Page 42 of It's a Love Story

“Like five minutes ago. You two want a booth?”

Dan turns to me. “Come on.” I follow him to the back door, and we are in an alley with a dumpster, a Chevy truck, and no sign of Jack Quinlan.

“This is annoying,” Dan says to the dumpster. He turns to me and reads the thoughts that are crossing my face. I try to hide them, to arrange my features so that they say,I’m a pro. No problem.

He reaches for my arm. “Do you need water or something?”

“For what?”

“I don’t know, you look really stressed.”

And I guess I am. I’m disappointed and relieved all at once. I want to make this movie and keep my job as much as I don’t want to ever see Jack Quinlan again. I hate mixed feelings, and I hate when they all release at once. I look up at Dan with tears in my eyes, and he pulls me into his arms. Right there in the alley by the dumpster. His chest is as solid as it looks but also warm as he wraps himself around me. I rest my head against him and listen to the thrum of his heart as I breathe in the ocean-soaked smell of his shirt.

“This is all going to work out,” he says into my hair. “We’re going to make this movie, one way or another.”

“How can you be like that? Just so sure.” I look up at his face, and we are mere centimeters apart. I see that his eyes have a darker ring around the outside. My gaze moves across his mouth before I can stop it, and I tuck my head back down against him.

“I’m just sure. I know how something feels when it matters. LikeStar Crossedwasn’t it. I knew.”

“I was so pissed,” I say and look up at him again. “I mean, clearly. But you were right.” Dan takes a coil of hair that has sprung out of my braid and tucks it behind my ear. There is a miles-wide disconnect between how I know I look and how he’s looking at me.

“We’re going to see Jack on Saturday night at the festival for sure, and he might write us a song. But if he doesn’t, we’re going to make this movie another way, one hundred percent guaranteed. It’s that good, Jane. It’s that true.”

“That,” I say. “That’s the thing that made me want to punch you out. You’re just so sure of what you think.”

He smiles and says, “I know what I know.” He lowers his forehead onto mine, and for a second, I know what it would feel like to have a guy like Dan feel sure about me. In that same second, I want desperately to know what it would feel like to be kissed by him. His arms are tight and protective around my back; his eyes are straight on mine. He would kiss me with intention, like it would matter.

“I think I need sugar,” I say.

He lets out a breath and releases me. Among the tornado of thoughts in my head right now, the clearest one is that I do not want to be released by Dan. If I hadn’t said anything, he’d still be holding me and I’d still have my head snuggled into the warmth of his chest. I am no longer a monkey starved for touch; I am a person starved for Dan.

“Let’s get ice cream and I’ll show you something good,” he says.

*

WE HAVE CHOCOLATEchip cones in our hands as we bike to the end of town. This requires slow pedaling and extreme concentration on my part. Dan pulls ahead and looks back and smiles at me in a way that reminds me ofThe Notebook.I roll my eyes and let my legs stick straight out, mimicking Allie’s ease and sense of fun for just a second.

We’ve turned right, away from the ocean onto a country road. Crops that might be wheat grow on either side, and oak trees dot the landscape. I speed up so I can ride next to him. “I see what you’re doing,” I say.

“What am I doing? Besides getting ice cream all over my arms.” He licks the side of his cone where it’s dripping.

“You’re trying to sell me onThe Notebookwith this bike- riding-and-ice-cream montage. Like you’ve stuck me right into the movie. You’re so transparent.” I smile at him as I bike ahead. He catches up laughing.

“It does sort of feel like that, except you’re not falling for me, and I’m never going to build you a house with my own hands.”

“The plumbing would be terrible,” I say. And please let him be right about that other thing. Dan is not Solid Partner material, and falling for him is a recipe for disaster.

We ride side by side for a while, and I ask, “Is it believable to you that Allie never got the mail?”

Dan laughs. “What?”

“He wrote to her every day for a year. I mean, in three hundred and sixty-five days, she never once helped her mom out and grabbed the mail on the way in? And she’s waiting, expecting, to hear from the love of her life. You’d think she’d stalk the mailman.”

Dan’s quiet, considering this. “Okay, I’ll give you that.”

“I mean, if you meet ‘the one’”—I risk letting go of my handlebars for air quotes—”you check your mail.”

Dan doesn’t say anything.

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