“You’re right. Of course you’re right,” he says.
He throws away the cards, strides into the yoga studio, takes off his shoes, and does the best yoga pose Cassie’s ever seen.
“Your downward dog is so good,” she says.
“I’ve been practicing for years,” he says huskily.
“Yoga?”
“No, to ask you to have dinner with me.”
Hearts flutter, but she doesn’t say yes to dinner. That would be too easy.
Hours later, I close the laptop and get ready to see the source of my inspiration.
6
Tom
My phone buzzes with a text.
Ransom: Give me all the deets.
Me: In a nutshell: Wrong Girl.
Ransom: NOOOOOO. But holy shit. That’s awful and awesome at the same time. I need more details. Please tell me Wrong Girl caught everything on video.
Me: If there’s a God, she did not.
Ransom: I pray there’s no God, then. So what happened with Wrong Girl? Was she so moved by your awesome grand gesturing that she decided to take up with you for the rest of her life?
Me: She bought me an iced tea.
Ransom: Huh.
Me: Huh, what?
Ransom: Huh. I have no clue what that means, and I’m usually good at understanding women.
Me: Same here.
* * *
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
But do I need that much help? I’m not some hapless twit who has no clue about women, like Finley suggested. I’ve had my fair share. I’ve made sure I never have to worry about someone pulling a Sally-at-the-diner on me.
Plus, I get along great with the ladies—of all ages.
Take the hyper-serious Midge Waterson. She’s known for rarely cracking a smile, but she’s smiling in our meeting as we review the recent sandbag trials I ran for the Space Blaster. That’s when we test rides with sandbags instead of people.
“And all sandbags were tall enough to ride the ride,” I say to Midge, my new contact at the standards organization that oversees thrill rides. She’s grinning now, so clearly I know something about how to interact with the fairer sex. Fine, this is work-related, but the lessons still apply.
“Were they all well-behaved?”
“I’m happy to report they screamed their lungs out—or would have, if they had any.”
“Screaming is a sign of a top-notch ride. Good screaming, that is.” She peers down her sharp, straight nose at the report, reviewing final details of how the ride fared with sandbag thrill seekers. After nodding her satisfaction, she looks up at me with curious gray eyes. “You’re awfully young to be doing this. Were you a roller-coaster kid? The kind who dragged his parents to all the rides?”
I scoff playfully. “Roller Coaster Tycoon, right here. As soon as I turned on the Xbox, I was determined to build the best park.”
She laughs. “That video game brought more people into the business than anything else. Everyone thinks they can do anything once they play a video game. If that were the case, I’d be in the NBA, thanks to NBA 2K18. But you actually can build fantastic rides.”
“Thank you. And I’m sure your jump shot is fantastic, Midge.”
“You’re sweet to say that.” She rises and offers a hand to shake across the conference room table. “By the way, I have a daughter about your age. She’s a math teacher. Lovely young lady.”
“You must be proud of her.”
“Very much so.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and clears her throat. “It must be so tough to meet like-minded people. Do you find that to be the case?”
I scratch my jaw. “Not really. I meet engineers all the time.”
“I meant female ones,” she says with an apologetic smile. “Especially smart, pretty, and single ones.”
I wave off her concerns about the field. “Nah. Engineering isn’t a boys’ club like when I was in school. Even in the last few years, there are so many more women coming into it.”
Her brow knits, and she takes a beat. “And you find meeting women is easy?”
I shrug happily. I’m not entirely sure why she’s asking, but her concern is sweet. “Sure. I met a new woman just last night.”
Too bad Finley’s not the one I went looking for, but I’m confident the Cassandra Quest simply swerved down a detour last night, and I’ll find the way back to her soon. I did some more digging last night, made a few calls to her various yoga studios, and found out she’s leading a retreat for her studio somewhere in San Diego. That must mean she’s unplugged for a few days, which gives me time to recalibrate and devise a new plan.
I say goodbye to Midge and hop into my car to return to Hope Falls where I’m staying for a few days to tend to meetings. As I turn on the engine, I noodle again on what went wrong last night, like it’s a math problem I can solve if I find the right formula.
Did I go too big?
Did I plan poorly?
Or were there too many holes in the plan?
Is it possible I don’t truly know Cassie? Sure, it’s been eight years since I knew her, but we were tight in college, even before we dated. We went to the food trucks in Berkeley, hung out at the school’s basketball games, and kissed for the first time after The Social Network, which released my sophomore year. We went out for late-night sushi, and after edamame and hamachi rolls, Cassie and I ventured to the crepe dealer where we shared a cinnamon sugar crepe. We stopped in front of a T-shirt shop on the edge of campus, sharing a cinnamon sugar kiss.
We shared more the night of her dance performance.
First love, first girlfriend, and first time. She was clever and kind, always had a thoughtful word for others, and laughed at my jokes.
Hell, maybe I should simply call Cassie. I’ve spent the last several years bettering myself, fixing the areas where I failed, and shoring things up elsewhere too, just in case.
A few weeks ago, I stumbled across an online ad for the Honey Sticks, her favorite band. They’d broken up, ironically, shortly after we had. But they’d reunited and had gone on tour. The tour was leaving California, but the seed was planted. If the band could get back together, surely we could too. That’s why I decided to go for it again with her, with a nod of sorts to the way I asked her out in the first place.
But maybe I should go simpler. Do the whole standard reconnection thing, like you hear couples talk about when they share how they met. Oh, my college boyfriend reached out to me out of the blue, and naturally we hit it off again, just like old times.
It isn’t my first choice for contacting her, but I guess this is the one option I have now. I open her Facebook profile and tap out a message.
Hey Cassie! Remember me? I haven’t forgotten you either. We had the best time back in the day, and I took your advice to heart. I’m ready now to try again, just like the Honey Sticks. Want to get a bite to eat sometime soon and listen to “Unzipped”? I’ll find a place that has great cinnamon sugar crepes near you. :)
I read it again, pleased with myself. Hell, that’s a damn good note. Except for that stupid smiley face. I’ll delete that right now.
Done.
I re-read it, picturing the reunion playing out. I’ll drive down the coast and meet her for a bite to eat. But as I stare at the draft, something nags at me. This note is a tree that falls in the forest.
Does it make a sound or not?
See, I won’t know, because it’s a one-way deal. I want to see her in person, talk to her, have a real-time conversation. I don’t want to fire off a shot in the dark and wonder if she read it, laughed at it, deleted it.
Or worse. What if I send this and my note lands in her spam folder? She’ll never know my intentions, and I’ll never know hers.
That’s an echo in the dark.
I delete the draft.
I back away from the curb and hit play on a new episode of a podcast on the greatest heists of the century, my eyes nearly popping when the host details a daring escape where the thieves made off with ten million dollars in diamonds.
I make my way back to the hotel, and as I drive, my gaze snaps to the side of the road. I yank my car over immediately, checking out the view across the front yards, lined with junk sculptures.
Farmers drive tractors. A rabbit races. A man rides a cow. A mermaid rises from the sea, and a surfer hangs ten.