Page 136 of Things I Overshared
My stomach grumbles after an hour in the car. The tunes are loud, the vibes are happy, but I am getting a bit hangry.
“Where are we going?”
“Yeah, about that.” Sadie smiles sheepishly, pulling off onto the shoulder of the road.
“What the hell? You can’t just pull over here. Sadie, what are you doing?”
“This will be a lot more fun if you just relax and go with the flow. Starting with this blindfold.”
I stare at my sister, who may or may not have lost her mind. “You’re kidding.”
“C’moooon, this is an idea I have for a book. Just humor me and put on the blindfold. We’re like a half hour away.”
Okay, a bit for one of her novels, that I can understand. She can be obsessive when she’s in the middle of one of her grand stories. I put the blindfold on, and we continue singing our hearts out to a mix of all the hit songs from the 2010s in every genre. The playlist is a total bop, if I do say so myself.
“Sade, I love your commitment, but it’s been longer than thirty minutes and I amstarving! C’mon!”
“Okay, okay, we’re pulling in. Just chill for a second.” Her Range Rover slows and eventually stops. “Keep the blindfold on—no cheating!”
“All right, but there better be food when I take this thing off, Sadie Ann. I’m about to die here. TO DIE.” I hear her laugh as she gets out of her door. My door opens, and she guides me out. I hate not being able to see, but I trust her and I also freaking love surprises. Plus, there is the promise of food, so basically, I’ll do whatever she says.
I hear the sounds of Texas in the late summer afternoon: bugs, traffic, birds, and hot wind that offers no relief. I also smell gas and hot tarmac and maybe some sort of fried food. Then there’s a rush of cold air as a door opens, and I smell a musty clean smell that is . . . not great. It’s eerily quiet. No restaurant noises or mumbled chatting.
“I am very confused.”
“Just, listen and keep an open mind. We love you!” Sadie whispers in my ear. Then I smell her perfume and feel her take the blindfold off. I’m in some sort of old, weird lobby? Of . . . a conference center? What the . . . ?
“Samantha.” My whole being turns to the left, and there he stands, my dream and my nightmare, my best and worst person, my Emerson.
Chapter 43
He’s looking tired and a bit thin, but still absolutely devastating. His hair is frizzing in the heat, and his white button-up clings to him, as do his . . . jeans?!
“Are-Are you wearing flip-flops?”This is the first thing you say, really?! Zip it and skip it for the love of all things good in your life, Samantha!
“You told me to buy some,” he reminds me as his eyes search mine.
“I did?”
“You did. They are . . . horrid.” I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t smile at whatever it is that’s happening in front of me. “Have dinner with me?” He gestures behind him and to the right, where there’s a small table with a white tablecloth, complete with a candle in the center.
I hesitate before moving in slow motion to the table. Sadie did drive me two hours, and clearly my sisters are in on this. I look around at the strange old lobby area we’re sitting in as I settle into one of the folding chairs. “What is this place?”
“Hopefully the place you forgive me,” he says quietly.
The table is empty, so I just look at the man across from me. I want to say a thousand things, ask a thousand questions, yell, huff, cry. But I just stare at him and wait. He reaches down beside him and pulls up a giant cup from Sonic.
“Your favorite drink. It’s Diet Dr Pepper. You told everyone you quit sodas, but you still keep some cans in your office.” I squint at him. Exactly how much did I overshare in the last four years? I feel myself blushing as I take a sip. I close my eyes and sigh freely. If you’re from the middle of the US of A, there is not a single beverage better than a fountain drink from Sonic. Not one. I eye his own Sonic cup. “Water,” he says before reaching down again. He pulls out a big box . . .
“Hideaway?” The chain is a local pizza shop from Oklahoma, one that I’m not even sure exists in Texas. But the box and pizza are hot.
“The Extreme, no mushrooms or jalapeños.” Okay. My favorite pizza too. He’s off to an okay start. He pulls out paper plates and napkins and gives each of us a slice. Then he pulls something else out from under his side of the table: my favorite chocolates from a little café in London next to our hotel.
“Eat first.” He hands me a plate. We take a couple bites in silence. He wags his eyes at the pizza, because it’s as good as I claimed. Finally, I can’t take the silence anymore.
“So, are you trying to buy my forgiveness, Mr. Clark?”
“No. I’m hoping I can convince you to listen, andshowyou that I mean what I say.”
