Free Getting Warmer by Carol Snow Page A

before I humiliate myself further.”
    “That’s not the case.”
    “Okay, then.”
    “Okay.”
    He asked me to have dinner with him. I couldn’t, of course; I could hardly abandon my parents on their first day home. Besides, I had at least four hours’ worth of grading and lesson planning to do. But I was free Saturday night, I told him—though maybe he could pick me up in a parking lot somewhere.

seven
    Here is what I planned to say to Jonathan at dinner: “I hope that what I am about to tell you won’t change the way you feel about me. The night we met, I was hating life and feeling bad about myself. I never thought I’d see you again. I had no idea how much I’d like you. I told you some lies, and then one lie built upon another. If you give me another chance, I promise I will never lie to you again.”
    Here is what I actually said to Jonathan: “I guess I thought it was just going to be the two of us at dinner.”
    “I know, I’m sorry. I’d completely forgotten that I was supposed to have dinner with my dad and Krista. I thought about calling them and saying I was sick, but I really hate to lie. I should have warned you. But I was afraid you’d back out.”
    I would have, but not for the reasons he thought.
    He laughed. “Oh, God. First I leave notes at your house, now I’m introducing you to my parents on our first real date. You’re probably ready to take out a restraining order.”
    I bit my lip and looked out the window.
    “Oh, sorry,” he said, his smile fading. “Am I not supposed to make criminal jokes?”
    I smiled—or tried to, anyway. “You can make all the criminal jokes you want. Really.” I shifted uncomfortably on the bench seat of his gigantic truck.
    He noticed my expression and pulled into a shopping center parking lot. He put the truck in park but left the engine running and the air-conditioning at full blast. “Look. If you want me to take you home, I will. I thought we had something going, but maybe I misread your signals.” He shook his head. “Most of the women I meet are waitresses or bartenders. And it’s not that they’re not nice—a lot of them are. But . . . you’re different. You’re just so . . . real.”
    My throat ached with a pent-up wail. “My job—” I said, and then stopped.
    I took a deep breath, but before I’d had a chance to form the right words (as if there were any right words), he said, “Your job is amazing. There aren’t a lot of people who could do that day after day.” We were quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Do you want me to take you home? I like you. I’ve made that embarrassingly obvious. But if you don’t feel the same way, you don’t have to keep pretending just to spare my feelings.” He smiled wryly. “I’m a big boy. I can take it.”
    “I’m not pretending anything as far as my feelings go,” I whispered. This was my moment to come clean, to fess up, to tell him what I had been pretending. But a funny thing happened. Jonathan leaned forward. And I leaned forward, too, at least until my seat belt snapped into place. I released it with a seductive click.
    His lips were slightly rough, but the skin around them was smooth. He must have shaved right before he picked me up. He tasted of mint and smelled of lemons. My stomach grew warm.
    When we parted, our faces still inches away from each other, he ran a finger along my cheek. “So you aren’t just being nice?”
    “I’m not as nice as you think I am,” I whispered.
     
     
    Even without humidity, Krista Pomeroy’s blond hair looked fabulous: smooth yet buoyant. Her highlights looked so natural they had to be fake. She probably had salon expenses the way I have student loans. Her left hand glittered with the kind of gem never simply referred to as a diamond but rather, more bluntly, as “a rock”—though “boulder” might be more apt. She wore a simple coral-colored silk shift that set off her tan just so and delicate pearl earrings that coordinated