Chapter Thirty

CHAPTER THIRTY

(UN)ROMANCE – Trying to ruin romantic clichés only to become them. (And that’s okay, actually.)

T here was a large envelope waiting for her when she returned home.

Her heart leapt into her throat when she saw Mason’s messy scrawl on the envelope. Then it bottomed out. Was this it? Was he returning her things?

She placed her rescued copy of Almost Lovers gingerly on the kitchen table, like it may shatter. Which, considering it was held together with tape and a prayer, it might. With shaking hands, she undid the seal on the envelope, turning it upside down. A dozen or so postcards fell out. Tucking one leg beneath her, she sank into the nearest chair, pulling the closest card toward her.

It was a screenshot from When Harry Met Sally , only the caption read “Sawyer, I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”

Another one, from 10 Things I Hate About You , with Heath Ledger running across the bleachers. At the bottom was her name and the opening lines to Frankie Valli’s “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.”

The next one, from Pride & Prejudice (2005). “If your feelings are still what they were last we spoke, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes have not changed, but one word from you will silence me forever. If, however, your feelings have changed, I will have to tell you: you have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love—I love—I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”

On and on it went, snapshots of some of the most iconic grand gestures, all with her name on them. When she got to the end, she was sad it was over, peering inside the envelope for more. To her delight, she found a card.

Sawyer,

I know I have a lot to apologize for, but you deserve better than for me to do it via letter. Please don’t mistake my silence as anything other than my wish to give you the space you asked for. I think about you constantly, and if you ever doubt my feelings for you, know that you have ruined romance for me in the best way, in that you have become the very definition of it for me. I don’t have the words to describe it, so I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed some of my favorites. Whenever you’re ready, I’m ready. I don’t want to leave things like this. Say the word, and I’ll race across town at midnight, or make a fool of myself singing Frankie Valli with a high school brass band and get arrested by campus police, or hell, I’ll even go to IKEA with you to get you your nightstand. Whichever you prefer—choose your own grand gesture adventure. I want to spend the rest of my life proving to you that happily ever after is real, and worth fighting for.

Yours,

Mason

She traced the word yours , recalling the way it had sounded falling from his lips on New Year’s Eve. They hadn’t ruined the New Year’s Eve kiss, and she was glad for it. They hadn’t ruined anything at all, but rereading his letter, she thought she understood what he meant. She was ruined for anyone else but him. No one else would do.

She wanted to race out of her apartment to his, but it was late, and it couldn’t be that easy, could it? She knew the answer to that. No. It wouldn’t be easy. She was going to have to let him in, all the way in, and it was going to require work. A lot of work, long-distance work, but it wouldn’t be work if it was Mason. Her sweet hopeless romantic of a man deserved a grand gesture for the books.

She sank to the ground in front of her bookshelf. Tugging free her dictionary, she flipped through the e’s until she found “elevator.” There, pressed between the pages, was a scrap of restaurant printer paper. “Rule #1: No feelings. Rule #2: No sex.” The bottom of the paper was torn where Sawyer had written her phone number and given it to Mason. There was a second piece of paper, one she’d torn from a notebook.

Mission: (un)Romance

She smiled down at the list, the original version on the back where she’d crossed out multiple ideas, rewriting the approved items on the front. There, at the bottom, where she’d hastily added “end date???”

As she reread the list, her attention snagged on the final two items. She wasn’t going to ruin them for Mason. She was going to spoil him with them.

Sawyer’s grand gesture was off to a dismal start.

Blasting eighties music outside someone’s window doesn’t hit the same when they’re on the eighteenth floor and you’re on the sidewalk.

She eyed the apartment’s doorman warily. The sweet old man who manned the door when she’d been here before was gone. Which was a shame, because she’d been counting on Luther recognizing her. And even if he hadn’t, she knew she could outrun him. The elevators weren’t that far from the front door. This new guy, however. Whew. He was built like a truck. That salt-and-pepper hair was a misdirect. He’d already thwarted her once, but she wasn’t going to give up that easy.

Sawyer mustered all her acting prowess, tucking her giant note cards under her arm and strolling up to the front door like she owned the place.

“Ma’am,” the doorman called as she approached. “Ma’am,” he said more sternly when she ignored him and kept walking. He stepped in front of the door, wholly blocking it with his broad frame.

She looked up in feigned bewilderment, surveying the building like she’d never seen it before. “Oh, sorry,” she simpered in her best airhead voice. “Wrong building!”

Not buying her shit one bit, he watched her suspiciously as she retreated half a block to replan her attack.

A businessman exited the apartment building, waving cheerily to the doorman she was now certain would become a crucial player in her villain origin story.

As luck would have it, however, the businessman paused right in front of her, patting his pockets in concern before turning on his heel and heading back the way he came. Sawyer followed half a step behind him, euphoric that being short was finally going to come in handy as she slipped into the building behind him. She only had one foot through the door when a hand grabbed her coat, jerking her back outside into the cold Chicago winter air.

“Ma’am,” the doorman said again, a shiny gold name tag on his breast declaring his name to be Stan.

God, what a quintessential doorman name. It was so perfect, she nearly missed the scowl he gave her. “This is the third time,” he sighed. “At least try to be inconspicuous.”

She leaned closer. “Okay, I’m listening. How do I do that?”

He rolled his dark eyes. “For starters, don’t carry giant poster boards and a boom box.”

The man had a point. But she—she had a mission.

“For the last time,” Stan said wearily. “If you’re not a resident, you cannot enter the building without a resident’s explicit permission.”

“What if,” she whispered conspiratorially, her stomach swooping when he leaned in automatically. “I told you I knew someone in the building, and I’m trying to surprise them?” She gestured to the aforementioned posters and boom box.

“I can call up and confirm that they want to be surprised,” he offered.

“I don’t know if we have the same definition of ‘surprise,’” she countered. “Mason will be okay with it, I promise .”

The doorman’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re here to see Mr. West?”

Hope ballooned in her chest for the briefest of moments before wheezing out like a whoopee cushion. That had not been the right thing to say. Stan definitely thought she was an overzealous fan, and this level of security was probably why Mason picked this apartment in the first place. How inconvenient for her.

“I know him,” she pleaded. “I promise. And maybe you’re saving me a lifetime of embarrassment, but I am here to get the shit kicked out of me by love, and I really need you to let me.”

Stan stared at her for a long moment, his eyes darting from hers, welling with tears, to the posters and boom box, and back again. “What in the world are you up to?”

She took a step back, setting the boom box down on the sidewalk and hitting play. Propping the posters against her chest, she waited for his eyes to scan the words before flipping to the next poster. Once finished, he frowned, screwing up his face. The cautious optimism that had been growing steadily inside her with each card guttered out.

“What in the Hallmark hell?” he muttered.

“Exactly,” Sawyer said emphatically, as if that clarified everything. Though, judging by his expression, it clarified exactly nothing. “Mason and I have this list—maybe I should start at the beginning?”

He studied her for a long moment before stooping over and pausing “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel. “Alright, but we’re doing this inside, and I need my popcorn.”

“Whatever you say,” she agreed heartily. She’d run down to the corner store and buy him whatever snack he wanted if he’d consider letting her through. Though she was inside the building now. Progress. She contemplated making a run for the elevator—

Following her gaze, Stan clicked his tongue. “Don’t even think about it. I will shut it down with you in it and let you think about your choices for half an hour at least ,” Stan threatened, gesturing to a control board atop his desk.

“I wouldn’t do that.” Sawyer forced a laugh that sounded more like a wheeze. “Actually,” she said brightly. If there was one thing she was good at, it was telling stories. This was about to become her magnum opus. “The whole reason Mason and I know each other is because of an elevator. Only, he was the one trying to sneak on.”

Stan settled back into his desk chair, swiveling back and forth before opening his bag of Garrett popcorn. “Continue.”

“Wait,” Stan said as he settled back into his chair. “Valentine’s Day was two weeks ago.”

Sawyer grimaced, readjusting the stack of cards at her feet that kept sliding across the slick tile floor. She almost felt guilty for monopolizing Stan’s time. Numerous tenants had come and gone, Stan jumping up with surprising quickness for an older gentleman, hurrying back every time so she could resume her story.

“Yes, it was, but do you know how hard it is to find a working boom box these days? And a cassette? I had to get this shipped from Portland! And—” She smiled guiltily. “I may or may not have been busy with another thing…”

Stan grinned, rolling a piece of caramel corn between his fingers. “You finished your book, didn’t you?”

She nodded. While she waited for her grand gesture items to be delivered, she’d resumed her Diagnostics binge because it was all she could think to do. When Dr. Santiago and Nurse Lia broke up at the end of season four, Sawyer screamed at Kara’s character for letting him go, but Nurse Lia didn’t know Dr. Santiago was on the other side of town, looking for her like she was looking for him. Sawyer had unearthed herself from the mountain of blankets and pillows on her couch to make a bowl of popcorn before starting season five, but while she stood there, watching the kernels burst in the pan, she realized how to fix her book. Dragging her laptop off the couch, she moved it to her dining room table before moving back to the couch and wrapping herself in blankets. If she was going to do this, she needed to be coddled. She sobbed her way through the final chapters, partially for her characters, giving them the happy ending she wanted, and partially for herself, because she was doing it. For the first time in years, she had finished a book.

She sent the draft off to her agent and editor, praying Emily’s earlier enthusiasm wouldn’t wane once she read the final product. She wasn’t sure if anyone would want to read a book about two people who did everything wrong the first time finding their way back to each other, but she hoped that her readers would find their way back to her, just like her characters had.

Stan set down his bag of popcorn, wagging a finger at her. “And you’re not here just to finish the list?”

Sawyer shook her head. “It’s not about the list or even the grand gesture. I get it now, why our mission was always doomed to fail. All those big movie moments, they would all fall flat if the person didn’t mean it. If they hadn’t fought to get there. It’s not about racing across town to find each other on New Year’s, or interrupting a wedding, it’s the vulnerability—not the act itself. It’s about showing up and risking it all with no guarantee you’ll get what you want. It’s about trying. That’s why I’m here. To try. And maybe make a complete fool of myself—” She shrugged. “But I don’t care. Because I’m in love. And I want to fight for it. But first, I gotta get past this doorman who’s a little too good at his job.”

Stan grinned, leaning forward once more, bracing his elbows on his desk before reaching over and pushing a button. A moment later, the elevator dinged, the doors opening.