I’m a high school groupie.
“Journalism? You aren’t going to write about me, are you? I’d rather you didn’t.” It was his turn to sound uncomfortable.
I laughed—a skittish giggle really. “I wasn’t there for a story. I actually know that about you. There are no pictures on your book jackets and you rarely give interviews. You don’t even have a photo on your website.” Stop talking, Stalker.
But I kept on. “I expected you to look different, older—gray hair, black glasses. You’re surprisingly young.”
Eyebrow hike again.
“I’m Samantha Moore.” After all my lunacy, I thought introductions were in order. I reached out my hand and for a second he simply stared at it—so I blabbed on. “I’m sorry I ran into you and I’m not a stalker, I promise.”
“I didn’t think that.” He took my hand and forced a thin smile. “No worries.”
I didn’t scare him too much, because a minute later he asked me to grab a coffee with him. Once outside, I stopped and took a deep gulp of air. I thought I might hyperventilate. I know he heard me, but he didn’t say anything. As I led himtoward the Starbucks in Norris, we got sidetracked and wandered around campus for about fifteen minutes. He went to school here, but I gather new buildings have popped up in the last few years.
Did you get that? He graduated from NU and is only about thirty years old. My image of him was definitely older, but after that it was vague. I was always more entranced by the hero than the author. His detective, Cole Barker, is my Darcy, Wentworth, Rochester, Bond, and Hunt—all the great men, dressed in jeans and a black jacket.
Alex is very different from that. Cole, in my mind, has dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses and is super-fit. Hollywood followed that idea in the movie. Alex embodies all that, but differently. He’s got the firm jaw and he’s tall (like six foot four tall), but his eyes aren’t dark and they’re not hidden behind glasses. They’re deep blue and actually snap. When he looks at you, it feels like he’s studying you, focusing energy on you, and all this connects in his eyes. It was intimidating at first, and I got self-conscious. I stammered and resorted to my fallback friends: a quick amalgam of Lizzy Bennet and Edmond Dantes gave me my voice back. Then I was able to laugh. Talking to him became easy, and soon I quit thinking about my characters at all. After we bought a couple coffees, we wandered back outside and he turned toward town.
“I’m meeting an old professor at Barnes and Noble in a few minutes. Are you heading that way?”
“No.”
“Then it was nice to meet you, Samantha.” He put out his hand to shake mine.
I looked at it a moment and realized I didn’t want to saygood-bye. How often do you get to meet one of your literary heroes? And most of mine are dead. “I’ll walk with you. I can get some work done at the Starbucks across the street.”
“You have a coffee in your hand.”
“Oh . . .” I wanted to run. I had clearly used up all my social skills. But I also felt more myself than I had felt in months, and I didn’t want it to end. Alex hadn’t asked me lots of personal questions, so I hadn’t lied to him. He hadn’t treated me as insignificant, so I let my guard down. And Lizzy and Edmond and all the rest had silently slipped away. No one was yelling in my head. No one even whispered. My processing all this must have played across my face.
“Are you okay?” he said.
“I am.” I was completely amazed, exhilarated, and alarmed. So you can see why I wanted to run and why I wanted to stay. “Just realized that two coffees would be a bit much.”
“Buy a decaf. Come on.” And he started walking toward town. I followed.
When Alex discovered how much I loved to read, he suggested a game. He proposed we quote from a book, no movies allowed, and the first one stumped, lost.
And I won! It took about ten quotes, but I foiled him with “Wait and hope.” He
“Journalism? You aren’t going to write about me, are you? I’d rather you didn’t.” It was his turn to sound uncomfortable.
I laughed—a skittish giggle really. “I wasn’t there for a story. I actually know that about you. There are no pictures on your book jackets and you rarely give interviews. You don’t even have a photo on your website.” Stop talking, Stalker.
But I kept on. “I expected you to look different, older—gray hair, black glasses. You’re surprisingly young.”
Eyebrow hike again.
“I’m Samantha Moore.” After all my lunacy, I thought introductions were in order. I reached out my hand and for a second he simply stared at it—so I blabbed on. “I’m sorry I ran into you and I’m not a stalker, I promise.”
“I didn’t think that.” He took my hand and forced a thin smile. “No worries.”
I didn’t scare him too much, because a minute later he asked me to grab a coffee with him. Once outside, I stopped and took a deep gulp of air. I thought I might hyperventilate. I know he heard me, but he didn’t say anything. As I led himtoward the Starbucks in Norris, we got sidetracked and wandered around campus for about fifteen minutes. He went to school here, but I gather new buildings have popped up in the last few years.
Did you get that? He graduated from NU and is only about thirty years old. My image of him was definitely older, but after that it was vague. I was always more entranced by the hero than the author. His detective, Cole Barker, is my Darcy, Wentworth, Rochester, Bond, and Hunt—all the great men, dressed in jeans and a black jacket.
Alex is very different from that. Cole, in my mind, has dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses and is super-fit. Hollywood followed that idea in the movie. Alex embodies all that, but differently. He’s got the firm jaw and he’s tall (like six foot four tall), but his eyes aren’t dark and they’re not hidden behind glasses. They’re deep blue and actually snap. When he looks at you, it feels like he’s studying you, focusing energy on you, and all this connects in his eyes. It was intimidating at first, and I got self-conscious. I stammered and resorted to my fallback friends: a quick amalgam of Lizzy Bennet and Edmond Dantes gave me my voice back. Then I was able to laugh. Talking to him became easy, and soon I quit thinking about my characters at all. After we bought a couple coffees, we wandered back outside and he turned toward town.
“I’m meeting an old professor at Barnes and Noble in a few minutes. Are you heading that way?”
“No.”
“Then it was nice to meet you, Samantha.” He put out his hand to shake mine.
I looked at it a moment and realized I didn’t want to saygood-bye. How often do you get to meet one of your literary heroes? And most of mine are dead. “I’ll walk with you. I can get some work done at the Starbucks across the street.”
“You have a coffee in your hand.”
“Oh . . .” I wanted to run. I had clearly used up all my social skills. But I also felt more myself than I had felt in months, and I didn’t want it to end. Alex hadn’t asked me lots of personal questions, so I hadn’t lied to him. He hadn’t treated me as insignificant, so I let my guard down. And Lizzy and Edmond and all the rest had silently slipped away. No one was yelling in my head. No one even whispered. My processing all this must have played across my face.
“Are you okay?” he said.
“I am.” I was completely amazed, exhilarated, and alarmed. So you can see why I wanted to run and why I wanted to stay. “Just realized that two coffees would be a bit much.”
“Buy a decaf. Come on.” And he started walking toward town. I followed.
When Alex discovered how much I loved to read, he suggested a game. He proposed we quote from a book, no movies allowed, and the first one stumped, lost.
And I won! It took about ten quotes, but I foiled him with “Wait and hope.” He
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