Chapter Twelve

It takes me a night of deep thinking. Maybe to some, it feels like it should be an easy decision—David or Luke—but I’ve been thinking David was the man for me all along, so it’s not a simple thing for me to just decide I’m going to change tracks. But I concede—grudgingly—that maybe Jan and Michelle have a point. Maybe…just possibly one percent maybe…David and I don’t have any chemistry.

No, no, no. I shake my head. What do they know about chemistry? Jan was a virgin until, like, four months ago, and Michelle’s an English lit major. Seriously, I’m certain I haven’t felt anything with David because I’ve been trying to be noble, as in not the other woman in a relationship. I’ve played that role unwittingly, thanks to an asshole ex of mine, who just happened not to mention that he was engaged to a girl who lived out of town. The spectacle that ensued when she found out and confronted me is one humiliation I’ll never forget.

Luke claimed I like David the way I like a dog, but he has it all wrong. Always polite and sweet, David is a gentleman who would never put me in a bad situation. Not to mention, we’re superbly compatible in so many ways. Our family backgrounds are similar—loving parents, good relationships with siblings, materially comfortable. We’re also college-educated, smart and nice. All that is the necessary foundation to which I need to add the flaming Easter bunnies in order for me to have lasting success in my personal life.

Once David’s done with his non-black-wearing girl, I’m sure I’m going to feel the spark because we’ll be ready to move on. Until then, I can bide my time. Maybe even give Luke a chance, since he’s being persistent. Nothing permanent, obviously, because he’s only in the area temporarily—Airbnb says it all—and I don’t know anything about him, and I don’t seriously date anyone I can’t do a full background check on. But I can have a nice little fling while David’s getting over his ex. That should also keep me distracted so I’m not checking David’s Instagram and Facebook feeds every hour to see what he’s up to with TOWIMWa.

But I have no intention of just giving in to Luke. That would be way too easy. Men don’t value what they didn’t have to work for. So he’s going to have to earn this girl.

My plan is simple. If Luke joins me for another run on Saturday, I’ll definitely give him a chance. Saturday is my hard day this week, and I want to see if he can keep up—mostly because I think it’s hot when a guy can keep up with me. And because I want to make sure he’s persistent, rather than somebody who gives up because I didn’t fall into his arms after that one kiss.

Of course, once I’ve made that monumental decision and Saturday comes, I’m in the middle of my run and Luke is nowhere to be found. Damn him. Why can’t he be consistent? This is just so freakin’ wrong. Now I have to come up with a different criterion to qualify him. Maybe I can ask him to jump out of a plane with a slightly defective parachute, except that doesn’t make any sense. What if the parachute is really defective and he dies? I’m pretty open-minded when it comes to dating, but I have my standards. He should’ve just shown up this morning.

By the time I’m done with my run—I even tacked on an extra ten minutes of walking at the end, just in case—I’m drenched. And my irritation level is at one hundred and fifteen percent.

I shower with super-hot water and put on a robe. I should use the massage chair in the living room to work out the tightness in my muscles. Well. Coffee first, then the massage chair.

There I can debate whether I should let Luke know how he’s set back his case by not showing up today to bug me. I bet he’s sleeping in. He ought to know lazy birds get no dates.

I almost yelp when I reach the kitchen. Michelle’s there, bleary-eyed, her unbrushed hair tangled around her shoulders. She sticks out her lower lip and gives me a forlorn puppy look.

“Are you okay?” I ask. She’s almost never this up early on weekends.

“No. Couldn’t sleep.”

I make a face. “Sorry.”

Michelle usually sleeps like the dead. She can slumber through construction work, drunken parties and thunderstorms. Sometimes I wonder if she’s a vampire that drops dead at certain hour, then jumps back up when it’s wakey-wakey time. But occasionally—about two or three times a year—she has a minor bout of insomnia, as in she only gets six hours of sleep, rather than the usual eight or nine.

She’s truly pitiful during those times.

“Want some coffee?” I ask.

“I’ve already had two cups.” She sighs. “I’m waiting for them to work their magic.”

That’s not happening. Caffeine can never replace sleep in the Michelle-verse. But I guess one has to have hope.

“Besides, it isn’t like I have to be totally rested to pack for Jan’s trip. I could do that with my eyes closed,” she adds.

Oh yeah… Matt and Jan are leaving today. I totally forgot.

We go up to Jan’s bedroom. She isn’t there, since she dashed over to Matt’s as soon as his BMW pulled into the driveway. I drag a suitcase out of her walk-in closet.

“How was the run?” Michelle asks.

“Eh. Good, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Luke didn’t show.”

“Um… Was he supposed to?”

“Yes. How am I supposed to know if he’s interested if he doesn’t show up to bug me during a run?”

Michelle kind of squints and nods at the same time. “Uh-huh. Well… Maybe his car broke down.” She places some of Jan’s underwear and a few cute summer tops and shorts into the suitcase.

“That’s no excuse. He’s got a place in the neighborhood.” Which reminds me… “Do you know anyone who’s doing Airbnb around here?”

“No. Why?”

“Never mind.” I can probably hack into the HOA database again and see who’s doing short-term rentals. That way I can figure out where Luke’s staying and have him evicted. A man too lazy to follow through after that kiss shouldn’t be allowed to stay in the same neighborhood as me.

What if he had a heart attack? Or an aneurysm?

Dear mind, no. He didn’t have either. Let’s come up with a more plausible excuse for his absence, shall we?

I go and get the last thing Jan’s going to need—my unused sex toy collection, “Sensual Surprise”—and dump the box into the suitcase.

“You’re giving that to Jan?” Michelle says, one eyebrow raised. She zips up the bag.

“Yup. The whole thing’s cursed for me, but that’ll change with a new owner.” I may be superstitious, but I’m also practically superstitious. There’s no reason to throw out perfectly good, never-been-used toys just because they and I aren’t meant to be.

“There’s the Sammi I remember,” Michelle says with a sleepy smile. “So what’s the game plan?”

“How do you know I have a game plan?”

“You always have a game plan.”

True.In fact, I came up with one while we were packing. But before I can tell her about it—as I often do so I can hear myself talk and work out any kinks—the doorbell rings. I go down, assuming it’s Matt coming over to collect Jan’s suitcase, but it’s a delivery guy with a bouquet of pink peonies. There’s not a single sunflower in the bundle, so it can’t be for Jan. Besides, Matt would’ve just had them delivered to his place, since she’s there more anyway.

“Yes?” Must be for Michelle. Has she been holding out on me? As soon as the deliveryman’s gone, I’m going to commence a through inquisition about this new man.

“Samantha Jamieson?”

I blink. “That’s me…”

“Sign here.” The flower man pushes a small tablet my way, and I reflexively scribble my initials with my fingertip. He hands me the bouquet and disappears.

I stare at the peonies in my arms. What the hell? I scowl. It better not be Gerald. He’s been calling me at work and leaving voice mails because I blocked his number on my mobile. Then I stop. The few times he bothered to get me flowers—which only happened when he wanted something from me or did something he shouldn’t have—they were always grocery store roses in red. What are the odds that he’s figured out what my favorite flowers are at this late date?

“Those are nice.” Michelle covers her mouth as she yawns. “Who sent them?”

“I have no clue.” I take them to the kitchen and pull out the stiff card stuck in the midst of blossoms.

Raven girl,

Have dinner with me. 7 p.m. I’ll pick you up.

–Luke

I flip the card and see a line of handwritten cursive. I pause for a moment to admire the bold, precise lines. The flourish is beautiful without being overly ornate.

Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda.

Since there’s no way I’m going to not find out why Luke chose to send me this particular phrase, I pull out my phone to look it up. It probably doesn’t mean “I’m going to eat you like a second serving of flavorful chicken,” because I’m almost certain poca is not poultry…although it might be. The only language I speak other than English is programming code.

Google doesn’t fail me. A great flame follows a little spark. It’s from Paradiso in Dante’s Divina Commedia.

What an interesting choice.

I tap the counter with the edge of the note with a small, bemused smile. Maybe I don’t need to have him jump out of a plane with a defective parachute after all.

“Who are they from?” Michelle asks.

I hand her the card.

She skims it. “Wow. The Divine Comedy.”

“How did you know?” I ask.

“Studied it in one of my lit courses.” Michelle arches an eyebrow. “Seven, huh?”

“I know. Totally presumptuous,” I say with a smile I can’t suppress. “What if I’m not home, or my answer’s a big, fat no?”

“Uh-huh. The word you’re looking for is confident. Besides, why does it matter when you’ve made up your mind?” She leans closer. “So which is it?”

“I’ll see him at seven, of course, provided I don’t get called in to help out with the sandbox migration later today.”

“Ooooh.”

“A preliminary interview,” I say.

She makes a face. “An interview? Is it for an opening?” Then she snorts a laugh, and I join her.

“God, that’s a terrible joke,” I say.

“I only had six hours of sleep. It’s brilliant.”

“You and your sleep. Anyway, shut up and listen. I have it all planned out…”