the “me” I was now. Because just like Cooper, I wouldn’t be the woman I was at this very moment in this hallway without having been the woman I used to be in that law school all those years before.

  If I wanted Cooper to be my future, I needed to show him my past.

  “Both of my parents were lawyers,” I said, sucking in a deep breath. “Successful, stern, serious lawyers, who expected their daughter to become a successful, stern, serious lawyer.”

  “The presentation at the police station,” he said, realization written in his eyes. “Residual parental influence?”

  “You can take the girl out of law school, but you can’t take the controlling, demanding, strict parents out of the girl.”

  He chuckled at my lame joke.

  “I grew up doing what was expected of me. Taking advanced classes, after school debate clubs, and internships at the local courthouse.” My stomach knotted as I mentally relived the misery of not being me. “I majored in English in college, because my parents wanted me to. I agreed without even thinking about whether I wanted to major in English or not. I applied to law school without thinking about it, too. I attended classes without thinking about it. I went day to day on autopilot without thinking about whether these choices were making me happy. Without thinking whether I was doing any good for anyone else. Without thinking whether this was what I wanted deep down in my heart.”

  “So what changed?” he asked, still stroking his thumb against my hand.

  “You’re going to laugh,” I responded, dropping my gaze from his.

  “Then we’ll laugh together.”

  I looked up at him. He was right. What was wrong with laughter?

  “I was in a park reading a book about tax law and an apple fell on my head,” I said, remembering back to that day.

  I waited for Cooper’s response. He was silent for a moment, but then I noticed his chest hitch. The smallest chuckle escaped his lips and the sound made me laugh. He laughed at my laughter and I laughed at his and soon we were alone in the hallway laughing so hard we each had tears in our eyes and were holding our sides.

  “I changed my whole life because an apple fell on my head,” I managed to squeak out through nearly hysterical laughter. “An apple.”

  He sucked in a breath and leaned back, wiping at his eyes.

  “Abigail Apple,” he said, wheezing a little. “I’ve never been so grateful for a fruit in my entire life.”

  I stopped laughing as he smiled down at me.

  “Every apple I see now, I am going to stop and kiss,” he continued. “Every farmer at the market is going to have to shoo me away from his pickings and every grocery store is going to have to ban me and every worker at every orchard is going to have to put up higher fences to keep me away, because I am going to kiss each and every apple I find.”

  Tears pooled in my eyes again, not from my previously uncontrollable laughter but for a whole other reason.

  “Kissing apples is against the rules,” I said softly.

  His eyes didn’t leave mine when he said, just as softly, “I know.”

  I smiled.

  “But I have an apple, of all things, to thank for you being in my life,” he said, giving me the most adoring look I’d ever seen. “Those dogs at the rescue have an apple to thank. Your friends have an apple to thank. So I’ll break a rule or two for an apple.”

  “Those dogs have more than just me to thank,” I said, nudging him playfully with my shoulder. “They have you, too. They have a speeding ticket and a bad first date and a very good second date to thank as well.”

  He smiled just as someone from inside the conference room announced over the buzz of the crowd that the presentations would begin in two minutes. My stomach flipped.

  “Abigail, I want you to know something,” he said, seeming to notice my discomfort. “You’re going to do a great job up there at the podium. I have no doubt.”

  I nodded. “All my spreadsheets are ready and I triple checked the projections again last night. The numbers are all there—”

  “Abigail.”

  “I redid the cost analysis to make it more convincing to the board, but maybe I should have included inflation. I didn’t include inflation. Why didn’t I include—”

  “Abigail.”

  “My breakdown of the costs of the farm should be accurate. Utilities and yearly dog food consumption and upkeep of fences and pens and—”

  “Abigail.”

  “Are pie charts too ‘cutesie’?” I asked, my mind whirling as I babbled. I was out of time and if I weren’t completely prepared then I’d let everyone down . . . Cooper, Reagan, and the dogs. I should’ve done more. I should’ve worked harder. “I should’ve used a bar chart. Everyone knows a bar chart is more professional. What was I thinking? A pie chart? A pie chart?”

  “Apple!”

  I opened my mouth to continue, but Cooper suddenly flicked the top of my head. I stared up at him incredulously since he had just flicked me. I rubbed the spot.

  “Ow,” I said, frowning at the grin on his face and pouting more petulantly than I intended. I crossed my arms and started tapping my toe. “What in the world was that for?”

  “Just a reminder,” he said, and then leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to that same spot on my head. I could only stare in shock as he pulled back and smiled down at me. He brushed a short strand of hair away from my forehead with the softest touch that made goosebumps travel up my spine. “A reminder that you’re Abigail Apple now. So be Abigail Apple. She’s pretty amazing.”

  My stomach knotted. “But so much is riding on me.”

  “I promise you those dogs will not lose their home, all right?” He cupped both of my cheeks with his palms. “I will not let that happen, so stop worrying. I’ve never seen you like this.”

  I nodded. It was all I could do.

  “Just be yourself up there,” he said, glancing toward the door to the conference room when the booming voice asked everyone to take their seats. “Be Abigail Apple.”

  His hands slipped away and I leaned toward him just as he shifted past me like a warm summer wind. I nearly tumbled over I’d leaned so far. My purse slipped from my shoulder and the contents scattered across the marble floor.

  Shaking my head and laughing at myself, I bent down to gather everything. There were the little things: lip glosses and concealer and tissues and a stray bobby pin and a grocery list from six months ago. There was Banana’s tie from my presentation to Cooper at the police station. There was obviously my wallet and keys and cell phone. But there was also my USB flash drive.

  And it was my USB flash drive, the one holding my meticulously written, exhaustively researched, agonizingly analyzed presentation for the charity committee that I found myself staring at for the longest time there in the empty hallway as I pondered what Cooper had said to me before he went back inside: Be Abigail Apple.

  I stared at the USB flash drive that held my presentation and found myself pondering why, really why, I hadn’t yet changed my name on my driver’s license. I told myself time and time again that I didn’t have time with my job and volunteering. I told myself it was because the DMV was an experience worse than any other on earth.

  But maybe it was because I hadn’t yet fully embraced Abigail Apple. And maybe today was the day I would. After Cooper’s
encouragement, maybe today was the day that I’d finally become brave enough. Now I knew what I needed to do.

  With a smile on my face, I grabbed the USB flash drive and marched straight to the nearest trash bin. I hurled it in and sent my law school heels tumbling in right after it. Barefoot and brave, I rummaged for my cell phone and dialed Reagan’s number.

  “Abigail,” she answered, breathless. “I’m leaving leaving right now. Sorry I’m running late. There was an incident involving two puppies and a now-headless chew toy. But I’m—”

  “Did you say you haven’t left yet?” I asked.

  “No, I’m so sorry. I’ll be there before you present, I promise. Leaving now . . .”

  I grinned. “No problem. I’m glad you’re running late. Sorry about the beheaded toy, though.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t leave yet.”

  There was a pause on the other line. “Why not?”

  “Because I have a plan,” I said, excitement coursing through my veins. I no longer felt an ounce of nervousness. I was Abigail Apple.

  And I knew what to do.

  Chapter Eight

  In my thirty-minute presentation to the committee who would decide which local charity would receive the hundred-thousand-dollar donation, I would not utter a single number. Not one pie chart would be shown. There would be no spreadsheet in sight.

  There would be, however, an abundance of puppies.

  Well, if they arrived in the next three minutes.

  I stood in the hallway, pacing back and forth on my bare feet just three minutes before my assigned time slot, and trying not to watch the second hand of the clock on the wall tick forward when I heard the first bark.

  I raced to the top of the stairs and was nearly knocked over by a rush of puppies and dogs. After regaining my balance, my gaze shot to Reagan and Krista and Hannah being yanked along by the leashes behind our furry friends. Then I knelt amongst the flurry of wet kisses and shedding hair as my friends bent over their knees, huffing and puffing.