Those words burned like acid, and he sagged backward against the back of the chair.
But Leah sat up, leaned toward him. “The thing is, there was a time . . . a long period of time . . . that I would have fallen on my knees and given everything I had for you to take me back. But . . . but you disappeared, and I didn’t have that option, so I had to bury it,” she said, gesturing to herself. “Just . . . bury everything, because everything had died. All the love and trust and faith I had in you just died, and I buried it, and I can’t resurrect it now. I don’t think I have the strength to even try. It’s really asking too much of me.”
That was it, then. He’d hoped, and he’d lost. “I understand,” he said wearily. With another sigh, he reached down to the small bag he’d brought inside, and put it on the table between them. “I got this for you.” He shoved the bag toward her. “Just a small reminder . . . that I love you.” His voice trailed off, and he leaned back, unable to finish his thought. Now everything seemed like a reminder of how he’d ruined her life.
Leah took the bag and opened it. Her face lit up at the sight of the little origami bird, and she carefully extracted it from the bag and put it on the table. “Oh my God,” she said softly. “It’s beautiful. Where did you find it?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said sullenly.
She leaned forward, examining the intricate folds. She spied the rolled-up note he’d lodged beneath the bird’s wing, and carefully extracted it. Now Michael groaned—in a flush of dreamy love, he had penned a godawful poem, just like he used to do. It was a joke between them. He’d write awful poems and leave them on Post-It notes around her apartment and his, or call up and recite them into her voice mail. In hindsight, it seemed completely moronic.
She unrolled the note and read it, and Michael winced. Roses are red, Violets are blue, I would walk over fire to come back to you. God, how lame. He honestly had not realized he could be such a sentimental jerk. He turned in his chair and looked out over the parking lot, unwilling and unable to see her laugh or roll her eyes, whatever she did when she read that lame note. He was five years too late for this crap, and as soon as he figured that out, they’d both be a lot—
“Michael, it’s so sweet,” she said.
Wait a minute. That was sincerity in her voice. He risked a look at her from the corner of his eye. She was holding the origami in her hand, admiring the craftsmanship. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Absolutely beautiful.” She put it down and showed him the rolled up note, which she tucked into her sports bra. “You always did know how to make me smile,” she said, and smiled fully then, knocking him back on his heels with the force of it. “Okay, look. I don’t want to go back . . . but maybe we could at least be friends?”
Whoa. Was she serious? Hope picked itself up, brushed itself off, and spoke carefully. “Maybe we could try and hang out a little? Just a little. And if it’s too uncomfortable, or it looks like you can’t find your way back . . . then at least we can say we gave it a shot.”
She thought about it a moment, and after what seemed hours rather than moments, she nodded. “I guess we could try that.”
He felt a wave of relief. “How’s this,” he said, his heart pounding with sheer delight. “We could start with a really good date. One date. There is a movie premiere Friday night, which is a little unusual, but they are accommodating James Cameron’s schedule.”
Her eyes widened. “James Cameron? The James Cameron, the director?”
“Yep, the same James Cameron. We worked his film, The Hero. So I’d love to take you to dinner and a movie premiere.”
“Oh, wow, Michael,” she said, smiling broadly. “That’s great . . . but I don’t have anything to wear to a movie premiere.”
“I have something for you to wear.”
“You have something for me to wear?” She laughed again. “You’ve changed in ways I hadn’t imagined.”
“I have a friend who does costuming for major motion pictures. She has several gowns, clothes that didn’t make the movie for whatever reason. I know she could put you in something that would knock L.A.’s socks off.”
“Really?” she asked, her eyes lighting up at the thought of it. “Oh man, I don’t know,” she started, but he reached across the table and grabbed her hand.
“Just . . . just give me a chance, Leah. Give me a chance to prove to you how much I want you.”
Her eyes roamed his face, and then a slow, but definite smile spread her lips, and for the first time in five years, she squeezed his hand. “Okay.”
For a moment there, Michael believed he could soar.