Chapter Three
Constantine tried not to pace in front of the building, but it was useless to remain still and pretend to not feel as anxious as he was. Libby was the one he always wanted, had for one amazing night, and then he was sure she got away. The fact that she was single didn’t surprise him. She ran from him without looking back and as a young man with a career ahead of him, he thought it was for the best. He would have given up anything for her. Of course, they would have failed since he wouldn’t have had anything back then to offer her, but now…now he was a man of means and he intended to see if the woman he fell in love with through multiple writing exercises was still in there waiting for him to challenge her, to finally help her conquer her fear of a relationship. He was ready. He hoped.
A cab pulled to a stop and she got out. Her solid black business suit was styled perfectly to accentuate all the womanly curves she could never hide, even when she tried all those years ago with loose clothes. His gaze traveled over the length of her legs and the heels as they clicked their way to a stop in front of him. It made her taller, but still not eye to eye with him. “You made it.”
“I did.” She looked at the doors and he held back the chuckle. Maybe if she had a glass of wine she might loosen up and speak.
He led her through the entrance, past the guard, past the front desk, and to the elevators. Once inside, he pushed in his code and they were climbing to the seventh floor in smooth silence. The doors opened and they stepped into his living room. “You want something to drink?”
She looked around at the space and nodded.
He moved to the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of wine. He held it up and she nodded again. Okay, so they were going to play charades for a while. She placed her little clutch bag on the counter and accepted the glass of wine. He watched her tip it up immediately and take several healthy gulps before lowering it. He refilled the near empty goblet and poured some into his own glass. “To reunions.”
“Reunions.” She tapped his glass with hers and smiled. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled up into a neat twist on the back of her head. Her light brown eyes seemed larger because of the hair pulled away from her face, or maybe because she wasn’t wearing her glasses anymore. He studied her as she continued to drink.
He took a sip of his wine and turned to the refrigerator. Maybe after a few glasses, she would settle. She was well on her way to drink number three and he was counting. He was really surprised at how much she was consuming since they hadn’t had any food yet and one of her major complaints about her mother all those years ago was the alcohol consumption.
“Do you have any allergies or hate any particular type of spice that I need to be aware of?” He asked in an attempt to get the conversation started.
“No.” She tipped the glass again.
He opened the door and looked into the neatly organized space. He had a few things prepped already and of course there was chili, but that wouldn’t work tonight. He settled on a pre-made pasta sauce and container of meatballs. “Spaghetti and meatballs?”
She giggled and he turned to find her face flushed. The wine was hitting her and harder than he thought it would. By all accounts it seemed like she was a drinker, but this reaction told him maybe not. “What’s so funny?”
“Was I laughing?” She asked and laughed some more. “I’m so nervous.”
And the wine induced truth was out. She put her hand over her lips as if she had let that slip out. He hated that she was still feeling alone in this situation between them so he admitted, “So am I.”
She really cracked up at that comment. He was a little offended. “Why is that funny?”
“Because you are Constantine. Titus. Crosby.” She wasn’t laughing which made him sad because she punctuated his name as though it meant something more than it did.
“You do realize that I was the kicker. The kicker, not the quarterback.”
“You’re in the paper.” She whispered.
“You’re in multiple magazines.”
“As the author.”
“Fine. Yes, I played pro ball, but in the overall scheme of things, I was drafted last. Do you know what they call the guy that gets drafted last?”
“No.” She seemed interested and it made him soften his tone a little. Maybe she didn’t understand football. He knew that she hated sports because of her family drama, but that didn’t mean she was ignorant to all aspects. Her magazine featured a few homes owned by professional athletes.
“Mister Irrelevant. I spent the first year learning the ropes of the pro game and then I just got lucky with a struggling team and an accurate kick. If I played for anyone else during that time I would still be called “the kicker” rather than by my last name because no one cares about the kicker until they have to.” He shook his head. Whatever elevation she had given him due to his pro status was more insulting than flattering.
She bit into her lower lip a moment and then turned those big brown eyes on him. The heat from her stare about undid him. He turned away from her and that gaze and grabbed the rest of what he needed to make the spaghetti. She was quiet for a long moment and he grew anxious about facing her again.
When he turned, she was staring at his crotch which meant she had been staring at his ass while he was handling the stove. He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter as her eyes made no attempt to jerk away from perusing him until they were locked with his. She was drunk. He was convinced she had to be.
“It’s not the football situation that makes you Bigfoot.” She turned up the last of her wine and he tried not to scoff at the reference. “It’s the essay.”
“I don’t know if I should be more offended or confused at this moment, but I think I should tell you, I am a bit of both.” He frowned at her as she began giggling again. She reached for the wine bottle and he moved to grab it. “Oh no. I was hoping that after a glass you might feel more comfortable, but now you’re drunk and I am not going to close this night by holding your hair back while you toss your cookies in my commode.”
“You made cookies?” Her breath caught and her face heated even more. The reference wasn’t lost on him. She remembered that night as well as he did. It was their first time with each other and their first time having sex. It meant something to him and he thought it meant something to her.
“No.” He was getting mad at her as the old wound opened up. She pushed her lower lip out and then he watched a new expression form and her eyes welled up with big, fat teardrops. In all the ways he had imagined this meeting going, this was never among one fantasy. Not in one single play by play in his mind back then, nor the moments he had imagined at various times in his life since then, was she an emotional rollercoaster on the first date.
“I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m really messing this up now. I told myself on the way over here that I should come in like a journalist, be the woman I am at work, but then I got out of that cab and saw you and you smiled at me and I just…failed.” She swiped at the tears on her cheeks and sniffed. He was about to say something when she started up again. “Bigfoot is a mythical creature, he doesn’t exist, but people keep saying they see him and so we all just hope he does. It’s like a unicorn, a mermaid, but those sound more feminine, so you’re like Bigfoot, the masculine equivalent to rare, one of a kind, exceptional. I could call you the Loch Ness Monster, but monster has such a negative connotation to it I thought that would be sending the wrong message.”
He wasn’t offended by being called Bigfoot anymore. “Well, I can’t exactly be Bigfoot since I clearly do exist. I’m a little nervous now that once I start talking you’re going to realize that all too well. If you haven’t already. I’m not good at holding what I think back anymore. I spent most of my life suppressing my thoughts and now they sort of run from brain to mouth without a lot of filter.”
“I’m not a drinker. I just thought it might take the edge off, but now…” She stood from the seat at the counter. “Ladies room?”
“Down the hall and to the right.” He watched her get control of her balance, and then she stepped out of the high heels. He smiled. That was probably a smart decision since he had a tile floor that was polished and would not make for a soft landing. Even though it was neatly pinned up and made the statement unnecessary he said, “I will hold your hair back if you need me to.”
“I’m okay.”
She left the room and he tended to the pot of noodles and the simmering sauce. He had fresh baked bread, but it wasn’t warm. He didn’t want to heat it up in the oven because it would take too long. He opted for a quick bout in the microwave and hoped it didn’t make it too soggy or too hard.
She wasn’t gone long and when she returned he noticed all the make-up was removed from her face. Her eyes were a little puffy and her nose a bit pink, but she had pulled it all back together in there and seemed to be willing to push through that awkward moment and so was he. “Do you want garlic butter on your bread?”
“No, thank you. It smells really good.” She gulped and he hated this for her. When he started acting classes he began to understand that a lot of socially awkward people found a way to pretend. As long as they controlled the scene they could remain in character. Maybe that is what she had been doing all this time. Now, he was breaking her carefully constructed fantasy and he didn’t mean to do that exactly. Not tonight anyway.
He didn’t know what to do other than to try once more at conversation. “Do you like working for the magazine?”
She looked at him a moment and he thought he had made yet another mistake. “I do. How did you know I work for a magazine?”
“I know things.” He could feel the heat creep up his neck and across his cheeks. He didn’t want to say that he spent more time than he wanted to admit putting her name in a search engine. If he was Bigfoot, she was a character from a Jane Austen novel, and despite the fact that he played football, the women in Austen’s books had always inspired him. They were strong, determined, and intellectually equal to if not superior to their male counterparts. He really liked a smart woman.
He was proud of his creative writing degree and hoped to put it to use once he finished the last two classes he needed for his MFA. Not every teacher lived in Tribeca, sure, but he bought this place cheap by comparison and had saved and invested enough money he could have bought the building. He was going to open a school for the arts instead, but he wasn’t about to tell anyone until everything was ready. “Tell me about it.”
“What’s to tell? I live outside the city because I can’t afford to live in it if I ever want to retire. I don’t think I would want to anyway. Just a train ride away is a small town with less than a thousand people living in it. I rent my place there, but it’s a house, and I have a little yard, and I can plant things and one day I might get a dog. I feed the neighborhood cat already. She thinks she lives there and I am not a hundred percent sure she didn’t belong to the lady that had the place before me. The cat is really old, and the woman died three years ago. I’ve lived there almost three years now.” She accepted the plate of food and they walked the short distance to the table.
He sat his plate down and returned to the refrigerator. “I have tea and water.”
“Water please.” He brought her a glass of water and placed his iced tea on the table. “How long have you lived here?”
“Three months.” He shrugged. “I never really thought I would live in New York, but then I thought of all the authors that have lived here and how the city influenced their writing and I thought, what the hell? You know? I can always move.”
He left out the part about the fact that she worked in New York City and he had in his own little fantasy land thought of how they would run into each other at some publishing event. As it turned out, he was partially right. He thought back to when he saw her standing there and then the fact she didn’t even look at him when she was talking. She spoke freely then, confident, fun. He took that challenge to autograph her ass, but of course he would never really do something like that. He just clicked the cap on the marker and then made a quick scribble while half expecting her to slap him. She didn’t. He felt a little bad about doing it, but also a little proud of himself for being bold with this particular woman.
“Are you writing?” She lit up with the question and something eased inside of him. This was a common ground for them. One they had never fully explored together, but one they both knew and was comfortable with.
“I have to finish my thesis and I’ll complete my MFA. It’s an online program because, well, work didn’t exactly allow for me to sign up for fall classes. I’ve been working on it longer than a usual student would because until now I was only able to focus during the off season.” He was feeling that connection he always felt around her. That slight sizzle of something indefinable that only happened when he thought about her.
“That is such…you have no idea how good you are…you should have been writing this whole time. Your essay changed my life.” She had been animated until that moment when her eyes went a bit rounder and her hand came up to cover her lips.
He tilted his head and asked, “What essay?”
“Well.” She hedged.
He frowned at her. His gut burned with anticipation and a bit of betrayal mixed in. “Libby, what essay?”
“I found it when I was packing my stuff up. It must have fallen out of your pocket in my living room.” She looked guilty and he suspected she should since that was something he thought he had lost forever. “I still have it. I can bring it to you or mail it since you look ready to strangle me now.”
“Years!” He practically shouted it and she jerked back. “I don’t even know what to say. Part of me wants to be furious that you have had that thing all this time and never made an attempt to return it to me.”
She turned those eyes on him and he blew out a long, frustrated breath. She asked, “And the other part?”
“The other part is just…exhausted.” He settled on that rather than the truth that he was overjoyed that she had his lost thumb-drive and all the work on it. He had been like most writers, stupid at some point, and his work, his life’s work, all of his essays, all of his creative ideas, all of his college works in progress were on that very small, portable, and highly risky device. To have that back would be like finding a child he thought lost to the wilderness. One he thought had been devoured by some trash compactor by now.
She looked at her plate and then at him. “This is not how I thought dinner would go if I won you. I’ve really messed this up.”
“No. Well, not exactly. I think I was expecting…I could take you home. I didn’t even finish one glass of wine. I would be really grateful if I could get that tonight.” He practically broke out into a sweat. To some, the item would seem insignificant, but to an author it was like she held the Holy Grail even if every word saved on it was worthless. It meant everything to him.
“Of course. Yeah. I should have tried to return it to you long ago, I just…couldn’t.” She seemed to think about that statement and then shook her head as if she had no words to amend it. He didn’t care at the moment. He just wanted his work back.