Can I See You Again?

by Allison Morgan

  Jo highlights the two words. “That’s my favorite line.”

  Mine, too.

  twenty-nine

  I’ve given myself a stern talking-to. Lots of finger pointing at my reflection in the bathroom mirror while saying, “No more thoughts of Nixon. Perspective, Bree. Stay on target. You have a fiancé, for Christ’s sake.” And that’s the thing. I do have a fiancé. But no one knows. Sometimes I forget myself because Sean’s still in Denver and we haven’t validated our engagement. It doesn’t seem real and that’s likely because we haven’t celebrated and solidified its meaning. I know I can’t tell everyone, but I’ve got to tell someone. That’s what my heart and my mind need.

  So, a couple of nights later, as the rain pours down and Andrew searches for an empty space in the crowded library parking lot, I tell him about Sean’s proposal. It feels good to share the truth. This is one of life’s most special moments. A man loves me enough to marry me. To join my name with his until death do us part.

  Besides, if I reveal a bit of truth to Andrew, maybe he’ll do the same. Maybe he’ll divulge just what the heck he’s been hiding from me.

  “Sean just got a bit sideways, is all. A little scared. But we talked and agreed not to dwell on mistakes from the past. Everyone screws up now and then. You said so yourself.” We drive along another row, packed with cars. “What’s going on? Why is the library so busy tonight? Oh, there’s a spot.” I point toward the right. “Besides, Sean’s been a constant in my life, we have history.”

  “You don’t—”

  “And I know better than most what it feels like to lose a part of your past. It sucks. Plain and simple. It sucks.” Through my shirt, I rub my scar.

  He parks the car and we dash across the wet asphalt lot into the library toward my Q&A session.

  “You don’t have to convince me,” he says. “If you’re happy, then I’m happy.”

  I recognize the fake approval in his voice but decide to let it go. “Thank you, Andrew. I am happy. We wiped the slate clean and gave our relationship a fresh start. He’s taking me to La Valencia for a romantic weekend. You know, between Sean and work, my life’s been a web of lies these past few weeks and I’ve had enough. That’s why the next time I see Randi, I’m gonna tell her the truth.”

  “Are you insane?” He grabs my arm and digs his nails into my skin.

  Um . . . ouch.

  “No way in hell can you admit you’re engaged.”

  “I know it’s messy, but she’ll understand.”

  “She’ll kill you. Literally.”

  “Shush.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Honesty is the point. What she chooses to do with it is up to her. Speaking of honesty, I know what you’ve been keeping from me.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, Andrew. The secret phone calls, the lunch at Ryoko’s, the circled help-wanted ads. When were you going to tell me about the job?”

  “Oh, Bree, I—”

  “There you are,” Randi says, approaching in a form-fitting red dress, a knockoff version of what Kate Hudson wore to a premiere three weeks ago.

  “Randi? Hi. This is a surprise. What are you doing here?”

  “Let’s walk.” She heads us toward the conference room.

  “Actually, I’m glad you’re here.” I hurry to match her quick pace. “I’ve something I want to tell you.”

  “No, you don’t,” Andrew mutters.

  “What is it?” Randi turns left rather than right, the opposite direction of my usual conference room.

  “Randi, I’m the other way.”

  “Follow me.” She doesn’t stop until we stand outside a set of closed double doors.

  I didn’t even know they had meeting rooms in this wing.

  Two women walk up from behind. Chatter engulfs the hall as they open one of the doors.

  I sneak a peek inside the meeting room, the width and length of a basketball court and more crowded than Nordstrom’s on the first hour of their anniversary sale. All of the tables are full and more women pack in along the walls.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Randi. “There must be three hundred women in there.”

  “You. You’ve developed quite a following.” She points overhead at a banner hanging above the doors.

  FALL IN LOVE WITH BREE CAXTON

  “They’re here for me?”

  “I told you. I’m a sure thing. And I planned to wait until the morning, but I just got the latest projections. Your preorders are up forty-seven percent, leaps and bounds above your competition. That’s one of the sharpest rises ever seen with a debut nonfiction. The editor increased your first run. Again. And, the National Tribune is considering making you a biweekly installment.”

  “No way.”

  “We’re right on track. Don’t change a goddamn thing.”

  “Wow!” I raise my fists in triumph. “This is amazing.”

  “And everything you’ve worked so hard toward,” Andrew warns.

  And everything I worked so hard toward.

  Wait until I share this with Jo. And Nix—I mean, Sean. Of course. I meant to say Sean’s name first.

  “So.” She snaps her fingers. “Quick-quick. What is it you want to tell me?”

  “Should she autograph her books with blue or black ink?” Andrew jumps in.

  “What the hell do I care?” Randi reaches for the door.

  “No, wait.” This may be the most asinine professional move ever known to man, but I can’t help it. Enough lies. Enough empty tubes of Cortizone cream. I have to be honest. “Randi, you need to know something first. Sean and I—”

  Randi lifts her hand to stop me and looks over my shoulder. “Good evening, glad you could come.”

  I spin around and find a middle-aged woman with heavy jowls, Ray-Ban-style reading glasses, a buttoned-up gray cardigan, and dark brown pageboy haircut marching toward us.

  Lucy Hanover.

  Randi’s cautionary words from a few weeks ago ricochet through my mind. Lucy can make or break a new author by mere mention of their name on her show. She falls in love with you and you’re golden.

  “Lucy, this is Bree Caxton. Bree, meet Lucy Hanover from Gabbing with Gurus.”

  “Yes, I know exactly who you are. It’s very nice to meet you. I’m a big fan. Well, like most everyone American with ears.” With ears? I shake her hand a little too hard. And too long.

  “Pleasure.” She yanks her hand out from mine. “In there?” she asks Randi, gesturing toward the conference room doors. “I’m a bit pressed for time.”

  “Yes, and please, go in and find a seat. We’re only a minute out.”

  Andrew hurries and opens the door, once again filling the corridor with chitchat.

  “Thank you.” Lucy slips inside.

  “I can’t believe she’s here. Hell, I can’t believe any of those women are here.”

  “Get your ass in there. This is a very important night.” Randi opens the door.

  Hundreds of women are here to see me. To listen to my words of advice. To potentially buy my book.

  Andrew is right.

  No way I can reveal the truth now.

  thirty

  I’m nervous.

  Which is silly.

  I’ve given lots of presentations. So what if there are a few hundred more attendees than usual? So what if Lucy Hanover sits at the table nearest the front with my future resting in her hands? I’m good at this. I’ve done this job long enough to have an answer for any question, a solution for any scenario. Plus, Gwen and the gang are cheering me on from a table in the rear.

  Not to mention, as I walk toward the podium dressed in a navy long-sleeved shirtdress cinched at the waist, black leggings, and black knee-high boots, I know that even if my presentation sucks, no one can knock me for my snazzy o
utfit.

  Still, my stomach tangles into knots, recalling Randi’s not-so-supportive words of advice prior to my stepping on stage.

  “Don’t fuck up.”

  I try to quell my jitters while the crowd takes their seats. I’m pleased to hear loud and lively conversation. People sound to be in great moods. One lady holds up a Vuitton bag while the rest of her table admires it. The women—plus the guy likely dragged here by the gal beside him—are all chatting and laughing, having a good time.

  Except Lucy.

  Talking to no one, she’s angled her crossed legs away from the crowded table and scrolls through her phone.

  It’s not the stay-the-hell-away-from-me persona she throws off that worries me. It’s her jiggling foot, pointed toward the nearby exit, wiggling faster than a hummingbird flaps its wings, that’s got me flustered.

  I haven’t said a word and Lucy Hanover already wants out of here.

  For Jo, for the book, for the house.

  Sweat drips between my cleavage, soaking into my bra.

  Can someone turn up the air?

  My phone, resting on the lectern, chimes with a message from Nixon. His face pops into my mind and even though he made clear the pretense of our relationship, I find myself wishing he were here, standing close in a charcoal suit with hands slid inside his pockets, firm jaw, and confidence-boosting stare. I read his text. I have your sweatshirt. Don’t see you at library. I’ll drop at the office.

  I chew on my lip before replying. At library, different room. HUGE turnout for Q&A. I press send. I wait a couple of seconds, then fire a second text. Nervous.

  Room full of squirrels?

  My nerves settle as I smile, glad to know he’s no longer upset. Vicious beast.

  A moon to remember.

  I laugh out loud, then quickly cover my mouth with my hand.

  He shoots me a final text. Just be yourself. That’s who people came to see.

  I stare at his words as a text from Andrew redirects my focus.

  What’s so funny?

  I glance at him across the room and shake my head, implying it’s nothing. But it is something. Thanks to Nixon, I’m empowered. Knowing he’s in my corner, I’m pumped and poised. Ready to impress the hell out of Lucy.

  No doubt Sean would be equally supportive. He’s championed me for years. After all, it was Sean who encouraged me to channel my expertise and write a book in the first place.

  It’s just that Nixon and I were mere acquaintances a few weeks ago and now, make-believe aside, I’d like to think we’re friends, good friends. He’s stuck his neck out for me lately and I know once these interviews are said and done, we’ll go about our separate lives, my focus shifting to my future with Sean. But, if I’m honest, I might just miss Nixon’s snarky attitude. His rattle-my-cage approach. And, as long as no one can read my thoughts, I’ll admit that I might just miss him.

  Anyway, enough of that.

  I grab hold of the lectern. Time to get this show on the road.

  Just be yourself. That’s who people came to see.

  “Hello, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Bree Caxton and I’d like to thank you for coming to the Fall in Love with Bree Caxton Q&A. I’m very excited to be here.”

  The crowd claps.

  What a gorgeous roomful of strangers.

  “Now, typically for these meetings, I pose a different topic and open the room to questions. I like to keep things fun and informal, like a chat among friends. If you’ve got something to ask or say, by all means, say it. With that said, let’s get rolling. Tonight, I’d like to start things off and find out what you all think is the most important aspect to keeping a relationship alive.”

  “American Express Black card,” a woman shouts.

  The group laughs.

  “Yes, well, that certainly doesn’t hurt, does it?” I say. “Anything else?”

  “Candlelit dinners,” a woman says from way in the back.

  “Kisses by the fireplace,” adds a lady with bright pink lipstick.

  “Skinny-dipping,” a fourth woman says, and the group laughs again.

  I hold up my index finger and wait for them to quiet down before saying, “So, given what you’ve said, is it fair to say the thing that keeps a relationship alive is romance?”

  The crowd nods in unison.

  “All right, good. And I agree. Wine, long glances, and soft music is never a bad way to spend an evening. Who doesn’t love a quiet dinner for two?” I free the microphone from its sleeve and move toward the stage edge. “In fact, some say dinner is the slow seduction.” I giggle to myself, knowing Nixon would likely roll his eyes. “But tonight, I’ll explain why romance is total crap.”

  They gasp.

  I take a moment and survey the room. The group is curious. They sit with elbows propped on the tables, resting their chins on fisted hands. Some lean an ear toward me while others hover a stylus over a glowing iPad.

  They’re hooked.

  I have notecards on this topic stuffed in my purse. But I don’t need them. Now that I’m calm, the material flows effortlessly.

  “Yes, that’s right. Romance is irrelevant. Now, we can thank magazines and movies and Pinterest for convincing society otherwise. They practically cram down our throats that candlelight and wine, picnics and flowers, lingerie and diamonds are the cornerstones of a loving relationship. As if the number of chocolate-covered strawberries one is fed by a lover equates to happiness. But that’s all a bunch of garbage.”

  Another collective “huh?” steeps through the room.

  Lucy’s foot stills.

  Yes!

  “Sure, we women appreciate the lovey-dovey stuff and so do men. But not for reasons you imagine. Lavender-drawn baths or rose petals shaped into hearts on the bed, or lack thereof, doesn’t make or break a relationship. Romance means nothing if one key element is missing. Romance is a nice touch, pardon the pun, but only if it’s complementing the most important component of a relationship. And, no, that component is not sex.”

  I let the anticipation build before saying, “The key component to a successful relationship, platonic or sexual, is validation.” I pause for another moment, letting the word sink in. Murmurs and looks of doubt spread through the room. “I’m serious. Validation. Every single one of us, young, old, male or female, needs reassurance. We crave approval. We hunger to feel valued.”

  Deep down, isn’t this what I want from Jo? To know that even though I made a terribly painful mistake, my life still has meaning?

  “And what better relationship to satisfy this need than with the person with whom we’re most vulnerable? Romance is arguably one form of displaying this core desire because we feel valued if the person we love shows us affection and attention. But a drawn bubble bath isn’t the crowning glory of a relationship.

  “Take, for example, the busy stay-at-home mom. Toddlers crawl up her leg all day, macaroni and cheese is stuffed in the DVD player, and Play-Doh is matted in her hair. If her husband hops up to change a diaper or pops dinner in the oven without being asked, even if it’s a frozen pizza, she’ll take notice. There’s nothing inherently sexy about a man loading the dishwasher, but I guarantee you, the tired mama feels worthy because of it. She feels validated. And more than likely a gleam will sparkle like a firework in her eye. Make sense?”

  The crowd nods.

  “Good. So let’s talk about the many ways to show validation in a relationship. We—”

  A woman in an eyelet sundress raises her hand.

  My first question. This is exciting. “Yes?”

  “Can we meet Nick?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Is he here?”

  “We all want to meet him,” says a woman.

  I glance at the guy.

  He shrugs. “Sure.”

  “He sounds amazing and I’
m dying to see his picture,” the first woman says. “Got one?”

  “Um, no . . . I . . . um . . . let’s focus on the topic at hand, shall we?”

  “It’s just, we’ve all read your articles the last couple weeks. We’re following your blog and planning to buy your book.”

  The crowd nods again.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t you see? We will have invested a lot of time in you.”

  “Yes, well, hopefully you’ve picked up a nugget of knowledge along the way.”

  “C’mon, share some of the nitty-gritty. Give us some firsthand experience. None of this blah-blah-blah stuff.”

  Blah-blah-blah?

  “Give us an example of the perfect date with Nick.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “You don’t want to know about us.” Especially because there is no us.

  A collective set of intense eyes are fixed upon me as if I’m about to reveal Apple’s latest technology breakthrough.

  “Tell us.” A woman shouts from the back of the room. Randi?

  “Well . . . um . . . okay, I guess we’d start off the day early, doing something active, like a long run or hike. Then grab lunch near the beach, somewhere with burgers and good beer. The late afternoon might include a few honey-do chores together, maybe a nap in the sun, searching for beach glass by the shore, or a movie, or an early dinner. But it all includes laughing. The whole day. You see, Nixon and I—”

  “Who’s Nixon?” asks a young woman with long blond hair.

  Oh, shit. “Um . . . I said Nick. Most definitely Nick.”

  “Well, whoever Nixon is, he sounds like a good time. Is he single?”

  The group laughs, even Lucy.

  “Bree’s right,” says a thirty-something with a light gray cardigan. “This one guy I dated wasn’t much to look at, but we laughed all the time. And so kind to me. One time I came down with the flu and he brought me an armload of movies and did my laundry.” She shakes her head. “He was my best relationship ever. I don’t know why I let that guy get away. I’m gonna call him.”

  “You should. And once you establish that mutual validation, enjoy the romance that follows.”