by Becky Monson
Nathan from Newport Beach doesn’t know he’s first in line to go on the trip with me; he only thinks we’re chatting and that I’ve been chatting with other Nathan Joneses. Really, I’m just going to make sure there’s no freaky vibes coming off him—not that I’m confident I’ll be able to know via video conferencing, but here’s hoping.
This should be fairly simple, but even so, I’m also on the verge of running away. My pits are sweaty, my breathing raspy, my heart palpitating. This can’t be good for my body—or any body. Doing daring things is dumb.
I wish we didn’t have to do this all so fast. I wish I could have had more time—more time to interview each person multiple times, to really get to know them. But there are only three weeks until the trip. Less than a month until Nathan—the first Nathan—and I would have been married. That all seems like another lifetime ago. Especially right now with this phone call I have to make.
I shouldn’t do this alone. I should have Quinn with me. She wanted to be here, to document the whole thing—she wanted camera crews and an interview afterward, but I said no. That was just too much. I will, however, be doing a follow-up interview that will air soon. They have done little tidbits and teasers, keeping everyone up to date, and made a blog where Quinn’s been keeping everyone abreast of the situation. My situation.
I keep thinking to myself that time goes by quickly, right? Soon it will be July and all of this will be a thing of the past. I will be moving onward and upward with my life . . . well, more like back to real life—back to my comfort zone. And hopefully with a new job. Not that this trip will get me the job, but it will show Marie I’m capable of taking time for myself and have the wherewithal to run a large department. The thought has been going through my mind that if I had listened to her in the first place—if I had agreed to the vacation when we first talked after the supervisor assessment, I wouldn’t be doing something this crazy. But I can’t dwell on that. It’s too late.
I let out a deep breath and open the laptop as I sit at the dining table in my condo.
I’ve already put in Newport Nathan’s information, and now all I have to do is click on his name. One little clickity-click of my mouse. A little tap of the pointer finger on my right hand. Just. One. Freaking. Click. And yet, I can’t seem to make myself do it. I’m imagining him sitting in front of his computer awaiting my call, and it’s making the panic in my stomach grow even more.
You can do this, Holly.
I blow out a large breath, big and slow, my cheeks puffing out as I do. I need to take a second to breathe. Yes, a few deep inhalations, the yoga kind. That’s what I need. In through my nose, hold for a second, out through my mouth. I am one with the Universe or . . . something. I’m present and in this moment. They talked a lot about that in the yoga class I took with Bree. I found it all so confusing—I have no idea how to be present and in the moment. It’s such a foreign concept. Especially with my future weighing so heavily.
I take one more breath and then I do it. I hit the button. It only rings for a second before I see that it’s connecting. In a matter of seconds, I’ll meet Nathan Jones from Newport Beach. Holy every-freaking-word-in-the-book.
“Hi,” I hear a voice say, but no picture accompanies it. It only takes a second before the black screen disappears and he—Nathan Jones, aka Newport Nathan, aka Number Two—comes into full view.
“Uh . . . hi,” I say, when I see his face. I do an awkward waving thing, and then put my hands underneath my butt and sit on them in an attempt to control my arms. I need to control something here.
I’m sure I’m all kinds of red right now. I can feel the flush in my face.
“You must be Holly,” he says, his mouth morphing into a smile. It’s a nice smile—a great smile, actually. The pictures don’t do it justice. The way it slowly pulls up, a dimple in his chin becoming more prominent as his mouth moves upward . . . I wonder, briefly, if seeing it in person will be even better.
“And you must be Nathan,” I say, trying to return the smile. I have a nice smile, so I’ve been told. I’m unable to give him the full Holly grin right now, though. I’m still trying to not freak out. Because this is real. Nathan Jones—aka Number Two—the guy who is most likely going on this trip with me, barring creepy stalker vibes—is looking at me through the screen, and this is all happening.
“My friends call me Nate,” he says, his grin still there.
I like that he wants to be called Nate. Many people tried to give Nathan the nickname and it was something that never stuck with him.
We both take each other in for a second, until Nathan—or Nate—lets out a nervous laugh. Okay, so he’s nervous too. That’s good; we can work with this.
“So, Nate,” I say, and then I laugh nervously.
“This is weird, right?” Nate says before I can say anything.
“Totally weird,” I agree, nodding my head. I must look like an idiot.
“Okay, so maybe we should start at the beginning,” he says.
“The beginning?”
“Yeah. Like, tell me about yourself. If you choose me to go on this trip with you, we should get to know each other better, right?”
He’s taking charge. I’d think I shouldn’t like that—I usually like to hold the reins, but this time I don’t mind so much. Especially with my muddled brain.
I let out a breath. “Yeah,” I shake my head. “That sounds good.”
“So,” he smiles again, and I feel my stomach start to relax. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Um, let’s see, what don’t you know?” I ask because he was given a profile of me, mostly the basics. I’m sure he’s seen the interviews and the tidbits on the station’s blog. Not that they tell much about me.
“Just start from the beginning,” he says.
I peer up at the clock, it’s 7:15 PM my time, which means it’s 4:15 in California. “Oh, that’s loaded. How much time ya got?”
He laughs lightly. “For you? I’ve got time,” he says, adding a wink for good measure.
“Yeah, okay.” That was a little cheesy, but I let it slide. I pull my hands out from under my legs and rub them on my knees. “How about the shortened version?”
“Sounds good,” he says.
I tell him where I was born, briefly detailing my parents’ divorce when I was in the sixth grade. I leave out pretty much all details about my mom. Not many people in my life know all that happened there, anyway. Even Nathan Jones—the first one—didn’t know much. I never told him she’s in jail. I only told him I didn’t know where she was and haven’t for a while.
Nate asks me how I ended up in Central Florida, so I tell him we moved here for my dad’s job, which was mostly true. A fresh start for both of us was really the case.
“How did you get here?” he asks when I’m done.
“Where?”
“To this,” he says pointing at the screen. “To this whole search thing.”
There’s something about Nate from Newport Beach that has me feeling oddly comfortable, and we’ve only been talking for all of fifteen minutes. But it really seems like he’s genuinely interested in me. Like he actually wants to get to know me and not use me for a free plane ticket. I had expected him to jump right in and ask me about the trip.
So I give him a very brief version of how I got here. I tell him about breaking up with Nathan, and how my friend who works at a news station had this crazy idea. I leave out all the work drama he doesn’t need to know. The only thing I tell him is that my boss wanted me to take a vacation.
“Well, sounds like a win-win,” he says.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say half-heartedly.
The jury is still out if it’s a win for me. Telling Nate about myself makes me realize that despite what life has offered me, I’ve still managed to stay in my own little shell—my life has been full of calculated decisions with low risk. Until this trip, of course. I miss the old days. I like things low risk.
“What about you?” I ask, ready to move
away from me. All this talk about myself is making me twitchy.
He leans back, rubbing his hands together, immediately reminding me of Nathan—the first Nathan. Maybe that’s a Nathan Jones thing, to rub your hands together. Either way, it’s slightly disconcerting. It doesn’t matter though; I’m only going on this trip with him, not marrying him. Although I wouldn’t have to change my Carrie Parker Planner . . . which is, of course, the perfect reason to marry someone.
“I’m a born and bred Californian,” he says, taking me out of my reverie, a confident smile on his face.
He goes on to tell me that he’s also from divorced parents. He tells me he stays close to his mom because he feels a need to watch out for her and protect her, and my heart melts a little. He likes spending time at the beach, working at his gym, and hanging with his friends.
He seems . . . normal. And nice. And not remotely complicated. He seems like he has things figured out for himself. And I find myself liking it—all of it. It seems like Nate might be someone I’d probably want to get to know if none of this had ever happened. I feel myself relaxing even more. Maybe this whole thing wasn’t such a horrible idea. I mean, maybe it won’t be the worst thing I’ve ever done.
“Okay, so tell me why you want to go on this trip?” I ask. It’s kind of a “duh” question, but I feel like his answer will speak volumes.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Who wouldn’t want to go on this trip? I’ve always wanted to travel, and I think I’d be pretty good company,” he lets out a chuckle. “I’m just lucky I had the right name,” he says.
I smile. That was kind of perfect. If he had said something like he wanted to go on this trip because he found me “smoking hot,” or some other ridiculous line like that, I think . . . well, I don’t know what I would do. No, what he said was quite perfect—honest and direct.
“Well then, I, uh, have some other candidates.” I only have one—one other candidate. “I’ll let you know when I decide.” I say this knowing I’ve already decided. There were no creepy vibes. In fact, if anything, there were more vibes of me wanting to get to know this guy more. Beyond the fact that he’s truly even better looking than in pictures, there seems to be more to him, and I wouldn’t mind finding out what that is. Platonically, of course.
We hang up and I sit back in my chair, letting my arms fall to my side. Then I pick up my phone, which was sitting next to me, and pull up Quinn’s name.
Me: We have a winner.
Chapter 16
Well, it’s settled. I’m going on my honeymoon with Nate Jones. Or what was supposed to be my honeymoon. I need another word for it. My ex-honeymoon.
Or maybe something better than that.
On Monday, everything was put into place. Quinn informed the station, and then I told Nate I chose him. He was excited—really excited. Perhaps a little too excited. But then I thought to myself that in his shoes, most people would react the same. Not me. I’d never choose to wear those shoes.
On Tuesday, the station ran a quick story detailing that the Nathan Jones had been picked, and they posted a picture of Nate and then me, and seeing our pictures together on my TV screen made me a little sick to my stomach. This is real. My reality. I’m actually doing this.
Unless I run for the hills. Which, honestly, sounds super appealing. I need to stop entertaining that idea.
I can’t ponder the news story for too long because I’m at work. Besides, I pondered enough last night. And the night before. And the night before that. There’s been a lot of pondering happening.
I do feel like Nate is the right choice. At least he put my mind at ease when I talked to him. I’m actually scheduled to talk to him again tonight after work.
Today is Wednesday and right now I have to deal with the present. And presently, I’m meeting with my team and it’s not going spectacularly. I had thought their genuine interest in this trip I’m going on had sort of brought us together—bonded us in a way. At least with a few of them. Avery couldn’t care less, although she appears to not care about much. And Brad really couldn’t be bothered. But today, even though the Sarahs briefly gawked over how hot Nate is, it’s like we’re all back at square one.
And I’m about to lose my S-word.
“Why did they change the script?” Brad asks, staring down at the piece of paper I’ve just given him. Since Brad can never seem to stay on the script anyway, this addition is not going well.
“They didn’t change it,” I say, for the umpteenth time. “They’re just adding an extra promotion for next month and they need you to inform the customers who call in.”
“So this isn’t permanent?” Sara-without-an-h asks.
“Right,” I say, trying not to do it through gritted teeth because this is also something I’ve said for the umpteenth time.
Avery hangs up her phone, finally done with a customer she claimed needed to be taken care of first thing this morning. I let her take the call and started the meeting without her. I walk over to her desk and hand her a copy of the additional script and give her a brief rundown. She’s the brightest of the group so I don’t think she’ll need much explanation.
“So are we good here?” I ask, trying to get this show on the road. It’s almost time for calls to start coming in.
“Yes,” Jim says—the only thing he’s said this entire meeting. I have half a mind not to believe him.
“No,” says Sarah. She looks down at her paper, confusion on her face.
Dear Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to not slap people.
“What seems to be the problem?” I ask after taking in a nice, calming breath. Which doesn’t work at all.
“I just don’t understand why they changed the script,” she says.
Dear Lord, grant me the serenity . . .
I take another deep breath and will my eyes not roll to the ceiling as they are dying to do. It’s like a magnetic force is drawing them there.
“As I’ve already explained,” I say, controlled and artificially calm, “it’s not a change, it’s an addition. And it’s only temporary.”
“Right,” she says. But what I hear is I have no freaking idea what you’re saying.
“Are we good here?” I plaster on a huge smile that is so forced, my cheeks burn from the effort.
Jim raises his hand.
Dear Lord, grant me the serenity . . .
“Jim, if this is yet another deadly scenario you’ve come up with for my trip, then please put your hand down.” Nearly every meeting we’ve had, Jim’s got a new scenario for how I might die. Jim, I’ve found, is quite morbid.
His hand slowly drops back down.
“Great,” I say. “Go and . . . uh . . . answer those calls.” I try to add a bit of cheer into my tone, but fail miserably.
~*~
My phone beeps, signaling a text.
Logan: Kayaking with whales.
I smile to myself. I haven’t heard from him since I saw him outside Hester’s last Friday.
Me: Killer or Gray?
Logan: Which one seems more adventurous?
Why am I even asking? I’m not doing either. I text him this.
My phone beeps right away.
Logan: Volcano trekking?
Me: What is that? And also, no.
I stand up from my office chair and grab my wallet. Without thinking about it twice, I head over to the Lava Java. It’s been a long morning and I’m in need of some distraction, which Logan is good for. Plus, maybe I can make him smile again.
My heart does a strange jumping thing when I picture his smile—his full smile—the one with all the perfect white teeth and the lone dimple on his left cheek.
I feel a thumping in my chest, which is a very weird reaction as I approach the door to the Lava Java, and I second-guess myself for coming here. Maybe I should just grab a coffee and go.
I open the door and feel the air-conditioning on my face and smell the scent o
f freshly brewed coffee and decide that this was a good decision. My eyes move over to Logan’s normal spot and there he is, earphones on, working away on his computer. He doesn’t notice me.
I order a coffee—still on Nathan’s tab. I will definitely fix it next time. I wait for it, all the while peeking over my shoulder to see if Logan has seen me. Why do I even want him to see me? Not that long ago, if this scenario happened, I’d be thrilled at the chance to grab my coffee and go without him noticing. I’ve avoided this place merely for the fact that he might be here. What’s so different now?
I guess I consider Logan a friend, that’s what. I mean, I never thought he’d be my friend, and now I think he is. I’m pretty sure he is.
I actually have no idea.
So that’s why when I grab my coffee, instead of leaving, I walk over to Logan’s booth and take a seat.
He pulls off his headphones when he sees me and sets them on the table. His lip pulls up in the corner.
“Are we friends?” I ask, the words falling out of my mouth like I didn’t plan it. Which I didn’t.
“What?”
“Are you and I friends?”
“Yeah,” he says, eyeing me with concern. “Why are you asking?”
“Well, I was just thinking that not long ago we weren’t . . . uh . . . friends. And now, I guess we are, and I wanted to make sure you agreed.”
What am I even talking about? Why am I sitting here? What has happened to my world? If you would have told me last month that one day soon I’d be sitting down at Logan’s booth talking to him like this, I would have laughed. Super hard. But also, if you told me I was going on a trip with a perfect stranger, I would have probably done a spit take.
But still, I want to hear what Logan has to say. Which is also not something I’d have said a month ago. Who am I?
He opens his mouth. “I—”
“If you say ‘I like you just fine,’ I’ll reach across the table and slap you,” I cut him off.
This gets me a closed-mouth smile.
“I wasn’t going to say that.”