Layover Rules

Chapter Twenty-One



Fifteen minutes later I was standing outside the New York Public Library. There was a notice on the door, printed on a simple white piece of paper with black ink, announcing Sam’s book signing appearance.

It was just before seven, so I had a few minutes before his reading and signing event began.

Once inside, I found the poster for the event. Sam’s book signing and talk was part of a fundraiser for the New York City Public Libraries. Admission was ten dollars.

I didn’t know if he would be walking around the library mingling with people, or waiting in the wings somewhere, but I didn’t want to risk him seeing me, so once again I found myself hiding at the end of an aisle, looking down into an open book.

I was just outside the doors to the auditorium, and from my vantage point at the end of the aisle lined with packed shelves, I could see inside—a podium on the stage in a pool of light. Off to the left, out of the spotlight, I could make out a couple of chairs with a small table between them that held a couple of bottles of water.

I planned to go in to the event and see him. That’s all. Well, maybe I’d go through the book signing line. Wait for everyone else to finish and be last, like that first time. That wouldn’t be so bad.

It would certainly be better than hunting him down backstage somehow and begging him to hear me out. Two of the saddest words I’d ever heard in the movies, when people were pleading for someone to give them a second chance, were: “Come back.” Usually spoken through tears, in a raspy voice, sometimes nearly shouting.

I didn’t want to be that person.

People were filing in to the auditorium, but I stayed back, still not quite sure what I was going to do, but quickly running out of time to decide, so I just went with my gut, hoping it would work out somehow.

I got in the line, paid my ten bucks to get in, and sat in the last row of the auditorium. The house lights were already dim, and it was a good distance from the stage, so I figured I was safe there.

A man in a suit came out from stage right, walked to the podium and introduced himself as the events coordinator for the NYC Public Libraries. He thanked everyone for coming, and then spoke for a couple of minutes about the fund-raising effort.

When he got around to introducing Sam, he mentioned that he had been at Yankee Stadium the night Sam suffered his career-ending injury.

When Sam came out, he was wearing jeans and a fleece pullover, ever the casual guy. The audience gave him a warm welcome.

He began with a baseball joke that I didn’t get, then moved on to reading a passage from his book.

It was the embarrassing story of him taking the ball out on the field with him in his glove, and trying to catch a fly ball, only to have both balls fall out of his glove. It was in his book, just like he’d said the night he told me the story.

He read another passage, this one another anecdote from his childhood, but not the wishing well story he’d told me. That one was a secret, like my imaginary boyfriend story I’d told him.

As I sat there watching and listening to him, I alternated between nervousness about talking to him again, and complete calm when I told myself I knew I wanted to be with him and I would do whatever it took, no matter how foolish it might make me look, just for the opportunity to tell him I thought he should give us a chance.

That’s all I wanted. A chance at a chance.

Sam talked about the end of his career, and then ended with his stock conclusion: “You’ll never have another today.”

There was a lot of applause, and I joined in.

The library’s Events Coordinator came to the podium and explained how the question and answer session would work. There were two microphones, one in each of the two aisles, about halfway down. “If you have a question, please line up, and please try to be brief so others can have a chance. Thank you.”

A few people went to each microphone as Sam moved out from behind the lectern, attaching a microphone to his shirt so he could walk around the stage freely.

I sunk down in my seat, worried that he would spot me.

The first question came from a young boy who wore a Yankees cap and jacket. He was seeking advice on how to improve his swing.

Sam went through the basics—holding the bat level when you swing, following through, etc.—and added, “You just want to make contact. That’s the main thing. But if you’re swinging for the fences, you’ll want to hit it hard, and if you need inspiration for that…just imagine you’re swinging at…” He paused and smiled. “Never mind, I don’t want to get you in trouble. Or myself.”

The boy smiled, the audience laughed.

Sam answered question after question, as more people lined up at the microphones.

I listened until I became distracted by an idea that struck me after he answered a question from a girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. It was along the lines of a question I’d heard another woman ask him at a previous book signing: “I brought my little brother here”—she pointed to the boy and I saw that it was the same one who had asked about his swing earlier—“and I know nothing about baseball, and I can’t believe I’m standing here, but are you single?”

The audience responded with laughs.

I looked over to where the little boy was sitting and he had pulled the bill of his hat down over his face.

“I am,” Sam said, pacing the stage.

“Are you having tryouts?” the girl asked.

More laughter, and the little brother sank down in his seat. I was surprised he didn’t run out of the auditorium. I was embarrassed for her, making a fool out of herself, but at the same time kind of admiring her for the gutsy move.

“I’m not holding tryouts,” Sam said, with a friendly tone. “I’m, ah…” He paused, rubbed his chin, and it was obvious he was putting a lot of thought into what he was going to say next. “Well, let’s just say I’m not in any hurry.”

It was those words that caused me to stand and make my way to the microphone. There was nobody waiting at the one on my aisle, and as I stepped toward it, my pulse raced. Was I really about to do this?

Yes. I had to.

Sam was looking at the person speaking into the microphone on the other aisle, an elderly man who was going on about the 1927 Yankees, and how his father had taken him to see them.

Whatever he was saying faded out. Or, rather, I tuned it out. I fixed my eyes on Sam, watching him take a step toward the end of the stage, the spotlight following him, and he answered the man’s question while I tried to get mine straight in my head.

I don’t know how much time passed. Twenty seconds? Three minutes? It doesn’t matter. It was enough to allow me to get so lost in what I was going to say that I didn’t realize it was my turn.

I looked up and saw Sam. He had moved to the side of the stage closer to my aisle.

I stood there, about thirty rows up, the microphone in front of my face, and me…silent.

“Sorry,” I said. I cleared my throat involuntarily and heard it echo from the speakers. “A few minutes ago you said you aren’t in a hurry.”

I stopped, waiting for him to acknowledge it. Maybe with a word. Maybe a nod. Something. Anything. But he just stood there, looking back at me.

I continued: “I wanted to ask why you’re not in a hurry when your motto is ‘You’ll never have another today.’”

Looking away from Sam and around the audience, I realized that most people were looking at me, and those who weren’t had already started to turn in their seats to see who was asking such a confrontational question.

Sam didn’t answer right away. Again, he took a few seconds to gather his thoughts and he paced a little. It dawned on me that he had done that only twice during the Q&A session—both times in response to questions about his love life.

“Well,” he finally said, “you can’t force something like that, especially if the other person doesn’t want to open up.’”

I kept looking at him, but I could sense hundreds of pairs of eyes on me. There was no doubt that what he’d said was directed at me. There I stood, taking a chance, and feeling vulnerable, which is how I thought it would go, so I kept going.

I held the mic a little too close to my mouth, causing an ear-splitting feedback screech. I pulled it away and said, “Sorry.” Turning my eyes back to Sam, I said, “So ‘You’ll never have another day’ comes with an expiration? You can just give up?”

Heads swiveled back to Sam, as the crowd went quiet again.

By then I had noticed a few cell phones and digital cameras being held up above the heads in the audience.

I thought: Oh, God, this is going to end up on YouTube. You’re not really doing this are you? Yes, yes you are. Keep going….

I could see the beginning of a smile on his face. It was in his eyes. And it seemed like forever before he spoke.

“I don’t think there’s a fixed time for giving up. I think you can tell pretty quickly whether trying is worth it or not. Especially if the other person tells you not once, but twice, that they don’t want to try. Or that they’d rather have an imaginary boyfriend.”

“That was supposed to be a secret,” I blurted out, then looked at the audience, horrified that I’d just admitted to something like that. I looked back at Sam. “Sort of like your wishing well.” I turned back to the audience. “He didn’t tell you this, but—”

“They don’t care about that,” he said.

I looked back at him.

He continued: “And we’re talking about us now. Giving and taking. That can’t occur when one person is hiding something pretty significant.”

My chest tightened and I held my breath, which only served to make me feel even more nervous. I wasn’t going to let it get me, despite the fact that we were discussing something personal into microphones, our voices amplified throughout the auditorium, and the hundreds of people in attendance had to know what they were witnessing.

His words cut deep because they were true. It’s what I had done. He was right.

“Twice. You’re right. I did tell you twice that I didn’t want something more than what we had.” I thought about what to say and it came to me instantly. “You’re a baseball guy. And even though I don’t know a lot about sports, I think you could say that’s only two strikes. So there’s one left, right?”

There was a lot of mumbling coming from the crowd and I took it as their approval. Maybe they were siding with me.

“Two strikes,” Sam repeated, biting his lower lip, telegraphing the fact that I got him with that line.

I glanced out over the people and saw more cell phones and digital cameras going up.

“Two strikes,” he repeated, as he descended the steps from the stage to the aisle.

I didn’t say anything. He was walking toward me, slowly but determined.

People were no longer just turning their heads toward me, they were turning in their seats. Some on the outer parts of the auditorium were even standing. And more cell phones were documenting all of this. Yep, it was going to be on YouTube by the end of the night. The little boy whose sister asked the question that urged me to go the microphone was probably glad he was no longer the center of attention.

When he finally got to me, he said, “The third strike could have been a judgment call.”

I looked at him, a confused expression on my face.

He explained, “I could have called a third strike when I found out your other big secret, not the imaginary boyfriend, but the very real ex-boyfriend.”

I glared at him. He was holding nothing back. Pushing me.

The audience was getting restless, probably wanting to know what he meant.

I gave Sam a pleading look and as I watched him through my increasingly tear-filled, blurry eyes, I saw that he got my unspoken message: Get me out of here.

Sam turned toward the crowd and said, “Excuse us. I’ll be right back.”

He grabbed my hand and led me up the aisle. The audience mumbling got louder, some were booing in protest to our leaving. Who would want to miss a show like this?

Sam was walking so fast that I could only keep up with him because he was pulling me. He pushed through the doors that led to the hallway, and as we exited the auditorium, I heard the host of the event saying, “I’m sorry about this, folks. I’m sure it will just be a few minutes.”

Sam led me around a corner, to a short unlit hallway. There were two office doors on one side, and what appeared to be a side door to the auditorium.

He backed me up against the wall, his face serious, then breaking into a slight grin. “Two strikes. Nice one. I was afraid you were going to say I have no balls.”

Almost simultaneously, I heard his voice over the speakers, coming through the door along with the raucous laughter of the audience.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up his forehead as he realized that he’d left his remote microphone on.

He grabbed for the battery pack attached to his belt, fumbled with it for a few seconds, trying to turn it off, and finally tore the mic from his shirt and threw the whole device down the hallway.

“Talk to me,” he said.

“I miss you.”

He shook his head. “Not good enough. What’s going on?”

I blurted out, “I haven’t been fair to you.”

His jaw clenched.

“And I haven’t been fair to myself,” I added. “But you know what? You haven’t been fair to me, either. I had nothing to do with the invest—”

“I know,” he said, cutting me off. “It was never about that, Blair. It was a pretty damn big thing you kept from me. You should have told me from the start. You should have trusted me.”

I nodded. “I know that now.” My voice trailed off. “I know I don’t deserve another chance—”

He cut me off, putting a finger to my lips. “You haven’t told me about your pain, but I saw it all along. And I wasn’t exactly fair to you either, pressuring you. That’s why I’ve been giving you space.”

I shook my head, slowly, about to tell him I didn’t need space. But all that came out was sobbing. Sam reached up, put his hands on the sides of my face and wiped the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs.

“I wanted to fight for you, Blair. But I wasn’t going to chase you if you were only going to run away faster.”

“I’ll tell you everything,” I said, regaining my composure. “Every bit of it.”

He looked at me, searching my eyes, and I assumed he was looking for sincerity. He had to find it, because I’d never been as serious about anything as I was at that moment.

“I have to finish this event,” he said. “You can tell me when I’m done. But right now I just need to know one thing.”

I held my breath as I waited for him to say what it was. He was quiet, though, drawing out the silence, and I was afraid he was going to ask me something about the FBI, or if I’d ever had a fling on the road like we’d had, or…well, all kinds of awful possibilities ran through my mind in the few seconds we stood there in silence.

Finally, he said: “Promise me there will be no more rules. Ever.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding, and collapsed into him, throwing my arms around his neck. My face was buried in his shoulder, so my voice came out muffled. “No rules.”

He kissed me and said, “No matter what you tell me later, I’m not letting you chase me off. You’ll have to try much harder next time to get rid of me.”

I couldn’t imagine doing that. Not after all we had shared. Not after what I had learned about myself, thanks to Sam.

Not for any reason.



. . . . .



An hour later, after waiting for Sam in the back row of the auditorium while he signed books, we were walking out of the library together. Sam stopped on the last step. “So, I was thinking we should go somewhere we’ve never been to before.”

I smiled up at him. “Thanks to the old rules, that leaves almost every place in the city. But I’m good with anywhere.”

He let go of my hand and wrapped his arms around my waist, lifting me up. I put my arms around his neck, feeling shamelessly, hopelessly giddy inside.

His lips sealed around mine and we had a long kiss, the kind that would make some people say, “Get a room!” like those kids in Key West had. But no one did. Or at least I didn’t hear it if they did. I was lost in the kiss. And I wouldn’t have cared anyway.

Sam lowered me down slowly, and hailed a cab. We got in and he gave the driver an address. I recognized the street name from an earlier conversation we’d had. It was the street he lived on.

During the ride to his place, my head on his shoulder, our fingers interlocked on his lap, I thought back on all that had led to this point.

Roughly four months ago I had set out determined to find a new beginning. I thought I had, but I was wrong. And that’s okay. There was no way to see it at the time.

I was too hung up on the wreckage in my past, and I’d spent way too much energy trying to protect myself from the promise of the future.

But that promise was already here, and he was here to stay. I didn’t need to find him.

I needed to find myself.

And that was the real beginning.



~~~





Also by Kate Dawes

The New York Times and USA Today

bestselling novel

FADE

(available now)



Olivia Rowland leaves her Midwestern life behind after graduating from college and heads off to Los Angeles to work for a Hollywood talent agent. Life in L.A. is a culture shock, but nothing compared to the jolt she gets when Max enters her life.



Max Dalton is Hollywood's youngest and brightest movie producer/director/writer. He's wealthy, successful, hot, and there's never a shortage of women throwing themselves at him, but there's only one woman he wants, and he intends to make it happen.



As Max pursues Olivia, he finds that she presents a whole new challenge for him. When Olivia finally gives in the stage is set for a perilous, yet passionate relationship. Together they discover each other's deepest desires, and darkest secrets....





Acknowledgements

Thank you to my agent, Pamela Harty, for everything, but especially for putting up with my frantic emails, texts and phone calls. I’m also grateful to everyone at The Knight Agency for their help on so many fronts. Thank you, Angela Zoltners, my editor, for helping me become a better writer. (Or is it “to become”?) My thanks also go to Sam Stettner and Nade Ferrabee, beta-readers extraordinaire, for making this an even better book.