by Scott, Emma
“Sure,” he said with a one-shoulder shrug, which meant he was full of shit. They hadn’t gone below surface topics.
“Maybe you should get to know her a little bit better before you start weaving her into your grand plans to please your parents.”
“I’m not planning anything, except for a first date. I’ve never hung out with a girl more than twice and not gotten to first base.” He grinned. “I like a challenge.”
I rolled my eyes, ready to tell him that Autumn was a human being, not a challenge, but he held up a silencing palm.
“I’m kidding,” he said. “Autumn is…I don’t know. Different. She’s kind of shy, but she stands her ground. I like that about her.”
“Yeah, I like that too,” I said quietly.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Later that night, Connor lay sprawled on the couch with SportsCenter blaring, scrolling his phone. I sat at the kitchen table, tapping my pen against an empty page in my notebook and contemplating running as my Object of Devotion. I couldn’t muster the blood and guts to put it to paper. I liked running. It served a purpose, but did I want to make it my life?
“Oh shit,” Connor cried from behind me.
“What is it?”
“I accidentally texted her.”
“Who?” I said, knowing damn well who.
“Autumn. I was fucking messing around and I hit that stupid predictive text thing, then panicked and hit send.”
“So what?”
“I don’t text or call a girl until at least three days have passed.”
I set down my pen and turned around. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious. It looks desperate to text her the same day.”
I hid a smile. “What did you text?”
“Just ‘yes.’” His eyes widened. “Shit. She’s texting me back.”
Connor jumped up from the couch and came to where I sat, standing next to my chair as we both watched his phone.
Yes…? :)
Connor typed, Hey.
I smirked. “Really?”
“Yeah, so?”
A pause, then a new text bubbled up. What’s up?
“Now she’s annoyed,” I said. “Or impatient.”
Connor looked to me. “What do I say?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“You’re good at this shit. How many papers did you write for me at Sinclair?”
“This is not the same thing.”
“Ballpark.” Connor made a face. “Dude, she’s waiting.”
I frowned, thought for a moment. “Tell her the truth.”
“Hell no—”
“Tell her the truth but make it better. Tell her you were messing with your phone while thinking about her. Tell her that you wanted to talk to her so badly, your subconscious made it happen.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
Connor’s fingers flew, and then he hit send.
There was a pause and no answer.
Connor frowned. “What’s this mean?”
“It’s good. I mean she’s thinking about what you said.”
The rolling dots of Autumn’s reply came in.
The old ‘accidental text’ move? I feel like I’ve seen that before… ;-)
“She’s not letting you off the hook so easily,” I said, smiling despite myself. “Don’t deny. Tell her she’s one hundred percent right. You’ll make any excuse to talk to her.”
“That’s perfect, man.” Connor typed and hit send.
I like your honesty, came the reply.
“Hey, it’s working.” Connor beamed. “Now what?”
It was working, and I didn’t like what it was.
“I don’t know, man,” I said, waving a hand. “Type something. Whatever you’re thinking.”
“I want her to go out with me.”
“Then ask.”
With a horrible fascination, I watched Connor type, So, dinner?
“Jesus, dude,” I said.
“What? That’s exactly what you told me to do.”
“Not like that,” I said. “I told you she needs romance.”
I don’t know, she wrote. I have so much work to do already.
“Fuck,” Connor said. He nudged me with his phone. “Wes, man, you do it.”
I blinked. “Do what now?”
“Ask her out for me. The right way.”
I stared.
“Look, this girl is special. I’m not too proud to admit I need back-up getting things rolling with her.” He grinned that winning smile. “C’mon. Just this once.”
“But…”
Connor shoved his phone into my hand. “Come on, man. Do what you do. Write something witty and poetic. Something that’ll impress her enough to get me another text. Another…anything.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Write something that knocks her on her ass and gets me in the door. That’s all I ask.”
I looked at Connor’s phone in my hand and Autumn Caldwell’s text, waiting for an answer. I felt my best friend’s expectations literally breathing down my neck as he leaned over me.
Ignoring the small ache in my heart, I thought about what I would’ve said to Autumn had it been my phone in my hand and began to type.
Autumn
“I’m ready,” I said, smoothing the flared skirt of my black halter dress. “At least, I think I am. Is black too formal for a first date?”
Ruby, sprawled on the couch, looked up from her magazine. “Girl, you look amazing. That dress is perfect for the Rostand. Connor is going to lose his mind.”
“He can keep his mind and use it for stimulating conversation.” I sucked in a breath and smoothed my skirt again. “I’m nervous. Why am I nervous?”
“Because you haven’t had a first date in ages. You aimed high with Mr. Drake.”
“I’m not aiming for anything,” I said. “No expectations. I’m just going to see what happens.”
“Uh huh,” Ruby said. “How many times have you read that text of his?”
“Oh, hush. I haven’t read it in days.”
Because I had it memorized.
You’re the Halley’s Comet of girls. The kind that doesn’t come around but maybe once in a life. I don’t want to spend the rest of mine wondering what might’ve been if I hadn’t tried, one last time, to take you someplace where every man will stare at you and wish they were me.
My cheeks warmed and Ruby raised a brow.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “I’m hoping for romance. For electricity. The same kind I felt while reading that text. What if there isn’t any?”
“What if there is?”
“Maybe this was a bad idea.”
Ruby wagged her eyebrows. “Bad ideas are my favorite kind.”
I jumped as the door buzzer buzzed.
Ruby checked her phone. “Not even six yet. A little early for dinner, isn’t it?”
“He wants me to see the sunset from the Rostand’s top deck.”
“Wow,” she said. “I wouldn’t have pegged him for a romantic, but I’ve been proven wrong twice now.” She shook her head, laughing. “You are such a goner.”
“No expectations,” I said. I went on muttering it under my breath like a mantra as I went to hit the button on the intercom. “I’ll be right down,” I called.
“Have fun,” Ruby said. “Text me if you’re bringing him back here. I’ll crash at Deb and Julie’s. Or maybe I’ll give Hayes a call. How far a drive is it from here to Wesleyan?”
Since meeting at Weston’s track meet, Ruby and Hayes had been texting and calling each other all week.
“It’s about an hour,” I said.
“Definitely within my range.”
“I’m not bringing Connor back here,” I said, throwing on a black cardigan. “Just dinner.”
“After dinner comes dessert.”
I shot her a look as I grabbed my purse.
“Come on.” She rifled through her magazine. “You’re trading fuddy-dudd
y Mark Watts for Connor-flipping-Drake. This is like watching a brand new rom-com after staring at PBS for two years.”
“I’m so glad my love life is your entertainment.”
“The farm girl and the rich city boy,” Ruby said. “Episode One: the first date.”
“Good night, Ruby.”
She blew me a kiss, and I went out.
At the bottom of the outside steps, Connor waited. His back was to me, broad beneath a fitted dress shirt, tapering down to a narrow waist in tailored dress pants.
His ass is perfect.
I blinked at my own errant thought, and composed my stare just as he turned around.
“Hey,” he said, and the slow smile that spread over his face was better than a thousand compliments. “You look incredible.”
“Thank you,” I said, my gaze caught on his handsome face. Thick brows, a broad mouth. His eyes were like chips of emeralds fringed by long lashes. A shadow of stubble over his strong jaw.
“Ready?” He offered me his arm.
My fingers slid around his elbow, feeling the smooth skin and muscle beneath his rolled-up shirt sleeve. We walked toward a brand-new-looking sports car, parked at the curb and begging attention. Dark gray with bright red brakes underneath chrome wheels. The front grill made me think of a snarling dog baring its teeth.
“Wow, this is yours?” I said.
“Just got her last month,” Connor said, opening the passenger door for me. “She’s pretty sweet.”
“I love the color.”
“The gun metal gray isn’t standard. I had her custom-painted.”
I sank into luxurious leather and a potent mix of new-car smell and Connor’s cologne.
“I don’t know much about cars,” I said when he got behind the wheel. “What kind is it?”
He grinned and revved the engine. It sounded like a rocket ship readying for takeoff. “Dodge Challenger Hellcat coupe. 707-horsepower, 650 pound-feet of torque.” He glanced at me slyly. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not really.”
Connor laughed. “You don’t have to know her specs to enjoy how she drives.”
He shifted into gear and expertly navigated off the curb and down Pleasant Drive, his car purring beneath us. I sat with my hands folded in my lap, almost afraid to touch anything this expensive. I was a farm girl who rode a bike all over town. Feeling I’d been miscast in a movie, I sought comfort in the beautiful text that brought me here in the first place.
“Did you tell me your major the other night at Yancy’s?” I asked. “Was it Creative Writing?”
“Economics.”
“Oh. Same as Weston.”
“We tend to do things together. A habit since prep school.”
“Are you going to join him on Wall Street?”
“I don’t know,” Connor said. “I haven’t figured it out yet. I could go on Wall Street, or work at one of my dad’s companies. I’m not really a nine-to-five kind of guy.” He laughed. “Hell, I’m not really a ten-to-three kind of guy. I think owning my own sports bar would be pretty perfect. I like hanging out, talking hockey or baseball. Just having a good time, you know?”
“Sure.”
No wonder his tone and manner were so easy-going. Connor never had to wake up early unless he wanted to. He needed no crap job to keep money in the bank. No scholarship to pay for school. No lean months when he wondered where rent was going to come from. He slouched in his custom-painted car, a wrist slung over the wheel.
He has no fear, I thought. No fear it could all be taken away at any second.
I feared. Working my ass off for what I wanted was ingrained in me. It made me who I was, and fear continued to form me like clay every single day, molding me into the person I had yet to become.
My stomach tightened. I reminded myself that having money didn’t guarantee a perfect life, but the feeling of being miscast grew stronger.
“Running your own business is a lot of work,” I said.
“I can hire people to do the heavy lifting. I want to hang out and talk to customers, make them feel good. Make ‘em laugh, take their minds off their worries.”
“That sounds…nice,” I said.
“Tell that to my parents.” He pulled into the Maison Rostand driveway and found a parking spot.
“They don’t like the sports bar idea?”
“Not even a little.”
His expression darkened as he killed the engine and abruptly exited the car, unsmiling for the first time since I’d met him. But his smile was back as he opened my door for me, and offered me his arm. A perfect gentleman.
The French restaurant was a tall, elegant building—a bit of 18th century Versailles set smack in the middle of the Massachusetts countryside.
“Have you been here before?” I asked, as we crossed the parking lot.
“Once,” Connor said. “My parents came to watch one of my games. They brought me and a couple of teammates here after.”
“One of your baseball games, right? What position do you play?”
“Center field,” he said. “You ever come to a game?”
“No, I’m usually too busy with classes and Mark wasn’t…” I swallowed the rest of the sentence.
Dammit. Now I’m the girl who brings up an ex on a first date.
One of Connor’s eyebrows raised. “Mark?”
“My ex-boyfriend,” I said. “We broke up at the start of summer. He wasn’t a big sports fan and I was too busy. Weston’s track meet was the first event I’ve been to at Amherst.”
As he opened the restaurant door, Connor’s stunning eyes caught and held mine. “I’m glad you made an exception.”
The tightness in my stomach relaxed. “Me too.”
The foyer of Rostand’s was elegant marble and plaster, with muted lighting and rich décor. The scent of grilled steak and chocolate laced the air.
“It’s like a little piece of Paris,” I said, glancing around. “I’m trying to imagine a bunch of baseball players in here.”
“We were on our best behavior.” He shot me a wink. “At Roxie’s later…not so much. Ever been?”
“Never heard of it,” I said, as we waited to be seated.
“Really? It’s a roadhouse about an hour out of town, on this little dirt road. Kind of a rough crowd, but I dig it.” He whipped his head to me. “You want to check it out instead of eating here?”
“I don’t know if it’s my scene,” I said, smoothing down my skirt.
“Probably true.” Connor’s smile thinned out. “Another time.”
A silence fell and stretched until the maître d’ arrived. He took us up a winding marble staircase to the uppermost floor, where a rooftop terrace overlooked all of Amherst. The sun was just starting to sink in the west, casting a golden hue over the rolling greenery.
“Kind of an old person’s place, yeah?” Connor said in a low voice.
I tore my eyes away from the view and saw most of the terrace tables were occupied by couples, all older than us by a good thirty years.
“Now I remember why we ran out to Roxie’s after dinner with my parents.”
“I thought you liked it here,” I said. “You told me the sunset wasn’t to be missed.”
“Oh, right. That’s just what I heard, but never seen it myself.” He turned his beaming smile up a notch. “It’ll be a first for me, too.”
The moment smoothed out and settled warmly between us, and we took up our menus.
The waiter appeared to take our drink orders.
“Do you have pear cider?” Connor asked the waiter with a wink for me.
I rolled my eyes and laughed as the waiter apologized for the lack of cider on the premises.
“A bottle of red wine then?” Connor asked.
“White, please. And only a glass.”
He ordered a glass of sauvignon blanc for me and a craft beer for him.
“Just the one,” he said. “Since I’m driving.”
The waiter checked our IDs
, then retreated.
Connor leaned back in his chair. “I have a confession.”
“Oh?”
“Between Yancy’s and the track meet, I can’t remember what you said about your major, except that it sounded complicated as hell.”
“Double major in poli-sci and social anthropology.”
“Right. What are you planning to do with that? You mentioned going to Harvard for grad school?”
“I hope to. I’m going to petition to create my own specialized major with an emphasis on a specific area of humanitarian work.”
Connor blew out his cheeks. “Wow. Ambitious.”
I ran the tip of my finger over the rim of my water glass. “Well, I haven’t picked my emphasis yet, but Harvard says they’re open to it. I have to send the project in when I apply, so I have only this year to figure it out.”
“Sounds like a crap-ton of work, whatever you choose.”
“It is, but it’ll be worth it. I want to take on a major issue in a meaningful way.”
“That’s cool.”
The waiter came back with our drinks, and Connor ordered for us, filet for me and prime rib for him.
He held up his beer to my wine glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I said, disappointed he didn’t offer a toast as romantic as the text that brought us here.
Connor took a pull from his beer, set it down, then leaned back in his chair.
“So what else do you do, Autumn, when you’re not figuring out how to save the world?”
“That takes up a lot of time,” I said, then laughed. “Studying, I mean. And I work at the Panache Blanc bakery. You know it? On Pleasant?”
“Sure,” he said. “Wes goes there some nights to study.”
“I work the morning shifts.”
His shoulders twitched a little. “What time does that start?”
“Six a.m.”
Connor mimed being stabbed in the heart. “Six a.m. every morning?”
I laughed. “You sound like my roommate. I have Saturdays off but I still wake up early. It’s a habit from growing up on a farm.”
“What do you do for fun?”
“I like to read. And I listen to music. I love alternative music. Growing up, we didn’t hear much of it. The first time I heard New Order, I was ten years behind everyone else.” I smiled. “Now I’m all caught up.”
“Cool, cool,” Connor said. His fingers drummed the table. The fidgety rhythm and the murmur of other patrons’ conversations filled the silence between us.