Page 31 of If My Wishes Came True
But Charlie Sutton doesn’t see me as a hapless victim.
He sees me as a heroine.
And as I sit here, staring at Charlie’s number on the back of this perfect photo that he printed for me, I’m more conflicted than ever.
For one thing, I was kinda happynotto have his phonenumber, because that meant not having to worry about texting him misspelled words. Something tells me, though, that, unlike Greg, Charlie wouldn’t jump to the conclusion that I’m an idiot. And while I typically don’t talk about my dyslexia with the men I date—for fear of reinforcing the “dumb blonde” stereotype—the idea of telling Charlie doesn’t bother me at all. I’m already so comfortable with him.
But if I were to call or text him right now, what would I say? He put the ball in my court, and I have a decision to make.
It’s late. I guess I’ll sleep on it and decide tomorrow.
When I wake up the next morning, however, I’m distracted by another wave of design inquiry messages sent via the contact form on my website.
I let out a giant exhale.Great.
Since I went viral earlier this week, I’ve only booked one new client. I told the others I’d be happy to put their names on a waitlist, which I hoped would buy me some time to decide if I want to go full steam ahead with this design business. I have a considerable amount of money saved from both my house-flipping sales and design work. I learned from my dad’s reckless spending habits whatnotto do with my earnings and, instead, I invested wisely. If I wanted to quit my design job and try my hand at being a painter for a year or two, I could easily do it.
But still, there’s this nagging voice in my head. No, not my dad’s. Like I said, I gave up on his approval a long time ago. It’s my own voice, telling me that the only way I’ll ever be taken seriously is if I’m a successful businesswoman.
Now that I’ve gone viral for my work, what will people think ifI throw it all away just to paint? Will they say I’m too dyslexic and dumb to do anything else? Will I become the laughingstock of the Internet, like I was the laughingstock of my elementary school?
With a pit of dread in my stomach, I open one of the messages that came through only a few minutes ago, the subject line of which reads,Time-sensitive Request:
Hello, Jenna. This is Genevieve Grant, reaching out on behalf of my client, R.J. Miller. Mr. Miller re-located to Chicago recently and would like to hire you to assist with the interior design of his penthouse. Due to his busy schedule, he would prefer to meet today at noon. Please let me know if that works. You can reach me via email or on my cell phone.
It’s an unusual inquiry, considering it’s ten o’clock on a Sunday morning, and whoever this R.J. Miller is wants to meet almost immediately. I do a quick Google search on him, but come up empty. I have to admit, I’m intrigued. And it’s not like I have anything better to do. If I stayed home, I’d probably spend the entire day stressing about my feelings for Charlie.
So I call Genevieve Grant and let her know I’m available. She gives me an address that’s only two blocks away from me. Then I shower, get dressed and, at ten to noon, I walk over to R.J. Miller’s place.
But as the elevator opens to the penthouse, my jaw drops in stunned silence when I see the all-too-familiar face of the man waiting on the other side of the sliding doors.
He looks just like he did when I last saw him. Except, this time, his ocean-blue eyes are smiling at me.
“You’re not R.J. Miller,” I stammer.
I’m stating the obvious. But I’m so shocked, they’re the only words that come to mind.
He laughs. It’s the same throaty laugh I remember from years ago. “I’m sorry for catching you off guard with the fake name. I just figured if you knew it was me, well—you probably wouldn’t have come.”
“What are you doing in Chicago?” I ask, bewildered.
“I’m here for work,” he says. “Indefinitely.”
Part of me is tempted to turn around and take the elevator back downstairs.
But it’s the other part of me—the curious part—that wins.
“Let me get you something to drink,” he says. “Coffee? Tea? Juice? You name it, I’ve probably got it.”
“Coffee’s fine,” I say, a bit curtly. Well, curtly for me, anyway. So I follow it up with a softer, “Thanks,” because I don’t want to seem ungrateful. What happened between us is ancienthistory. I need to stop dwelling on the past and focus on the present instead.
I follow him as he makes his way to the kitchen. It’s only the two of us in an expansive urban palace, with floor to ceiling windows and a panoramic view of the city. It takes my breath away.
“Cream and sugar?” he asks.
“Just a splash of almond milk, if you have it.”
He nods. As he tinkers with his state-of-the-art coffee maker, I stand at one of the many windows and admire the lake, which is speckled with sailboats on this warm summer day.
