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Maybe there’s something to this “opposites attract” deal and I’ve been looking in the wrong places allalong.
“I got your text,” he says, breaking into my thoughts. “The app’s been out for six months. But I found a couple who met through thesite.”
A surge of excitement bolts through me. “We should interview them. Get in their own words how it’s going, why they think it worked for them. It’ll be compelling for any prospective funders orusers.”
“Then you’re going to like this.” My phone dings a momentlater.
It’s a picture of a guy and girl smiling, taking a selfie in front of RockefellerSquare.
“Oh, Wes, that’s money.” My heart kicks as the possibilities wash over me. “They look so happy. That’s what sells this. It’s not even the words; it’s the promise that with your research, you could have something like that. It’s what everyonewants.”
“Everyone.” I feel theskepticism.
“Yes. To sell this, you need to get under the platitudes and to the heart of it.” I take a breath, thinking of something that occurred to me tonight. “We’re all looking, but we pretend we’re not. Because if we don’t find it, it means there’s something wrong with us. And we can drink or do drugs, but God forbid people find out there’s something wrong with us, an unfixable flaw deep down. That we’reunlovable.”
The long pause has me wishing I could take back thosewords.
But I shift in my seat, not ready to hang up. He doesn’t seem ready toeither.
“How was your day?” Iask.
“I inherited a debateteam.”
I snort. “You’re coachingdebate.”
“That’s exactly what I said when they toldme.”
“No. You’ll beamazing.”
There’s a moment before he says, “I don’t know how to talk to kids. Especially outside ofclass.”
“Wes, they’re lucky to have you. You’re smart and passionate and you know what it’s like to work for what you want. They couldn’t have a better teacher, or a bettercoach.”
“Thanks.” He pauses. “Speaking of surprises. I hope your mother enjoyed her souvenir of Wednesdaynight.”
I reach into the pocket of my bag and pull out the Polaroid of me and Weskissing.
I set it on my lap, snapping a pic. I text it to him, hearing his phone buzz on the otherend.
“Rena? You stillthere?”
He ignored the incoming text for our conversation, and that makes me warm all overagain.
“Check your messages,” I say with asmile.
He does, and I hear his exhale. “You keptit.”
“Might be worth something someday to say I made out with Wes Robinsononce.”
“Twice.”
My pulse kicks in my throat and I have to swallow before responding. “That hardly counts. You didn’t kiss me back the firsttime.”
“I wantedto.”
The gravelly admission drags down my spine. “Really?”
“You made me feel something real for the first time since my daddied.”
