CHAPTER SIXTEEN SAWYER #2
He squeezes my shoulder once more and shoots me a knowing smirk while opening the front passenger door to Fallon’s car.
He can see it, written all over my face.
My yearning for his granddaughter.
My desperation to do something as simple as holding her hand.
My hopeless wish that she wasn’t dating Peter, just like how Sully wished Joan wasn’t dating Earl.
The stories collide, and yet I can sense how my story very well could end differently from Sully’s—with my own heartache.
“You ready?” Fallon asks me, her infectious smile colliding with my fluttering stomach.
“Yeah.” I swallow hard as Sully’s words vibrate through me. “I’m ready.”
Sometimes, son, the best things are worth waiting for.
I would wait for Fallon. I would move mountains to make her happy.
But unlike Sully and Joan, I don’t think our story is written in the stars.
“Sully, over here,” Tank bellows from the corner booth where he’s sitting with Rigatoni Roy.
The minute we walk into Put a Wing on It, I am hit by the thick scent of frying grease, followed by a distant hint of spice. Shit, I hope things aren’t too spicy here—I might severely embarrass myself.
“Oh, that’s right, the boys were meeting up here,” Sully says before placing a kiss on Fallon’s cheek and then pointing to me.
“Be good to my granddaughter.” And just like that, as if he was never diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, he disappears into the depths of the exposed-brick building, leaving me alone with Fallon.
Funny how that worked out.
“Wow, ditched by my own grandfather—that doesn’t feel great,” Fallon says, humor in her voice. “Shall we take a seat?”
“Sure,” I say, but my mind is reeling.
Classic move by a meddling family member.
Getting the hero and the heroine together, unbeknownst to them.
Usually such a move is performed by a zany mom who begs for forgiveness later, or an unapologetic best friend who knows what’s best for the heroine in the story.
But in this instance, it’s a grumpy old-timer who just so happened to have a moment of clarity at the exact right time.
What are the chances?
Wait... what am I even talking about? I’m not the hero in this story, and even though I have feelings for Fallon—big, romantic, heart-pounding feelings—she sure as hell isn’t the heroine.
We take a seat in the back, near the bathrooms—appetizing—at a bar-height table.
The restaurant is quite dark, especially for the middle of the day.
The dimmed hanging lights above each table offer only a faint hint of light, and the black floors and black chairs almost melt into the abyss, giving no dimension to the space.
Menus are stuck between the napkin holder and the salt and pepper shakers, so I reach for them and hand one to Fallon once we’re settled on our barstools.
“Have you been here before?” Fallon asks me.
I shake my head. “No, but my parents have been here a few times when passing through Canoodle to visit me in LA. It’s one of their favorite places to stop, but they haven’t exactly told me what they like to order.” I glance up at her from over my menu. “Any suggestions?”
“Do you seriously have a hard time handling spice?”
“If I were trying to prove my manhood to you, I’d tell you I could eat a ghost pepper with no problem, but I think my manhood is a distant thought after you had to drag my drunk corpse into the cabin the first night I arrived.”
“Yes, you didn’t quite make a good... second impression.”
“Two strikes on my character. I’m shocked you can even sit across from me at this table right now.”
“You’ve made up for your lack of personality the first two times we ran into each other.”
I set my menu down. “So, what you’re telling me is that I have some redeeming qualities.”
“A few.” She smirks. “And just so you know, Sully orders the hot wings, but the kitchen knows to make his mild. I know it might not be right, but why hurt the guy’s pride?”
“I get it. I think it’s actually cute that you guys do that.”
A small blush creeps over her cheeks—a blush I’m surprised I can see under the subtle lighting.
“As for you,” she says, pointing to the menu, “the original chicken sandwich is really good. It’s not spicy at all, but since it’s an original item on the menu, it won’t look like you’re unable to handle the heat of the kitchen. ”
“I like your way of thinking. Comes with fries—are they good?”
“They’re the seasoned ones with the nice crisp on the outside.”
“Dangerous, I’m sold.” I stick my menu back in its slot. “What do you plan on getting?”
“A basket of their medium wings, side of blue cheese, a side of vegetable crudités, and I plan on snagging a few of your fries.”
“Oh, you are? You think you have the right to my plate?”
“After the way you treated me on our blind date, I’d say I do.”
I cross my arms and lean them on the table, drawing closer to her.
From this distance, I can smell her sweet, heady perfume, a subtle floral scent that’s been driving me crazy ever since I took a seat in her Jeep.
It’s fresh, and it makes me want to pull her in close and run my nose along the column of her neck.
“How long are you going to hold that date against me?”
Her lips turn up into a playful smirk, an expression I’m growing quite fond of.
Annalisa never was much of a jokester. More serious than anything.
She didn’t quite understand the idea of teasing.
It was a hard adjustment, but I made it work with Annalisa.
I’m glad I don’t have to fake it with Fallon.
With Fallon, there’s a simple ease between us that I don’t think I’ve ever had with a woman. We seem to just... understand each other.
And that’s one of the main reasons why I’m struggling.
Because as I sit across from her at this table, her beautiful blue eyes glittering back at me, a hint of a smile playing at her lips, all I can think about is how I desperately wish I could reach across the diameter of this circular table and take her hand in mine.
A simple act. Holding her hand.
It’s not much.
But to me, it would mean so much more.
It would mean that she’s available, that I have an actual shot at having a second chance with her.
“I think for as long as you’re staying at the cabins, I’m going to keep bringing up the blind date. I can hold a grudge, Sawyer.”
“Apparently.” Even though I can’t have her, I can at least have this moment with her. “Tell me this—when we were on our blind date, was there anything you liked about me?”
She’s caught off guard for a moment, and I watch her carefully process the question.
Just when I think she’s not going to answer, she goes with a safe response.
“Your texting speed was quite impressive. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone work a phone like the way you did: accurate, precise jabs.
And that’s saying something because I once had a massage from a man who was texting with one hand the entire time. ”
“A one-handed massage.” I shake my head. “Unfortunately, I’m far too familiar with that...”
Fallon’s eyes widen before her head falls back and she lets out a loud laugh.
Her reaction is just enough of a return on admitting something far too embarrassing. Not sure why I even said it, but the words flew past my lips before I could stop them.
“I can’t believe you just said that.” She chuckles some more and then snags a napkin and dabs at her eyes. “At least you’re honest.”
“Can I get a recommendation to put on my dating résumé from you? ‘Sawyer Walsh, honest about his one-handed massages. Highly recommend giving him a chance. Also quick with his fingers.’”
She laughs some more. “Both true things, but I’m not sure my star rating would be a great selling point.”
“What do you mean?” I say just as the waitress appears at our table.
“What do you want?” she says, chewing a piece of gum and staring down at her notepad, pen poised.
Very abrasive and lacking “bedside” manner.
A disinterested character who doesn’t leave much of a mark on a story, other than breaking up the scene and leaving anticipation with the viewer.
The perfect pause button for a screenwriter.
Agora—according to her name tag—plays the role perfectly while also offering up a talking point for later if the screenwriter so chooses.
It’s always about setting up options, and Agora is just that. .. an option.
After we put in our order, Agora giving me a slight side-eye at my no-tomato request, I turn back to Fallon. “Star rating, what would it be?”
“I’m not sure your fragile man ego can take it.” She leans on the table as well, bringing her just a few inches closer, inches I didn’t have before. Inches I will gladly take.
“My fragile man ego is stronger than you—”
“Two stars.”
“What?” I nearly shoot out of my stool. I glance around the restaurant and then playfully lean in closer. “You would give me a two-star rating? That’s brutal. You’re going to need to explain yourself because I don’t think it’s justified.”
“And why don’t you think it’s justified?” she asks.
“Uh, because I feel like I’ve redeemed myself.”
“You have redeemed your character, but that’s different from ‘Single Ready to Mingle’ Sawyer.
That Sawyer I only know as someone who doesn’t pay attention to his date and runs out on an ex-girlfriend’s wedding, sans one shoe.
The reason you’re not a one star is because I’ve shared a few meals with you since then, and from those interactions, I’ve been able to move your star rating up from a negative two deficit to a solid two. You should be thrilled.”
“Positively ecstatic,” I deadpan.
She chuckles. “But if I were to rate you as a nonfriend, I’d say five stars.”
“Oh, now you’re just trying to butter me up.”
“Trust me, there’s no benefit to me buttering you up. I know how men like you work.”
“Men like me?” I point at myself. “Now this I have to hear. Please tell me, Fallon, how do men like me work?”