Page 37 of Happy After All

“Yeah. Tonight’s dive-in movie isDie Hard,” I say.

“Not very Christmassy.”

“Um. Disagree,” I say. “It is in fact my favorite Christmas movie. Also, it’s my birthday.”

I don’t need to say that either. I expect a half-heartedHappy birthdayfrom him, which feels like the social contract.

I don’t get one.

“I haven’t been to one of the dive-in movies yet,” he says.

“Oh, haven’t you?” I say, as if I’ve never noticed his steadfast commitment to being antisocial.

“No.”

“Tonight might be a good night to check it out. There are going to be a lot of events over the course of the month,” I say brightly. “You can find the information—”

“On the itinerary in the office, thank you.”

“Yeah. I know how much you love my itineraries.” I smile, and he doesn’t smile back.

He starts to move, and I hastily lie back in my chair, making it clear that if he’s done with the interaction, I can be done with it too. I really am trying to be nice. I need his help, and that means I have to stop obsessing about attraction I wouldn’t act on even if he offered.

I put my book back up in front of my face.

“Amelia.”

I lower the book slowly, and I’m unable to keep the shock off my face.

He knows my name.

“Happy birthday,” he finishes.

My heart squeezes, then expands. “Thank you, Nathan.”

He walks away, and I hear his key jingling in the lock, hear the door open and then close firmly behind him.

If this were a romance novel, it would be a critical turning point.

But it’s just my life, and I’m still sitting on a lounger by the pool wondering why my heart won’t stop beating so fast.

Chapter Ten

I’m doing my best not to spin out over earlier. His use of my name is not evidence that he thinks about me the way I think about him.

That he’s tortured himself over perceived near kisses or the hot-and-cold behavior he exhibits.

The truth is, I’m not even sure how I think about him. Beyond finding him attractive, that is.

He knows my name. What else does he know about me?

I have a brief bio on the website. Nothing about my writing, because I’ve always worried it might invite creepy men with creepy commentary and ill intent. I talk about it freely with the people who are here. But that seems different. Different from somebody perhaps coming because they have an idea of what a romance writer might be.

In one of the author loops I’m a part of online, I’ve heard terrible stories about prison mail.

Thereisa picture of me, and I include my name and the fact that I’m from Bakersfield. I don’t have my last name on there. If my last name were on there, it really would defeat the purpose of me not being on social media.

I walk out of the walled courtyard of the motel and head down the sidewalk. The weather is glorious, a balmy seventy-two, which is just fantastic, and I am determined to enjoy the day.

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