Page 119 of That Geeky Feeling

“P

oint one. The striking of the Dashwood subclause.”

On the outside, I hope I look like the calm, collected, confident presenter that Charlotte convinced me I could be. And I might be able to keep it that way if I can pretend to myself that this presentation is about a fantastic Two Coast Tech product. There’s just one crucial thing to remember—the product is me.

Inside, things couldn’t be less calm, collected, or confident. My belly and guts are wobbling like a glob of jelly on a washing machine on spin cycle. The back of my neck and my armpits are damp. I have to keep my hands in my pockets or play with the pencil to hide how close they are to trembling, and my heartbeat is stuck on a setting probably labeled “hyper and randomized.”

None of this was helped by the horrified look on Charlotte’s face when I walked in, her instant objection to my first point, then her laughing it off by teasing me.

God, it’s good to see her, though. Merely being in her orbit brings a sense of well-being and a feeling that all is right with the world.

Now I just need to use the skills she taught me to make her see that we can be together, that she can have the job and me.

I move the presentation onto the next slide—a faceless dark-haired cartoon man in a suit, who repeatedly rips up a piece of paper.

Charlotte giggles. Mission one accomplished. She’d told me to make my audience laugh right at the top, then I’d have their attention and get them on my side. I sure hope both those things have just happened.

“As I said, this is a done deal,” I assure her in true corporate presentation style. “Any fears you had that being with me might affect your career are gone. You can put that right out of your head.”

I flip to the next graphic—a faceless cartoon woman with a brown ponytail. The words “fear” and “worry” emerge from her ears, sprout wings, and fly away.

Charlotte smiles and shakes her head a little. I’m not sure if that’s at the animation itself or at the obvious time and effort I’ve spent to create it.

“It’s done,” I tell her. “Gone. You need never think of it again. If this was the one and only reason you believe we can’t be together, then I can stop talking right now and whisk you off in my DeLorean to take a look at our future.”

I reach for the keyboard to move to the next slide.

“Hang on,” Charlotte says. This doesn’t sound good. “You mean you spoke to Max about me again?” Her face hardens. “Even though I asked you not to?”

At least that’s an easy one.

“He actually came to his senses all by himself.”

“Really?” Charlotte looks surprised and doubtful. “By himself?”

“Yes. Really. He realized he was being an idiot.”

I move to the next slide. The same cartoon man who ripped up the contract now bashes himself repeatedly on the forehead as a speech bubble emerges from his mouth reading, “I’m an idiot.”

Instead of laughing, she taps the pen against her lips. “So you’re saying he came to you and told you that?”

Jesus, this is so not the point. “I actually went to him yesterday. But”—At the sight of her eyebrows flying sky high, I hold up my hand to stop her from jumping in—“it turned out he was actually on his way to come tell me.”

“Hmmm. And this was yesterday…” She rattles the pen between her teeth. “He decided all by himself, huh? Interesting.”

Why is she so suspicious of this?

“But still,” she says, “When you went to see him, you were intending to talk to him about me. Just like I asked you not to.”

Shit. This is not how this was supposed to go. This was supposed to be the guy ripping up the contract, the fears and worries flying out of the woman’s head, the guy realizing he was an idiot, and on to point two.

“Yes, but…” My nervous stomach tightens. I did not want to tell her this part, to confess just exactly how much I was prepared to give up for her. But if realizing I’m not in Max’s pocket is the only way to get her to see sense, I have no option.

I try to fill my lungs with air so I can take a run at this, but my chest is too tight. “Charlotte, I told him that if being with you meant I had to never see or speak to him again, then that was the choice I was making.”

“What?” Her eyes are as wide as my best computer monitor, her mouth open. “You told your brother that if you had to choose between us, you’d choose me?” Her expression suggests she couldn’t imagine someone giving up as much as an old candy from the bottom of their bag for her.

“I would do anything to be with you.” I rub my forehead, shuffle from one foot to the other, and generally behave like a kid who’s forgotten his lines in the school play.

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