Because in that moment it came to me with drunken clarity that I wanted this, all of it. This life that led me to wearing beautiful gowns, meeting interesting, friendly people, giggling over silly but unbelievably expensive cars, eating delicious food while drinking dry, crisp champagne and, most especially, standing outside in the moonlight on the terrace of a beautiful home on an even more beautiful lake with a man who would hold me like Sam was holding me after treating me like Sam had been treating me.
In fact, the bottom line truth of it was, I really liked all the other stuff but it was Sam holding me like he was holding me and treating me like he was treating me, if it was in a fantastic villa in Italy or if it was getting bitten by mosquitoes and not caring even a little bit on a deck in Indiana, that was what I really wanted.
I wanted it then. I wanted it the next day. I wanted it forever.
And I couldn’t have it.
This was Sam’s world, not mine.
But he couldn’t possibly know that, not with me staying at our swanky hotel and wearing fabulous footwear every time I saw him.
And, right then, into my sixth sip of glass of champagne number nine, I completely forgot all of Celeste’s worldly advice and drunkenly decided he had to know who he held in his arms.
Full disclosure.
For the sake of my sanity because, if he found out later I was not a jet-set, high heels wearing socialite but instead a… well, not jet-set, flip-flop wearing non-socialite, I knew he’d be angry. He’d think I’d duped him.
So he had to find out now so, if he so chose, which I drunkenly decided he would, he could move on and so could I (maybe).
“My friend Teri has a life-size, cardboard cutout of you.”
Yes. That was me. That was what I said into the moonlight, breaking the comfortable, cozy, romantic silence Sam had guided us to.
His arms gave me a slight squeeze and he muttered, “What?”
“My friend, Teri, has a life-size, cardboard cutout of you,” I repeated.
No arm squeeze and also no reply.
“In her bedroom,” I went on.
Again, no response whatsoever.
“You’re in your Colts gear.”
Nothing.
Hmm. I wasn’t sure if this was working or not.
I took a sip of champagne.
Sam remained silent.
I drunkenly blathered on.
“At an average of thirty-five percent, we’ve calculated it, the men she takes in that room can’t go the distance.”
More nothing.
“As in, they can’t bring it home,” I clarified, just in case he was not instantly revolted by these words and setting me aside never to touch me again because he didn’t get.
Still nothing.
I kept sharing.
“In other words, they can’t bring it home for her, obviously, but also for them.”
Nothing.
“We think it’s you or, um… the cardboard cutout of you in your Colts gear. We think they find it intimidating. Still, although this is disappointing for Teri and, as I mentioned, an alarmingly frequent occurrence, she hasn’t moved it.”
That was when I got something.
Sam’s body started shaking so violently, my body started shaking with it. Then his jaw left my hair because he shoved his face in my neck and roared, yes, roared with laughter as his arms went super tight.
It felt nice.
Well, that didn’t work.
Onward!
I sipped through my mind drunkenly attempting to latch onto a new strategy, it found one and I sallied forth.
“I don’t have a college degree,” I informed him when his laughter died.
His face went out of my neck and his jaw went back to my hair and he muttered, “You don’t?”
“Nope.”
His jaw left my hair so his lips could go to my ear where he murmured, “Hmm.”
That felt nice too.
Like, really nice.
Argh!
Onward!
“You graduated from UCLA,” I told him though he had to know this fact unless he had patches of amnesia and forgot bits of his life which was highly unlikely because, since I borderline internet stalked him, I would know about it if he had.
His mouth went from my ear and he agreed over my head with a, “Yep.”
“You grew up there,” I kept telling him about his life. “In LA, that is.”
“Yep,” he agreed again but his voice was vibrating like he was laughing but yet not.
Undeterred, I carried on.
“You grew up in a not very good neighborhood so within weeks of you signing your contract with the Colts, you bought your Mom a house in Malibu.”
Sam went back to silence.
I didn’t.
“On the beach,” I continued.
Sam said nothing.
I kept going.
“Because of the lessons you learned from your Mom, you told Sports Illustrated you wouldn’t accept any endorsement contracts for products you didn’t actually use and feel good about endorsing.”
“This is true,” he muttered, completely unperturbed at the extent of knowledge I held about him.
I sighed.
Then I sipped more champagne.
Then another tactic came to me so I announced, “I have a dog.”
“You do?” Sam asked.
“Yep, her name is Memphis.”
Sam said nothing but he moved away from my back though only so he could pull me gently from the balustrade while turning me. When he did, he took the glass of champagne from my hand and set it on the balustrade then he grabbed my hand and pulled me down the terrace.
I kept talking. “She’s a King Charles spaniel.”
Sam led me through some doors and I looked up at him, intent on my course so only vaguely noting he tipped his chin up toward someone and when my eyes went in that direction, I saw Luci grinning madly at us. I gave her a wave so as not to be rude because her eyes had moved to me but I did this still talking as Sam guided me along the outskirts of the partygoers.
“A King Charles spaniel, just in case you don’t know, is a small dog. She’s soft all over, brown and white; she has fluffy, floppy ears and big, sweet, dark brown eyes. But she’s also yappy. She talks a lot, she has a lot to say and, unless you’re her Momma, you wouldn’t get it, it would just seem like yaps to you. She’s also overly friendly. Many people find that annoying.”
This last was a lie. Everyone loved Memphis.
Sam guided me to some stairs and up them. What he didn’t do was speak.