Ch1 Part 1

On a Tuesday morning I found I was going to Los Angeles on business. By Friday morning, I was on the plane. Not that this wasn’t normal, for me. My job was to basically babysit clients, so I’d made many, many trips like this one. I was just nervous. Flying made me nervous. Actually, nervous wasn’t the word for it. Flying made me irrational and sweaty and shaky and, in general, freak out. I hated to fly.

I was more nervous about this flight, this trip, this meeting than I had been about any other. A 'yes' from this client would mean an expansion of my department, a lot more work and maybe, if the old crow that owned the company would loosen his clutches a little bit, a bonus. Dare I dream of a raise?   

To ease my nerves, I upgraded myself to first class. This flight was going to be difficult enough, and since the trip was already paid for by the client, and there was a seat available I figured, 'what the hell? Live a little', and spent the extra money to sit in comfortable luxury-- as luxurious as a person can be on Delta.

I had no problem getting to the airport, checking my bag, and finding the terminal. After the mad rush to get past security, there was nothing to do but check email using the airport’s free wifi and watch people as we waited to board the aircraft. As soon as the boarding call came, I stepped into the line with my ID and boarding pass, swinging my laptop case onto my shoulder. I felt it make contact with someone behind me, but the line was moving. No time to turn around.

"Ow," I heard from behind me.

"Oh, sorry," I said, turning my head slightly. “This bag is a bear to handle. I'll try not to beat you down with it."

"I'd appreciate that," said the voice behind me. I handed my ticket to the attendant, who scanned it and handed it back, then headed down the long, winding jet way to the airplane. I checked my seat number, slid my bag underneath my assigned seat, and settled back. I had just begun to relax when a gentleman stopped at my row and a smooth voice said, “I think I’m your neighbor.” I started to stand to let him by, but he stopped me.

"No, no, don't worry about it. I can squeeze in here. See," he said shimmying past me, "this is the great thing about first class. More room. I'm good." He bent to slide a worn brown leather bag underneath his seat and began situating himself, then buckled his seat belt. The scent of something incredible wafted past my nose. I realized that it was him-- his cologne or shampoo or... something.  

"You smell delicious. Are you wearing something--I don't know--pumpkin scented?"

His head was bent as he dug the seatbelt out from under him, his voice muffled. "Yeah, it's this shampoo. It's some kind of new product or something; I can't remember the name of it. Smells like Thanksgiving, I heard."

"It smells really good," I said, looking up as he raised his head. My heart slammed against my chest when I realized I was chatting so randomly and casually about shampoo and other mundane things with someone very well known, and very famous. "Oh my God," I gushed, unable to stop myself. "Hi."

He eyed me, wary, aware that he’d been recognized. "Oh my God. Hi, to you too." He smiled briefly, then quickly turned away and dipped his head toward the window. Not rude, more like shy. He clasped his hands in his lap and crossed his ankles. He looked comfortable, like a cross-country flight was nothing to him. Unlike me, afraid to fly and would have had a cocktail if it was appropriate at that time of morning.

"Did I attack you, with my bag, earlier?"

A hint of a smile crossed his lips. He turned his head to me and nodded once. "That thing should be registered as some kind of weapon. I've got a bruise threatening to pop up here soon."

"I'm so sorry,” I said, closing my eyes, completely embarrassed. “I don't know my own strength. I hope you’ll be okay. Your arm won’t fall off, will it?”

He wrinkled up his nose, glanced down at his bicep and flexed it. “Nah. I’ll be okay, I think. Some physical therapy, maybe a prosthetic, I’ll be good to go.”

I laughed and he seemed proud of his joke. “Uhm. So. What brought you to Atlanta? Working on an album?" I raised an eyebrow in hope.

He smiled, then, his blue eyes twinkling. "Yes, but not mine. Actually, I'm on my way home. I just always get the connection in Atlanta. You live here? Or going home?"

"I live here. On my way to LA for a meeting. New client, big proposal, very nervous."

He nodded. "I'm sure you'll do fine. Just... just leave that bag in the hotel."

The flight attendants began to make their announcements and safety demonstrations. When they finished, they checked the cabin and the plane backed away from the jet way and began its slow crawl toward the runway. I felt my anxiety level rise. I really hated to fly. Didn’t people realize how peaceful train travel could be? Especially since you don’t leave the ground?

I gulped audibly as the plane reached the runway and began to speed up. I closed my eyes and laid my head back against the seat. I would be fine. I would be fine. I would be...ugh... I hated the feeling of taking off, of the wheels leaving the tarmac, and the clunk of them rolling up into their little cubby up under the aircraft and the sight of this... tube... of people leaving land and traveling through the air. I hadn’t realized I wasn’t breathing until he leaned over to me.

“Are you okay? Do you need an airsick bag?”

“No,” I shot back, heaving like I’d just run a mile. “I’m not sick, I’m terrified. I hate to fly.” I was gripping the arm rests so hard that the steel was digging into my knuckles as the plane climbed in altitude.

“Here. Give me your hand,” he said, prying my fingers from the armrest, holding my small, pale, shaking hand in his warm strong ones. He stroked the back of my hand gently, a callous on his thumb doing amazing things to my toes and surprisingly, it started to work. It probably had nothing to do with the small crush on him that I had been nursing for the past ten years.

“You’ll be fine. Really. I fly all the time. We’ll make it perfectly fine.” His voice was low and soothing, his hands amazingly soft, his touch gentle and calming and I started to breathe, again. When my head cleared (not coincidentally when the plane leveled off and we weren’t shooting into the atmosphere on an incline) I became aware enough to be embarrassed. A deep pink crawled up my chest to my neck and face and I leaned over to one side, burying my face in my free hand, giggling.

“What’s funny? Share.”

“Nothing,” I said, still laughing. “Nothing. I’m just a weak assed idiot, is all.” I sat up and looked over at him, a confused look clouding his handsome features. I squeezed his hand, still holding mine. “Sorry I freaked out. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem,” he said with a nod. “Are you alright, now?”

“Until we land. And then I might scream,” I said with a chuckle. Thankfully, he laughed back. He released my hand as the flight attendant came by. Perky, cute, and short, with brown hair and blue eyes and a southern accent, she asked if we’d like anything to drink or eat. I had to fight a small pang of undeserved jealousy when she smiled brightly at him, winked and drawled, “Hi there, again. Nice seeing you. Your usual?”

He nodded and smiled at her, just a small grin with his mouth and not with his eyes. He smiled at me with his eyes. So there, cute perky girl.

“And you, miss?” Her syrupy sweet smile and probably fake drawl was focused on me.

“Uhm. Just water. Or wait. Sprite. And crackers if you have any?”

“I do. I’ll be right back with your orders.”

She bounced away and I relaxed against the seat, trying to believe how lucky I was to be trapped in this tube in the air next to JC Chasez. I was only slightly ashamed to say that though I was fully grown and no longer a screaming teenager, I still had all of my memorabilia, and truthfully, I still had posters on a wall in my house that I dedicated to the loves of my yesterday. ‘Nsync (and JC Chasez) were represented well. I still followed their careers, as much as a grown person really could or should and still be called sane and even though they hadn’t released music in awhile, I was still a giant fan. And now I was sitting next to one of them, just about ready to pass out from the excitement.

“What’s your name?” I heard, interrupting my stream of consciousness.

“Hm?” I asked, blinking.

He was leaning over in his seat, elbow on the arm rest, hand clenched in a loose fist and wedged under his chin. “Your eyes are pretty. I asked what your name was.”

“Oh. Uhm.” What was my name? “Serena. My name is Serena. And thank you. So are yours.”

Suddenly self conscious, I became preoccupied with the SkyMall magazine, flipping the pages so I wouldn’t stare at him. “I wonder if anyone is ever just sitting on an airplane and sees, like, this caulk spreader thingy and thinks ‘man, I’ve just GOT to have one of these’ and just dials them up right there and orders it.”

“What?” He laughed, a nice chesty laugh, one that I had been known to rewind several times during interviews. “What caulk spreader thingy? I’m retiling my bathroom; I might need one and order it right on up.”

“You are not,” I joked, and then glanced over at him to see if he was serious. He was reading over my shoulder and I pointed at the advertisement.

“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I tried one like that. It sucked. I’m looking for one kind of smaller that gets the corners really well.”

“Oh. Well. If I see one in here, I’ll uh... let you know,” I said, laughing to myself.

“Your Sprite, miss,” said the flight attendant, lowering my tray and setting a glass of ice and a can of Sprite onto the tray. “And your crackers.” She placed a package of square peanut butter on wheat crackers next to the can.

“And your water, sir.” She handed him a bottle of water, so cold that it started to fog up in the warm cabin air. He thanked her and she bounced away. I opened the can of Sprite and poured it into my glass, then tore into the package of crackers.

“Cracker?” I said, as I offered him a square.

“Thank you,” he said, and to my surprise, took it. I was only offering to be polite. I kind of wanted them all. I must have given him a strange look, because he said, “you offered. You want it back?”

“No, that’s okay. I want to hit the hotel and log into my ‘Oh Em Gee, I met JC’ message board and talk about how I shared my crackers with you.”

Cracker dust and water flew out of his mouth and down the front of his zippered sweatshirt. “I could have choked,” he said, still laughing, brushing away crumbs.

“Sorry. I guess me attacking you with my bag isn’t such a big deal now, is it?” I crunched a cracker and winked at him.

“Guess not. You’ve already moved up to trying to kill me. Nice going. So you’re a fan then, I guess.”

“Depends. Do you like fans, or just tolerate them until you can get off the plane?”

“They’re alright,” he said with a shrug. “When they don’t attack me and try to kill me.”

“I’ll try not to kill you again if you promise to hold my hand during landing.” I could not believe my forward self, but I was having fun, and so was he. ‘What the hell?’ I figured. ‘Live a little.’

“It’s a deal. Gimme another cracker.”

“Get your own!” I said, but handed him another square and gulped down my Sprite. It helped to settle my stomach, not only from my flying nerves but from my ‘don’t act like a fan’ nerves.

“So, you know what I do. What do you do, Serena?”

He was lounging back in his seat, head tipped in my direction, much better looking in person than I could ever imagine. I started to launch into the spiel I gave to random people that didn’t care anyway, they were just asking to be polite, but thought better of it. I could imagine that fans, no matter how sweet, could be pests, and I didn’t want to be one.

“You don’t have to talk to me, you know. Sleep or read or listen to music or whatever it is you usually do on flights. I won’t bug you. I was just happy to meet you, is all.” I went back to my Sky Mall magazine and my Sprite and crackers.

“You know,” he said, leaning over, so close I could feel his breath on my skin, “that I don’t share crackers with just anyone. And I wouldn’t have asked your name if I didn’t want to talk to you. I would have just smiled and stared out the window. So what do you do, and you’d better answer or I’ll go home and get on my ‘Oh Em Gee, I met a fan who didn’t talk to me’ message board and write about you.” He was laughing before he finished the sentence, two rows of teeth grinning at me mere inches away.

I laughed, too loud and too long but I couldn’t help it, and covered my mouth with the magazine. He laughed with me, and sat back, hands clasped over his midsection. “So?”

I closed the magazine and set it in my lap. “So, I’m a Product Manager for a software company. We write Voice over Internet Protocol phone software. You know the... internet phone.”

“Right. Okay,” he said. “Now we’re getting somewhere. I get that. So what does a Product Manager do?”

I grinned, and sarcastically answered, “I manage the Product. Duh.”

“Oh, how stupid of me,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Seriously. I only ask if I’m interested. This is a five hour flight. I don’t want to sleep or read. Talk. Really.”

“Okay,” I said, putting the magazine back in its holder and taking a swallow of Sprite, cleverly masking my need to calm my nerves and excitement. “So, my job is to work between the developers and the client. I help to keep the software going in the right direction and make sure my clients get the bells and whistles they ask for. My meeting Monday is with Qwest. We want to sell the software design to a phone company, so they can offer the option to their customers.”

He paid rapt attention, nodding and ‘mmhmm’ ing throughout my explanation. I shrugged when I finished and couldn’t think of anything more to say. I stretched my arms out in front of me, just for something to do.

“So, do you like it?”

I nodded vigorously. “Mmmhmm. Yeah, I like it a lot. Challenging. Fast paced. I love for the day to just scream right by.”

“Challenging, how?” he asked taking a swig of his water.

“Well. In order to manage a product and market it you have to know it. So I had to start low and work my way up, from customer service to Quality Analyst, to where I am now. There are only three of us in my department. It’s a lot of work and I’m the senior person—which is scary, really.”

“I see.”

“You’re so bored. Sorry,” I said, laughing, leaning onto the armrest near the aisle, mindlessly running my fingers through my hair.

“No, no. I’m not bored. It’s interesting. Really. I’m into all that… technology stuff. You seem to love it. That’s cool.”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. ‘I mean, it’s not a perfect job, but it’s pretty good.”

“Sorry to be rude, but... okay money?”

“Oh. I don’t mind. Yeah, the money is good. In a place like Atlanta, too.”

“You like it, there?”

I shrugged. “It’s pretty nice. Nice when you can afford to do the fun things, the higher caliber, higher class activities like art showings and ballet and symphony, or when you have an ‘in’ on concerts and events. Not so much when you’re a poor college student or poor customer service rep. I can hang out at a bar watching Friends reruns in any city in America. You know?”

“Yeah,” he said, picking at a fingernail. “Some cities, it’s like, the same but different. LA feels like Atlanta, feels like Orlando, feels like... I don’t know, Albuquerque. For example. I like to go places where I really feel different. Like, I don’t know, New Orleans. It’s a totally different vibe. Have you been?” He shoved the nail he was picking in his mouth and glanced over at me, an eyebrow raised. It was such an innocent, casual look but it made my heart hit the bottom of my stomach.

I grinned, remembering my last Mardi Gras celebration before Katrina hit. “Yeah. I have been. I don’t know that I remember a whole lot of it, but I was there. The French Quarter, you’re right. It’s amazing. And it does feel different, unlike anywhere else.”

He nodded, falling silent. I hoped he wasn’t going to go to sleep or anything. I was recording the conversation in my mind so I could tell the story later to the two people who would care who I met on the airplane. And they would probably care slightly less than they cared when I met Bono by accident at some party.

“So, if your meeting isn’t until Monday, why are you flying out today? What are you supposed to do all weekend? “

I shrugged. “Airfare was cheaper to come out today than Sunday. I could use a few days off and I’ve never been to LA so I figured I’d spend a few days doing the tourist thing.”

“So, you’re just going to... hang out? Do you know anyone there?” 

“No, I don’t know anyone but yeah-- hang out, do whatever. Prepare. Sit in the sun. Tan a little. Shop. You recommend anyplace fun?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but though better of it and closed it. He glanced out the window at the fluffy pillow of clouds that flanked the wings. “Let me think about it. I’ll see what I can come up with.”

I nodded and leaned back in my seat. I felt a little like I had crossed some kind of invisible line, maybe the pest line, and like he gave me a signal by staring out of the window. I took the cue and closed my eyes, breathing deeply, thinking maybe I could sleep.

I must have drifted off and slept for quite awhile. I was startled when the plane began to lurch and shake. Turbulence, my worst nightmare. I never knew if it was normal, or if the plane was breaking apart in the air. Terrified, I sat bolt upright and gasped, reaching for the nearest thing to grab, which happened to be his knee. He had his tray table down and his Mac laptop out and open, an ear bud in each ear.

“Hey, sleepy,” he said, removing his ear buds. “Just some turbulence. You’re okay,” he said, patting my back.

“Shit,” I said, rubbing my eyes, and then wiping away the tiny beads of sweat that popped up along my forehead. “That scared the shit out of me.” My voice waivered and I felt like I might cry if I could not get a hold on myself.

“You alright, honey?” I loved that he was concerned but I was too busy trying to erase the daydream of this plane going down over a field in Iowa.

I reached under my seat and retrieved my shoulder bag. I was shaking so badly that I couldn’t unzip it, embarrassed and frustrated that I was freaking out next to him. “I’m fine, I’m just...” I yanked the bag open, breaking the zipper, and dug into it for moist towelettes. I pressed one against my face and then against my neck, trying to stop the sweat from popping up and to calm my breath and shaky hands.

“Hey,” I heard softly, next to me. “Come here,” he said, flipping the arm rest between us up and out of the way. I slid my bag back under the seat, clutching the damp cloth in one hand and sat back. He held his hand out and wiggled his fingers as if to say ‘come on’. I placed my hand in his, which then closed around mine. His thumb did that thing where he just rubbed the skin on the back of my hand. I swallowed, and closed my eyes.

“Just take a deep breath and relax. You’re okay.”

I started to calm down, and my breathing slowed, and I stopped sweating. I wiped my forehead with the cloth and blew out a breath. “I’m so embarrassed. Thank you,” I whispered.

“No problem,” he whispered back. “You okay for now?”

“I am,” I said, nodding. “Yeah, I am.”

Sadly, he released my hand and I clasped them both in my lap. I didn’t feel like chatting and flirting with him anymore. I leaned my head away from him and stared down the aisle, just praying for the flight to be over, already. I had met someone I’d dreamed about meeting for years and acted like a complete fool in front of him, not once but twice! He had to be laughing at me in his head, just waiting to tell the ‘crazy fan that kept freaking out on the airplane’ story. I didn’t want to be the crazy fan he would talk about. 

I spent the remainder of the flight in silence. Even through the landing, I closed my eyes and kept my hands in my lap and held my breath. It wasn’t as bad as the take off, and as soon as the lights came on and the seat belt sign turned off, I felt at ease and like I could breathe. I must have looked relieved as I snapped off my seatbelt and picked up my bag from under my seat.

“You look better. See? You made it.”

“Yeah,” I said, distracted by trying to pull my laptop bag out from the overhead cabinet.

“Here, let me grab that for you,” he said, coming behind me.

“I’ve... thank you,” I said, gently pushing his arm back down, “but I’ve got it. I don’t want to hit you again with this so stand back.” I slid the bag out at an angle, as it was stuck behind someone’s carry on suitcase. I made my way off of the airplane, through the jet way and into the airport. Once I reached the terminal, I had no idea where I was going and stopped to look for a sign.

“Baggage Claim is this way, come on,” I heard behind me, and a hand grab my arm, pulling me down the aisle. I looked up into JC’s face and he was almost smiling. Not quite, but almost. His face was friendly, at least.

“Did I offend you, back there? I didn’t mean to, if I did. I was just trying to help.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head, tucking my newly humidified hair behind an ear. ”Oh God, no. Not at all. I—I’m just embarrassed at how bad I was on that flight. I don’t want you to think I was like... trying to act crazy or anything. I really do hate to fly.”

“Okay. You just got quiet. I wanted to make sure I didn’t, like, overstep my boundaries. I liked talking to you.”

“And I, you,” I said, smiling up at him. He smiled back, with his eyes, and we walked together to baggage claim, stood next to each other watching the carousel of luggage crawl past. I saw my ruby red suitcase and stretched forward to grab it. The carousel was moving a bit too quickly and it started to drag me along its course. I felt him behind me, a hand on my back, and then reaching around me to lift the suitcase off of the revolving belt.

“Thank you,” I said, embarrassed again, blushing. I am perfectly capable of doing very normal things. Why could I not manage to act like that in front of him? Why was I a helpless girl all of the sudden? I was touched by how nice and helpful he was being but pissed off at myself for needing his help.

“No problem,” he said, setting the case on end and extending the handle, then reaching past me to grab his own suitcase off of the belt. He extended the handle on his and motioned toward the double doors leaving baggage claim. He stopped short of the door and with a nod of his head, led me to the side, out of the way of other passengers and set his suitcase on end. He looked like he had something to say.

“Uhm. So. This is a terrible idea, and please feel free to say no, because it’s so bad, but… I’m asking anyway.” He chuckled, nervously. “So, I did really like talking to you and I’d like to talk to you more. And, well, you’ll be here just hanging out, so I thought maybe...” He scratched his temple and licked his lips, glancing around, amazingly incognito in black leather jacket, black jeans and a t-shirt.

He seemed to rush to get the rest of his words out before he changed his mind. “I was thinking I could maybe call you and show you some fun places around LA. Since you’re here, anyway. But I don’t want to like, ask for your number in case you don’t want to give it out so...uhm. Well, if it’s okay, I could call you, at your hotel.”

I blinked, and tried to think. Maybe my weekend would be more exciting than I originally thought!

“Uhm,” I said, stalling. “Yeah, that would be okay. Uh…Willis. My last name is Willis. And I’m staying at the Sheraton. South Hope, I think.” I pulled my reservation from my jacket pocket and unfolded it, smoothing out the creases. “Yeah. South Hope.”

“Okay,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Serena Willis at the Sheraton on South Hope. I will call you in your room later. Is that okay? Or is that too weird? You can tell me, if it’s too weird.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” I said, nodding vigorously. “It’s fine. More for me to post on my ‘Oh Em Gee, I met JC’ message board.” I winked quickly and shot him a subdued smile.

“Ahahaha,” he laughed, then sensing he was being watched, whipped around, looking for the secret camera that didn’t seem to be there, but always was. “Will you be okay, getting to your hotel? You need a cab or anything?”

“I’ll catch a cab out here. Thank you, though.”

“Okay. I better go. I’ll call you,” he said, backing away, rolling his suitcase toward the parking deck. I turned on my heel and made my way to ground transportation, trying to breathe and contain any urge to scream.

I stepped into the first cab I could find and gave the driver the address. I eagerly gazed out of the window, enjoying the view—if one could enjoy the view of midday traffic. My phone buzzed inside my bag. Email that had piled up during the flight was starting to roll in. I pulled my Blackberry out of its protective pocket and unlocked it, then scrolled through the entries. Two missed calls and seventeen emails. I’d deal with those when I checked in.

The radio played faintly through the speakers and I smiled. Sheryl Crow, “All I Wanna Do” was a perfect theme for the weekend. I sang along, just under my breath, “..until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard…” I sighed deeply and sank back against the worn fabric seat of the cab and thought about the really weird flight and my possible weekend plans and my meeting on Monday. Too much going on, at one time!

The cab pulled in front of the Sheraton hotel and the driver stepped out to retrieve my bag from the trunk. I paid him and walked through the revolving door to the front desk to check in, then took the elevator to my room. I glanced around the spacious and simple, comfortable design. A stately queen bed was the focal point, piled with a mountain of pillows.  A small table stood in front of a bank of windows, a chair and an ottoman sat in one corner, and in the opposite corner was a small work station that would get a lot of use. The requisite large color cable TV was hidden behind the doors of a wooden entertainment center. I set my shoulder bag and laptop there and stood at the window. The curtains were closed, so I drew them open and stared at the LA skyline. Atlanta was nice but LA... wow. I could only dream of living there.

I turned around to inspect the rest of the room, digging my travel sized sanitizer out of my bag and wiping down the desk, the phone, the remote and the door handle. It was odd, but I had watched too much of John Stossel’s 20/20 Investigations on germs in hotels.

I’d been awake since six am, and I wanted to freshen up. A shower was in order, so I picked up my suitcase and dumped it onto the bed and zipped it open. My Blackberry buzzed inside my bag, and flipped it up quickly to check the display. I squealed as I realized it was one of my girlfriends, Melissa, and picked up the call.

“Hey girl, I just got to the hotel,” I said, cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear, digging for my bluetooth. “Hang on, I’m trying to find my headset thing.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” her soft Tennessee accent drawled. “I was just checking to make sure you made it and got checked in and everything. How was the flight?”

“Not bad. I still freaked out, but not bad,” I answered, inwardly cringing at my behavior. “I’ll have to share more, later. Right now I want to get a shower and change my clothes, maybe find something to eat.”

“Okay, well if you need any suggestions, let me know. I’ll have Jen call you, she practically lives out there.”

“Thanks babe, I’ll call you later. Bye.” I disconnected the call and smiled to myself. It was nice of Melissa to check on me—she knew I hated to fly and that I would probably have a hard time with the long flight. She tried to offer me a relaxant but I declined. I was much better on this flight than I’d been on a flight with her to Vegas. Every bump of the plane made me want to scream, and when we hit turbulence, it was everything I could do to not rip my seat cushion up and brace for landing. I really could be overly dramatic when I wanted to be.

I gathered my shower kit and skipped to the bathroom, turning the hot water on full spray, adjusting the cold to cool it a little and standing under it. I let the strong water pressure beat down on my back, smoothing out the tension from the day, the flight, and Oh God, the Embarrassing Incident. I mean, could I have acted like more of a freak? I prayed that he was serious about calling, and that if he was serious about calling, that my usual level headed, confident, fun, sexy-flirty self would return. This weepy helpless girl would not do.

I scrubbed the dirt of the day off of my body, washed and conditioned my hair, rinsed and got out, wrapping one soft, fluffy towel around my body and one soft, fluffy towel around my hair. Barefoot, I padded out of the bathroom. The room was cool in comparison to the steamy bathroom and goose bumps began to form on my skin. I shivered, and holding the towel onto my head, picked out a pair of loose jeans and, judging from the heat, a thin, sheer blouse with ¾ sleeves and a white tank top to go underneath it. I was giddy that I was going to get to wear my sandals—it had been past sandals weather in Atlanta for a few months—so I picked out the pair I’d only worn a few times, the ones with the strap that went over the big toe and were very, very cute with jeans.

I bent to toss them onto the floor next to the bed when I noticed a faint blinking light in my periphery. I eyed the phone suspiciously, watching the red light blink on, off, on, off. ‘You can’t hear the message by staring at it. PICK IT UP!’ I thought to myself. Still holding the towel to my head, I picked up the phone and followed the instructions to hear my message.

“Hello, Serena Willis, at the Sheraton South Hope,” came a smooth voice that I could hear smiling on the other end. “I am calling you but you’re not picking up, which is okay, I guess. So, if you wanted to maybe meet for drinks or something, later I’d be up to that. I could tell you where to go, or pick you up or... well, we could meet at the bar at your hotel, if you want. Whatever you’re comfortable with. So. I guess I have to, uhm, give you my number.” He paused, like he didn’t want to give it out, and I kind of hoped that he didn’t leave it on the voicemail. I listened further, and as I hoped, he didn’t. He just said he would call back in about an hour and hung up.

Drinks! With someone whose poster was, yes, still hanging on my wall! If was dreaming, I didn’t want to wake up, anytime soon. I moved back to the pile of clothing and finished getting dressed, dried my hair, and reapplied a light layer of makeup. I didn’t want to look slutty, so not a lot. Just enough to enhance. While I applied clear gel to my brows, I remembered him saying ‘your eyes are pretty’ and blushed. I stared into my grey eyes in the mirror. I hadn’t really ever noticed them. I was really more concerned about my nose. I had classic Greek features, which often included a big nose. Everyone seemed to like it but me. I was determined not to obsess about it, though, and capped the brow gel, tossing it into my makeup bag.

I unpacked my laptop and powered it up, thinking I could check some email while I waited for him to call back. I logged into the network and connected to the email system, diving into addressing a few simple questions and forwarding feature requests from current clients. An hour later I was still buried when the shrill ring of the telephone interrupted, startling me. Taking a deep breath, I reached for the phone and out of habit, answered ‘This is Serena’, tucking the phone between my shoulder and my ear, the same way I’d answer at work.

“Hello, Serena,” came that soft voice. I smiled and my fingers stopped typing. “Hi. I’m sorry I missed your call; I had to get a shower in. Thanks for calling back.”

“Yeah, no problem. Sorry to be so... you know. I just didn’t want to leave my number in case anyone was listening to the messages.”

“Oh, that’s not a big deal. I was hoping you wouldn’t leave your number anyway. I mean—“ I sighed, exasperated. Here I go, again! “I didn’t mean it that way. Just, for the same reason.”

“I know, I didn’t think that, silly,” he teased, a light undercurrent of laughter in his voice. “So. Drinks. Did you decide what you want? “

“Uhm, yes. I would like for you to come get me and take me to wherever you like to go have a good drink on a Friday night. Is that okay?”

“Yeah. Yep. That is more than okay. How about... nothing’s really going on until around ten. We could eat and then go for drinks. If you want? I just don’t want to tell you ten o’clock. It’s like three, right now.”

“I have no plans, JC. Whatever is easiest for you.” I still couldn’t believe I was going out with him—if he said midnight, I’d be ready.

“Great. So, I’m going to give you my phone number. I don’t want it to get past you, and by that I mean don’t give it out and don’t let anyone find it. Got me?”

“Gotcha,” I said with a grin, copying down the number he recited. I gave him mine, and he said he would call me when he was on the way and to meet him outside the hotel at 8:30. I promised to be ready.

“Seriously, none of that ‘I just need to shower and get dressed, come up and wait’ shit. I mean it, be ready.”

“Oh aren’t we demanding? I’ll be ready. You be on time.”

“I promise. See you in a few,” he said, and then the line went dead. I hung up the phone and sat back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling. Was this actually happening?

The ‘ding’ of the laptop announced a new email had arrived. I checked the time—it was just after 3pm. To pass the time, I went back to work.

###