While lunch wasn’t quite tinged with the whole first-date vibe, my heart rate was speeding slightly as I followed Brett downstairs, out through the lobby, and across the parking lot to his car. His silver Audi was sleek and spotless, and Brett oozed competence as he slid into the driver’s seat across from me. It was slightly awkward to hold my feet in the air while he repositioned my floor mat for maximum coverage, but really, fastidiousness was just fine with me.

“So ... ?” I finally started, lunging into the silence. “Where should we go?”

After cautiously (and silently) backing out of his parking spot, Brett turned to me with a grin. “Pizza Garden.” Not so much a suggestion as a done deal. Luckily it was one of my favorite lunch spots.

“Sounds good,” I said.

“They have a great lunch deal,” he said, easing into a left turn, more serious than I would have thought necessary.

“They do,” I agreed.

Awkward silence, Take One. Luckily the restaurant was only minutes away.

Quickly seating us at a scarred wooden table near the window, our waitress recited the day’s pizza specials (today’s were Greek, Texas Fajita, and Basilica) and left with our drink orders, promising to return momentarily to take our orders.

“What are you getting?” I asked, flashing a smile.

“Texas Fajita.”

“Never tried it. I’m getting the Garden pizza.”

My smile faltered just slightly in the face of Brett’s disbelieving stare.

“But it’s not one of the specials.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s more expensive, but it’s a little bigger too. Six inches instead of four. I take the leftovers home.”

“But even if you factor in the additional size of the pizza,” Brett protested, “it’s not nearly as good a deal. And you don’t get a salad.”

“You’re right.” Maybe he just needed to know I’d done the math. “But it’s my favorite, and it’s loaded with vegetables, so I’m happy to splurge.” I could have jumped into a cost breakdown / nutritional analysis, but I didn’t think anyone wanted that.

“Okay,” he said, with a baffled, slightly concerned little shake of his head.

“Don’t worry, I can afford it,” I teased, linking my fingers, laying my palms flat on the table, and forcing myself to keep smiling.

Awkward Silence, Take Two.

The remainder of our lunch date was actually quite pleasant (if we didn’t count Brett’s quickly masked disapproving glance as my Garden pizza was slid onto the table in front of me). As expected, we had a lot in common, both past history and future goals, and I felt the tight coil of uncertainty in my chest begin to unfurl. This was what I’d expected, how I’d imagined my romantic life would be. Two compatible people blazing a sensible trail through life. My grin just kept on giving.

Right up until the check came.

We both reached for it, but Brett snatched it cleanly away.

Biting my lower lip, feeling a little thrill zip through me, it was on the tip of my tongue to thank him for lunch.

Thank God I controlled the urge, because two seconds later, he slid the bill back in my direction.

“Since I got the special, it’s not going to be an even fifty-fifty split.” Pulling out his wallet, Brett went for one final gloat. “I tried to tell you... .”

“You did,” I snapped, pulling the bill toward me and retrieving my own wallet. I yanked out several bills, including a generous tip, and placed them on the table, really hoping the topic was now officially closed.

He didn’t say a word as I packed up the remains of my pizza in the cardboard to-go box, his jaw busy crunching every last bit of ice in the jumbo-sized glass he’d drained of iced tea. What could I say, the man liked to get his money’s worth.

Awkward Silence, Take Three.

But no butterflies, no queasiness, and no surprises. There was something to be said for quiet companionship. But it definitely wasn’t “Wowza!”

Trapped on the test floor an hour later, my daisy defiantly back in place, I was bored senseless and figured it was as good a time as any to get the lowdown on Gabe’s burgeoning romance with my impressionable young mentee. Fishing my phone from the crowded pocket of my smock, I texted an opener.


NJames: Any luck convincing Beck to show you her tattoo?


Exactly seven parts ran through the full test suite at minus forty degrees before Gabe responded.


GVogler: i’m building up to it. what’s up?

NJames: I went out last night.

GVogler: WHAT??? NOT with the dude from the band?

NJames: Beck didn’t tell you?


This was my sly attempt at deducing just how chummy they’d gotten in the last two days.


GVogler: i see her tonight. spill!


Interesting ...


NJames: Yes, him. Where?

GVogler: adh-sxsw


ADH? Alamo Drafthouse? Probably. I glanced up to make sure the liquid nitrogen hadn’t frozen up the handler before quickly typing in my reply. I hated that I was going to miss seeing Gabe’s reaction, but it couldn’t be helped. I was stuck down here indefinitely.


NJames: Me too. Paramount

GVogler: serious!? with Scottie?

NJames: Believe it or not. Any new matches?


Another probe to determine Beck’s status.


GVogler: haven’t checked. got a meeting. later.


Anyone casually passing my tester might very well have mistakenly assumed I was absolutely thrilled over the effortless testing of a tray of parts at freezing temperatures. And technically, it was good news—a relief, really. But not as good as discovering that Beck might be on her way to vanquishing the One-Date Wonders. Whoot!

Eventually, though, the red light on top of the parts handler started flashing, necessitating some actual work. Dipping my hand into a freezing chamber to unjam a couple of parts, the truth of my work situation hit me full in the face (along with a blast of liquid nitrogen–laced cold). I could either toe the line and wait for management to embrace me, or I could take the escape route I’d been offered and juice things up a little myself. As much as switching from one engineering job to another could juice things up.

I didn’t dare risk asking Fairy Jane for advice, and Beck, I’d discovered, was a bit of a wild card. Gabe, tired of my bitching, would most likely vote for a transfer. So I was pretty much on my own, with Friday only a few days away.

Sean called around four to confirm our plans for the evening. The premiere was at eight, so we’d meet at the Paramount at seven-thirty. Apparently it was to be a red-carpet event, some dramedy called Peas and Carrots, with a couple of up-and-coming celebrities and likely a mad crush to get in. I was promised very good seats. We agreed to get dinner afterwards, which pretty much guaranteed that it would be a very late night indeed (for a Tuesday), and I spent the remainder of the afternoon riding the thrill of being—just for now—Sean’s “luv.”

Well that, and trying to squeeze in a mini roadtrip and an awkward chat with an elderly gentleman about his sister’s once-upon-a-time love interest.


Misty Glen Assisted Living Community, which I’d Googled and then phoned from my cubicle, was a trio of ranch-style buildings relaxing under the lacy shade of towering old pecan trees. The porches, clustered with rocking chairs and barrel tables holding giant checker sets, were empty, either due to the brisk spring breeze or the fact that my visit coincided with naptime. I asked at the desk for Mr. Nelson, crossing my fingers that he had few minutes to spare before an early-bird dinner at 4:45. I was in luck.

I found him in the rec room, playing Mexican Train dominoes with a trio of other inhabitants. After introducing myself, I was gruffly told that I could cool my heels until the game was over. Fair enough. I plunked myself down on the cushy couch and examined my quarry. A horseshoe of white fuzz clung to his head and crinkly lines edged a pair of faded blue eyes that, by the looks of things, didn’t let much slip by unnoticed. I’d have to be on my toes when my turn came around.

I tipped my head back, shuttering my eyes closed. I’d been paged four times on the trip down here, but I wasn’t up to returning any of them. Truthfully, I wasn’t up for much of anything right now—I was way outside my comfort zone, with no clue as to how I’d ever get back.

Time passed, and I kept quiet inside my little cocoon. Until I was launched like a butterfly as someone collapsed onto the couch beside me, close enough that our thighs brushed on my way back down. My eyes flared open and whipped around to catch the delighted little smirk on Mr. Nelson’s face.

“I won again,” he told me, I assumed referring to his game of Mexican Train. “Ha! It’s almost too easy.”

“Congratulations,” I said, trying to bring my heart rate back under control.

“You find the key?” He glanced at me from under caterpillar-like brows. He was munching on what looked like a particularly lumpy homemade chocolate chip cookie.

“Sorry,” he said, catching me eyeing the cookie, “last one.” Then, to himself, “I love how she puts the Raisinettes in.” Popping the last of it into his mouth, he dusted his hands on his khakis.

Another cookie would have broken the ice nicely.

“I found the key,” I confirmed, then paused for just a second before adding, “and I read your sister’s story.”

“Hrmmph.” He produced a double-six domino, seemingly out of nowhere, and tumbled it, over and over, between his fingers. “So why the visit?”

“I ... ah ... needed an answer the journal wasn’t giving me.”