Dear Mr. Knightley,
Thank you for allowing Laura to write to me. I can’t tell you how much her letter helped. Will you please thank her?
On to life here . . . I feel I’ve been looking over my shoulder so much lately, I haven’t moved forward. Well, last night I moved forward—full speed ahead.
How, you ask? I had a date. Twenty-three years old, and it finally happened. You’re the only one who knows that little detail, so please keep it to yourself. I’m a full decade behind the curve. But no longer—and I figure if you’ve been on one date, you can make it a verb. “I date” or “I’m dating.” I love verbs!
You need the whole story. Well, I need to tell the whole story, and telling Debbie and Ashley was awful because I had to act so blasé. Dates happen to them all the time: Ashley went out with four different guys last month alone, and Debbie has a boyfriend in Minneapolis. So I pretended last night was no big deal. But you? You get all the details—so I can relive them.
It started a couple weeks ago, when Ashley, Debbie, and I went to a Kellogg Halloween party. Kellogg is the business school at Northwestern, and those folks host the best parties. Anyway, we each dressed in black with sunglasses and walking sticks. Get it? We were the Three Blind Mice and a huge hit. The party was down on Davis Street and spanned three floors of an old walk-up apartment building. It was warm and noisy—everyone trying to make first impressions, second impressions, any impressions. Me, I was trying to sneak home to a good book and hot cocoa. There were simply too many people. I was almost out the door of the top floor’s apartment when he stepped in front of me.
“Are you trying to get a drink?” He was not much taller than me, stocky with black hair and equally dark eyes.
“Trying to make a getaway,” I shouted.
He touched my shoulder to corral me toward the hallway stairs, where the music wasn’t blaring. “How can I convince you to stay?”
That melted me a little. I thought about saying, What do you have in mind? but even thinking such a flirty reply made me blush.
“Tell me who you are,” I replied. He was dressed like a pirate.
“I’m Captain Jack Sparrow. Can’t you tell?”
“I thought Black Beard.”
“Really I’m Josh Duncan. I graduated last year, but I still hang with these guys. Are you at Kellogg?” Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio pushed him closer to me. He smelled like pretzels.
“No, I’m in Medill’s journalism program. I’m Sam.”
“Undergrad or grad?”
“Grad. Do I look that young?”
“You look great.” I melted a bit more and my heart started fluttering. Josh looked pleased, and all my thoughts of escape fled.
After a few minutes, he took both my hands. “Sam, I want to get us some drinks, but you have to promise not to leave. I’m placing your hands on this banister. Don’t go downstairs. Don’t move at all until I get back.”
“I promise.” So there I stood, with my hands on the banister, until Debbie found me.
“I’ve been watching. You need to flirt more.”
“I was flirting.”
“That’s you flirting?”
How do I answer that?
“He’s gone to get me a drink. He told me to wait here.”
“Oh . . . Sam. He’s so cute. Can I have one?” Ashley joined us.
“She’s not flirting enough.” Debbie turned to her, dismayed by my performance.
“She’s got a point, Sam. He won’t make a move unless he thinks you’re interested.”
“Yes, Charlotte.” I knew I could count on Ashley catching the allusion. It was Charlotte Lucas’s belief that a woman had better show more affection than she feels.
Ashley smiled. “He’s definitely into you, Sam. Just look at those eyes.”
“They’re brown.” Yes, Mr. Knightley, I notice the color of everyone’s eyes now. Ever since Dan, that’s a big deal with me. It’s my litmus test to prove I’m in the moment.
Ashley rolled hers. “Not the color, dimwit. The look. It’s like Colonel Brandon watching Marianne Dashwood.”
Aha, so we weren’t in P&P, we were in Sense and Sensibility, and I apparently had discovered a Colonel Brandon. My eyes widened at the thought.
Ashley grinned. “I find it sometimes best to speak your language.”
“I will never doubt you again,” I said and hugged her.
Then they both started dishing out the advice: “Toss your hair, lick your bottom lip, tilt your head, smile, smile smaller, laugh softly, make him lean in . . .” Ninety seconds of pure torture before I replaced my hands on the banister and the girls took the stairs down to the apartment below.
But it worked! Josh asked for my number. I thought he’d call the next day, and I got surly when he didn’t, but Ashley and Debbie said that was normal. I like normal. So I waited. And a few days later, he called several times—right after the Great Beat-down. I never picked up.
I thought he’d given up, but yesterday he called again—for a date last night. A whole menagerie of butterflies took residence in my stomach. I only had an hour to get ready.
I jumped in the shower, forming a plan, and accidentally shaved across hundreds of goose bumps on my legs. I know, that’s more information than you need, but OUCH! Then I panicked. I called Ashley for advice, and within minutes she and Debbie were at my door. The room got so giddy you’d think no one had been on a date ever. The two of them dived into my closet.
“She should wear black with the jeans. It’s casual and sexy.” Ashley held the blouse to her face.
“Of course it looks good against you, Ash. You’re blond. Look at all her gorgeous dark hair. She’ll be better in this.” Debbie held up the cream sweater.
“Sure, at a study session. It’s a date, Deb. She needs to make a statement.”
“Hello? I’m in the room. I vote cream and brown. I like study sessions.”
Ashley rolled her eyes. “Please, Sam, put a little Marianne in your Elinor.” I smiled. It was a lovely idea.
How would it feel to get carried away on emotion like Marianne? To be so recklessly entranced? So passionately in love? I never thought Marianne’s devotion to Willoughby was prudent, and it wasn’t, but I bet it was fun. And later, I’m sure all that passion enveloped Colonel Brandon.
In the end we decided on jeans, brown high-heeled boots, the cream sweater, and a cream-and-brown patterned scarf around my neck. We had just finished adding the scarf when Josh knocked on the door. Ashley and Debbie ducked into my bedroom, which made for a weird first moment. Then I almost forgot them as Josh walked me down my apartment steps. He looked so good in a black sweater and jeans.
“You look great tonight, Sam. Thanks for saying yes on such short notice. A meeting fell through and I thought I’d take a chance.”
“I’m glad you called. Where are we going?”
“To my favorite Indian restaurant on Devon. Do you like Indian food?”
“I’m not very familiar with it.”
“You’ll love it. If you want, I’ll order for us.”
Is that how it always is? It felt lovely to have someone take such good care of me. Brandon took care of Marianne like that, I’m sure. Josh opened the car door and practically settled me into the passenger seat. We chatted while I floated along in my plush, beige leather seat with built-in warmer.
At the restaurant, I was out of my league again. Where is a burger joint when you need one? I couldn’t understand a word on the menu and finally put it down. Josh looked pleased when I asked him to order. He did a good job: chicken tikka masala, tandoori prawns, some vegetable samosas, and naan.
I looked them all up so I could spell them for you. See what care I take with your letters?
It was delicious: hot and spicy, deep and earthy. Dinner, time travel, and sunbathing rolled into one culinary experience. While we ate, Josh asked a lot of questions, some twice. I felt reluctant to answer. One—concentrating on my inner Marianne and feeling the moment took energy. Two—I hate talking about myself. So I opted for a few well-timed deflections. Most of the evening went like this:
Josh: “Where did you grow up?”
Sam: “Right here in Chicago, but I’ve never been here. Could you pass the chicken dish? It’s wonderful . . . Thanks. Are you pleased you stayed here after business school?”
Josh: “Of course, you can’t do better than Leo Burnett for advertising. I interviewed in New York, but found more innovative work coming out of Chicago.”
Sam: “Tell me about it. What are you working on?”
And off he went. I didn’t manipulate him, I promise. I genuinely loved hearing about his life and work. I learned he is the youngest of three boys, grew up in Cincinnati, graduated from the Miami University of Ohio before Kellogg, likes to play basketball and run, only reads magazines, and doesn’t like milk. See, lots of stuff.
And he has the neatest hands. He uses them when he talks, and I like the way they move. Is that weird? There must be something about hands from my childhood. I notice them—best not dig too deep into that one.
This is what I told Ashley and Debbie this morning: “We had a nice time. I hope he calls, but I gather he’s really busy.” I was ready to share all the silly details, but it was too mundane and normal for them. They didn’t ask for more.
Only Debbie replied, “Don’t worry, you’re too cute for him not to call. Let’s go grab a coffee.”
So we went for lattés and discussed finals. Back to the real world. Oh, by the way . . . I got a real kiss too.
Sam
P.S. Okay, that was unfair. So while it’s very tacky to “kiss and tell,” I’ll share some of the scene. Granted, thirteen-year-olds probably do this, but you’ll have to cut me some slack. I’d like to relive that moment too, and who am I going to tell, Isabella?
I had almost gotten sick as Debbie and Ashley raced around my living room cleaning while I dressed. They believed I would “invite him up” after our date. That hadn’t occurred to me, but it worried me throughout dinner. And as we turned into the Conleys’ driveway, my stomach dropped and my skin grew clammy. Panic is not just an emotion. It’s a very physical phenomenon. The butterflies fled my gut—crickets overtook them.
Josh parked right in front of the garage, and his previously quiet Lexus Hybrid sounded louder than a jet engine. Everyone could hear. Everyone knew what was about to happen—everyone but me. Does he open my door? Does he walk me up? Does he expect to come in? Do I kiss him? Does he kiss me? Enough!
“I had a wonderful time tonight, Josh. Thank you very much.” I reached for the door handle.
“Me too. I’d like to do this again.”
“Sam?” He gently pulled my arm, turning me back and slightly across the center console. Before I had time to think, he kissed me. Not quick, but slow and soft. First it was a question, then he seemed to find an answer and he deepened it. I’ve heard all sorts of things about a kiss (melting, fireworks, music), but no one ever told me it’s a conversation: asking, accepting, deciding, inviting, giving . . . Questions posed and answered. After a few moments, my head spun and the car felt steamy. I pulled away to catch my breath.
“Shall I come up?” He brushed my hair back, and I couldn’t help but lean into his hand. His eyes seemed black in the dark car as they rested on my lips.
“I don’t think so. I don’t want Mrs. Conley to see your car here too late. Another night?”
“Do you care what they think? Are you related?”
“No, but they have four kids. They’re a nice family. You’d like them.” I reached for the handle and climbed out. I got halfway up the stairs when he called out the window.
“Sam, I’ve got meetings for the next few nights. Can I see you Friday?”
“I’d like that.”
“Great. I’ll call you.” He waited for a moment, then backed out as I entered my apartment.
So that was it. I once heard a wonderful line in a movie that the first kiss is not the one you judge. Instead all the meaning is in the second . . .