Dear Mr. Knightley,
The text
Coffee? Lunch? Day? Start at Starbucks on Wells and North. 10 am?
awaited me when I came home from my run this morning.
Hmmm . . . Old Town on a Saturday and a whole day? This was new and intriguing . . . I texted back:
Just got this. See you at 10:15.
I showered, threw on a pair of khaki shorts, cute ballet slippers, and a white short-sleeved blouse. The Muirs left me their cars, so I got to Lincoln Park quickly and felt dressed for anything—except Alex’s plans.
“You’re not wearing running shoes.” Alex bounced around the Starbucks—too much espresso.
“You said nothing about running,” I laughed. “I’ve already run ten this morning.”
“You ran?” Sad, puppy-dog eyes.
“I can run more. What’s up?”
“I thought we’d start the day at the zoo and wander Lincoln Park, eat lunch, then go for a run later this afternoon and catch a movie.”
It sounded perfect—no quick lunch, but an entire day with a good friend.
“Great. I’ll drive back up and get my gear. I’ll be—”
“No!” He grabbed my hand to pull me in line. “You need your vanilla latté, then we’ll go. Shoes will take care of themselves.”
I grinned and submitted. He was like me with a new book—but jacked up on caffeine.
After paying for my coffee and another for him, we wandered the entire neighborhood and the zoo. I stood for a long time at the elephants, and he made me stay equally long at the penguins—cute but cold little guys. We didn’t talk much, and the silence hung like a silk curtain, light and lovely. He was eager to share the day and I was equally delighted—both in the activities and the company. Alex is easy to talk to. He doesn’t press and he’s beginning to share. We both are.
He’s also really handsome. Women look at him and I don’t think they recognize him; they just think he’s cute. What’s even better? He doesn’t notice. Again, it’s not the whole left eye thing—I believe Alex chooses to focus on what’s in front of him. The rest just floats by. It’s flattering, though daunting at times, to be in that zone.
I refuse to dissect our relationship, but old habits die hard. Are we friends? Semi-family via the Muirs? I can’t tell. I assume there’s nothing more than friendship on Alex’s side. He never gets “that look” or holds my hand. Sure, he grabs it occasionally, but that’s for speed or directional corrections. I also get a guiding hand at the small of my back sometimes, but again, it’s a directional thing. And it’s gentlemanly. Alex is that.
After a sidewalk lunch at Gemini Bistro, Alex directed us to Fleet Feet. I was in the door before I caught on to the man and his mission: “What size shoe do you wear?”
“Nine. Why? Hey, you aren’t buying me shoes. I’ll buy them. Or I can just go get mine.”
“No, this is my idea. I’m buying the shoes.” He looked very serious.
“I’ll buy the shorts.”
“Shorts?”
“Alex, I’m wearing walking shorts and a blouse. I’m going to need more than shoes.”
“I hadn’t noticed that.”
“Thanks. I’ll have you know I thought about this outfit.” I feigned indignation.
“Sam, I didn’t mean that. You’re beautiful.” He stopped and looked at me—really looked at me. I tucked the compliment and the look away for safekeeping.
We wandered the store and I found everything I needed. Alex insisted on paying, and since he was being stubborn and makes far more money than I do, I let him. We then hoofed it to the Belden Stratford to change.
If you’ve never been to Chicago, I think the Belden Stratford is the equivalent of renting an apartment at the Plaza in New York. (No, I haven’t seen it. I’ve read Eloise.) Gorgeous, I would guess; a fortune, I guarantee. Alex’s apartment is there, near the top floor with a gorgeous view of the lake. We changed quickly and were off.
The day was perfect—mild, gentle breeze off the lake, and every moment felt charged with sunlight. Alex felt it too. The guy couldn’t stop smiling. It was an infectious good feeling.
You can always talk more deeply when running because it feels safe. You can’t directly look at the person next to you. And you can’t hide much in so few clothes and so much sweat. Exhaustion also addles your inhibitions.
“How is Cole?” I was really asking about him, and he knew it.
“He’s better, Sam. I think that’s what my publisher knew—he needed to be pushed, but I was scared to do it. To push him means pushing me. That’s hard.”
Alex then asked me about my relationship with Josh. At our first lunch I told him I had a boyfriend but didn’t add much detail, and I’ve never provided an update. It’s embarrassing. I still feel stupid. But I was completely honest. I told Alex everything.
“. . . So that’s the end of my first real boyfriend. You know, we barely spent any time together all spring. That should have been a sign. I mean, don’t you want to be with your girlfriend?” Subtle probe.
“I haven’t had one in so long, I can’t remember.”
I threw him a scowl, suspecting he was deflecting or lying.
“I’m not kidding, Sam. But, yes, I’d want to be with her every moment I could. And when separated, I’d probably think about her constantly.”
“Then I wasn’t the one for Josh. He wanted ‘something’ from me all right, but not me. I’m pleased I came out as well as I did.”
“What do you mean?”
“‘He imposed on me, but he didn’t injure me.’”
“Is that Emma or Sam talking?”
“You are so good,” I laughed. “It’s both of us. Josh didn’t touch my heart. My ego and expectations, yes, but not my heart, not my soul. I walked away whole. I liked the idea of a boyfriend more than I ever liked Josh . . . Maybe boyfriends are better in books.”
Now Alex threw me a scowl.
“No, seriously, most of my notions come from books, not reality.” Did I admit that?
“Why is that?”
I had ventured as far as I could. I didn’t want to lie, but I also couldn’t break down, and possibly ruin, this moment and this friendship.
“My childhood wasn’t easy. I buried myself in books. I guess I’m a recovering book addict.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“What?”
“Deflect. Make light of something painful. And I know, by your tone and your expression right now, that it is.”
I watched the road. “Alex, sometimes the real answers are too hard.”
“To share with a friend?”
“Is that what we are?” Did I ask that?
“We may be many things, Sam, but we are at least that.”
“Good to know. What else will we do today, friend?” I lightened my voice in hopes the subject change wouldn’t appear too abrupt.
Alex pushed two strides ahead. I surged to keep up. “Sam, I’m irritated with you right now. I want to stop running. I want to take you by the shoulders, shake you, and tell you that I care. I don’t want you to deflect with me, and I certainly don’t want you to change the subject when we start to get real.” He glanced at me, but I refused to pull my head or my gaze from the road.
“But clearly you’re not ready for that. Maybe neither of us is. So I’m going to run even faster out of sheer frustration.” And he picked up the pace another notch.
I was speechless. I can’t tell you what I thought because I couldn’t think. Another four miles and I was exhausted. We ended up laughing, because neither of us backed down, and somehow we ended okay.
Alex didn’t press me again as we headed back to the Belden Stratford to change our clothes. I was still pondering his comment—and still am. I think more was said than what he actually said. But it’s like smoke; I can’t catch it.
We ended our perfect day with pizza, ice cream, and a walk around Old Town—then back to the professor’s car, still safely parked on North Avenue. I drove home singing. Now I should sleep. Needless to say, after eighteen miles, I’m exhausted. But, Mr. Knightley . . . Alex cares. I’m not sure what that means and I promise not to dwell on it . . . too much.
Sweet dreams,
Sam