“Oh, right,” Palmer said quickly, after shooting us a quick look. “That one. It was really . . . great.”
“How’d the ham thing go?” I asked, only to see Tom’s face fall even further. We really weren’t making it a very good rehearsal for him. “Well, you probably didn’t want that anyway,” I said, talking fast. “To get locked into a role like that. You need to, um . . . show your range.”
“Totally,” Palmer said, reaching up and giving his cheek a quick kiss, then widening her eyes at me in thanks.
“What’s happening with cool-T-shirt guy?” Tom asked.
“You mean Dogboy,” Toby corrected, turning to me. “Any progress?”
“You guys know his name isn’t Dogboy,” I said as firmly as possible. Toby had made good on her promise to call the next guy I liked by a nickname, and despite my best efforts, it seemed to be sticking. I’d been talking about Clark a lot to my friends—the way you can when you have a crush on someone you know absolutely nothing about. “Like I’ve told you before, it’s Clark.”
Toby waved this away. “Who’s named Clark?”
“Well, who’s named Dogboy?” Bri pointed out, not unreasonably.
“Clark what?” Tom asked, taking a long drink of his water.
“You know multiple Clarks?” I asked, stalling.
“Maybe,” Tom said with a shrug.
“You don’t know a Clark,” I said, feeling like we were losing sight of logic entirely. “You certainly don’t know more than one.”
“Only one way to find out.” Palmer raised an eyebrow at me like she knew I was hiding something.
“Fine,” I said with a sigh as I examined my nails. “He’s Clark Goetz-Hoffman.”
There was slightly stunned silence from my friends, and then Toby let out a soft whistle. “Jeez. Did his parents really hate him or something?”
“Nope,” Tom said, shaking his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I told you,” I said.
“So what’s happening with you and Clark Goetz-Hoffman?” Bri asked, and I winced, thinking that I actually preferred “Dogboy.”
“Nothing,” I said with a sigh. It was unfortunately true. Clark had arranged with Dave and Maya for Bertie to be walked once a day, even on the weekends. Maya had offered to take those shifts for me, to give me some days off, but I’d told her I would do them. So I’d been back to his house six more times, but it wasn’t like I’d made any huge progress. I hadn’t even talked to him yesterday—he’d just waved from the window as I walked down the driveway with Bertie. He was usually there, either when I arrived or left—I’d decided that the Jeep with Colorado plates was his, since it was always the only car there. I’d never seen anyone other than him, though, so it seemed like both his parents must work all day, and that’s why they needed a dog walker. I still wasn’t clear on why Clark didn’t do it, since it seemed like he was home anyway.
In the week or so I’d had to observe him, my theoretical crush had only increased. Clark still seemed pretty nervous around me whenever I picked up or dropped off Bertie, always managing to drop something or talking a little too fast, and for some reason, this made him even cuter. I also had the feeling that if we could talk for more than five minutes, this would go away. He usually stopped dropping things right about the time Bertie would yank me toward he door, having gotten fed up with waiting.
When I looked online for more information about him (since all I knew about him was that he liked the same movies as Tom and was bad at walking his dog, neither of which were turning out to be great conversation starters), I couldn’t find anything, no matter how much I googled. Nobody I knew had heard of a Clark Goetz-Hoffman going to school around us. And, like my friends had just proved, that wasn’t a name you quickly forgot. I figured that maybe he went to boarding school during the year, or something. Even as I tried to tell myself I was being ridiculous, I’d started spending more and more time getting ready each day, to the point where Maya, when we were doing a key exchange yesterday, had waggled her eyebrows at me and asked me if I had a hot date.
“You should ask him out,” Palmer said with the confidence of someone who’s been in a long-term relationship for three years. “I mean, what’s the worst he can say?”
“He could say no,” Toby pointed out.
“And then he could say, ‘You’re fired. Please don’t walk my dog anymore,’ ” Bri added.
“Right,” I agreed. I’d already done my mental pros and cons list about this and had realized how awkward it would be if I asked him out, got rejected, and then had to see him every day. Plus, there was something nice about how things were right now. Theoretical crushes could remain perfect and flawless, because you never actually had to find out what that person was really like or deal with the weird way they chewed or anything.
“I think you should go for it,” Tom said, giving me a thumbs-up. “Give him a shot.”
Palmer gave him a level look. “Is this just because you want another guy to hang out with?”
“Not entirely,” Tom muttered, suddenly finding the floor very interesting. “I just liked his Doctor Who shirt.”
“You can hang out with Wyatt tonight,” Bri said, and Toby’s head whipped around so fast, I got smacked in the face by her hair. “He said he was going to try and stop by the diner. And there’s supposed to be a party at the Orchard.”
“Oh, Wyatt’s back?” Tom asked, sounding distinctly unenthusiastic. “Yay.”
“How do you know that?” Toby asked, leaning across me to get closer to Bri, like proximity would help her understand this. “Did he call you? Did you talk to him? Did he say anything about me?”
“He just messaged me last night,” Bri said. “Calm down.”
“How could you not have told me this? Can I see your phone?” Toby asked, now practically in my lap as she tried to reach across me and into Bri’s bag. “Oh my god. What did he say?”
“Here,” Bri said, handing her phone to Toby, who stayed exactly where she was, half leaning across me.
“Tobes,” I said, trying to nudge her off me.
“Shh, I’m reading.”
“See?” Bri asked, shaking her head. “He basically said that he’s in town, I told him we might be at the diner tonight, and he said he’d stop by. End of story.”
“Wait, I thought you liked Wyatt,” Palmer said, turning to Tom.
“Of course he likes Wyatt,” Toby said, not taking her eyes from Bri’s phone—or moving off of me.
“He’s okay,” Tom said with a shrug. “I just didn’t know we were going to be hanging out with him again this year.”
“You were just telling me how much you wanted another guy to hang out with,” Palmer reminded him.
“Yeah, but Wyatt’s always, like, calling me ‘brother,’ ” Tom said, dropping his voice down into a pretty decent Wyatt imitation. “And he’s always hitting me on the back.”
“Maybe that means he likes you,” Toby said, looking up from the screen for only a second.
“Well, it hurts,” Tom muttered.
“Oh, shit,” Palmer said, looking at her watch and jumping up. “I totally haven’t been paying attention to the time.” She nudged Tom. “You’ve got to get back there, babe.” Tom nodded, gave her a quick kiss, and started to jog up the aisle. She turned to us and nodded up toward the director. “I’ve got to get these actors back in. See you guys tonight?”
“Absolutely,” Bri said as she stood and started to gather her things. “Just text us when you’re done with this.”
“Have fun,” I said, waving at Tom and starting to head out of the row, but not before Palmer grabbed my arm.
“You should go for it with Clark,” she said, giving my hand a squeeze. “Why not?”
I smiled at her and headed up the aisle of the theater, then out into the bright sunshine of the parking lot, where Bri’s SUV, a purple Escape hybrid, was parked. She’d gotten it earlier this year and immediately named it McQueen. “Because it’s the
Grape Escape,” she’d said, smiling proudly when she told us. “Get it?” None of us did, and Bri had declared us all completely lacking in any kind of film education and then made us watch The Great Escape and Bullitt back-to-back, which led to Palmer developing a huge crush on Steve McQueen. (This then led to Tom getting incredibly jealous of a dead movie star and getting a sixties haircut that looked terrible and took months to grow out.)
I knew that why not? was pretty much Palmer’s motto, but even so, I found her words echoing in my head the whole time we were at the beach. We spent the afternoon stretched out on towels on the sand, passing magazines and iPods and bags of chips back and forth, Toby endlessly speculating about Wyatt and what she should wear and if she should make the first move, Bri talking her through every scenario, even increasingly unlikely ones, until they were both doubled over laughing. I was only half paying attention, my mind on Clark and whether I should go for it.
I was still debating this as I arrived at Clark’s, a tank top and cutoffs thrown over my bikini, my hair up in a slightly sandy knot. He wasn’t around when I let myself in, and I managed to catch Bertie on only the second try. I’d developed a technique that involved hiding a leash in my back pocket and not letting Bertie see it until I had a firm grip on his collar.
I walked Bertie around the neighborhood, taking a slightly longer route than usual, trying to figure out what my hesitation was. Why wasn’t I just going for it? Asking guys out had never scared me before, and it honestly wasn’t fear of losing this client. I knew Maya would understand if I told her I was no longer comfortable walking Bertie. And while there was a tiny piece of me that was embarrassed that Clark knew me as a dog walker—about as unprestigious as you could get—it wasn’t like he went to my school or we knew anyone in common. If this was going to be a three-week relationship—max—what did that really matter?
By the time I was walking back to Clark’s house, I’d made my decision. There was really no downside, after all. If I asked him out and he said yes, that would be great. If he said no—because he might have a girlfriend, for all I knew—I’d pretend that I had been asking him to hang out as friends and discuss Bertie. And then I’d get Maya and Dave to take over some of the walks, since I was really just doing this every single day so I’d get to see him. Either way, it would be fine. There was very little risk involved, just momentary humiliation, and I could certainly handle that.
I unclipped Bertie’s leash, and he went running into the kitchen, his nails scrabbling on the wood floors. “Hey there, buddy,” I heard Clark say as I realized that he was around and this was going to happen. “Did you have a good time?”
I took a long breath, held it, then let it go as I pressed my lips together, already practicing what I would say. When I walked into the kitchen, Clark looked over at me from where he was leaning against the counter. I realized he looked nervous, even more so than usual, shooting me a smile that faded almost immediately. “Hello, Andie,” he said, his voice higher than normal. “How are you today? How did it go?”
“Good,” I said, heading to Bertie’s cupboard to hang up his leash, wondering why Clark was acting like this—like there was a teleprompter he was reading off of that I couldn’t see. It was making it that much harder for me to segue into asking him out. I took a breath, reminding myself once again that this didn’t matter. Why was I so nervous? “So, Clark—” I started.
“I was wondering—” Clark said at the exact same time.
Silence fell between us, nothing but the sound of Bertie slurping from his water dish as we both waited for the other one to start talking. “Sorry,” I finally said, gesturing toward him. “You go first.” I really didn’t think I could ask him out now, only to have him say that he needed to change the time of Bertie’s walk or something.
“Um. I was wondering . . . ,” Clark said. He looked around and gestured to the counter behind him. “. . . if you would like a chocolate?” I took a step closer and saw the large box that was sitting there, a very fancy and expensive kind that I recognized. Small boxes had been given out as favors at one of my dad’s fund-raisers, and I’d eaten the extras for weeks. “I didn’t buy them for you,” he said, then blinked. “Not that I wouldn’t have,” he clarified, talking fast. “I just . . . They were sent here today, that’s all. That’s what I meant.”
“Thanks,” I said, fighting the urge to smile as I pulled the lid off the box and grabbed the first one I saw, hoping that it wouldn’t be hazelnut. I liked almost every other kind of chocolate, but couldn’t stand hazelnut anything. I popped it in my mouth and felt my stomach clench when I realized that it was, in fact, hazelnut. It seemed to be hazelnut-cream flavored with an actual hazelnut thrown in for good measure.
“Is something wrong?”
I shook my head and tried to force myself to swallow quickly and avoid tasting as much as possible. “Fine,” I said, when I was able to speak again. “I mean, thank you. That was . . . chocolate.”
“So,” Clark said, crossing his arms and then uncrossing them and knocking the box of chocolates to the floor in the process. “Oh, jeez,” he muttered as I watched them go flying.
“I’ve got these,” I said, chasing down the two that had spilled out of the box and landed near my feet as Clark picked up the still-full box and placed it carefully on the counter. I stepped around him to toss out the two that had landed on the floor just as he took a step back, my hip bumping his, our shoulders brushing. “Sorry.” I felt heat rush to my cheeks and told myself that I was being beyond ridiculous. He liked me, right? He had to, otherwise he wouldn’t be this nervous. I just had to get this over with.
“So, um,” Clark said, adjusting his glasses, “do you ever work nights?”
I felt my smile fade as I realized I might have read this all wrong. I had thought that maybe he’d been working up the nerve to ask me out. But maybe all of this had just been about the dog. “Nope,” I said, trying to keep my voice professional and friendly and not reveal anything else I was currently feeling. “But . . . I mean, if there were an emergency or something, I probably would.”
“No,” Clark said, shaking his head. “I was just . . . trying to get a sense of your schedule.” He blinked, like he’d just heard himself, and I could see the tops of his ears were starting to turn red. “Wow, that sounded creepy. I didn’t mean that in, like, a weird way. I think I’m making this worse. Oh god.” He took a breath, then swallowed hard. “I was wondering, you know, what you do. At night.” He stared at me in horror after he said it, like he couldn’t quite believe the words had come out of his mouth. “Oh, man,” he muttered, closing his eyes behind his glasses for a moment. “This isn’t going well.”
I had to bite my lip to stop myself from smiling wide. “Hey, Clark?”
“Okay,” he said, taking a big breath, and I was pretty sure he hadn’t heard me. “Andie. So you’ve been spending a lot of time with Bertie. You know, taking him on walks, and . . .” Clark’s face fell as he realized a second too late what he’d done. Bertie looked up from his water dish, droplets hanging off his muzzle, practically vibrating with excitement.
“You said the W word,” I whispered.
“I know,” Clark said, as Bertie leaped in the air and tore out of the kitchen, only to tear back a second later, look between us, and take off running again. “I just,” Clark said, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of a hundred-pound dog running circles around us, “was thinking that since you’ve been spending time, you know, with Bertie, maybe we should talk about him, and . . .”
Bertie raced out of the kitchen, nails scrabbling on the floors, and I looked across at Clark in the sudden silence. “Hey, Clark?” He looked up. “Want to hang out with me tonight?”
He just blinked at me for a second, then smiled, and I almost had to take a step back from it. It was like all the other smiles he’d given me so far were pale imitations. This one deepened his dimples, pushed his glasses up higher on his nose, and crinkled the corners of his eyes. �
��Yes,” he said, sounding beyond relieved, giving me a half laugh. “That sounds great.”
“Awesome,” I said, smiling back at him.
“So we’ll get dinner,” he said. “I’ll find someplace good.” He slid a notepad and a pen that had been on the counter over toward me. “Want to write down your address and I’ll pick you up?”
“Oh,” I said, taken aback for a second. I’d assumed we’d do something like meet up at the Orchard or go for coffee. But going out to dinner—and having him pick me up—suddenly seemed really exciting and a lot more grown-up. “Sure,” I said, writing out my address. “I guess . . . pick me up at seven?”
“Seven,” he said, still smiling. “Seven’s great. I love seven. Okay. That’s a plan.”
“It’s a plan,” I echoed, smiling back at him, stopping myself before it became a full-on foolish grin, even though that was what I was feeling. I had a date tonight. Like, an actual date with a guy coming to the door and picking me up. And I’d technically had to ask him out, but who cared about that? Without meaning to, I found my eyes drifting down to his mouth. By the end of tonight, we might have kissed. I pushed the pad of paper back across to him. “It’s in Stanwich Woods,” I said, and he nodded but without any indication that he knew what that was. “So just tell the guard at the gatehouse that you’re coming to see me and they’ll let you in.”
“Great,” he said, ripping off the top piece of paper and folding it carefully in half before sticking it in the pocket of his light-blue T-shirt. We looked at each other for a long beat, both of us still smiling, and I realized I needed to get out of there before this nice moment turned awkward.
“Well, then, I’ll see you,” I said, as I started to back out of the kitchen, nearly tripping over Bertie, who was running back in, clearly wondering why neither one of us was chasing him around with a leash, “at seven.” I patted Bertie’s head, then glanced at the clock and realized that was in an hour and a half. I’d have to get moving.
“See you,” Clark echoed, and I gave him a quick nod before I turned and headed out, fighting the urge to do a little hop as I went.
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