The Look of Love: A Novel (14 page)

“She ended up having a stroke,” Flynn says. “It was a complication from her brain injuries.”

“How . . . tragic,” I say. “I’m shocked.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It changed him, I think, as any hardship changes a person. Man, can you even imagine loving someone and then having all of that taken away from you in the blink of an eye?”

“It makes sense now,” I say. “That’s why he’s so jaded about love. He had it, then lost it.”

“Yeah,” he says again. “But I don’t know if I’d call him jaded, Jane. He’s just more serious now, I guess. He knows nothing in life is certain.”

I think about Flynn’s words as I walk inside the restaurant and see Cam already seated at a table. He sees me immediately and waves.

I bypass the hostess and walk to his table. “Hi,” I say, feeling a flutter in my stomach as I sit down.

“You look great,” he says.

I take off my coat and drape it across my chair. “Thanks.” I feel his eyes on me, but instead of returning his gaze, I glance around the room. “Ever been here before?” I ask, willing my eyes back to his, which are still fixed on me.

“No,” he says. “It wasn’t a place Flynn and I would have frequented our first year at school, and I haven’t been back in Seattle for long.” He pauses for a moment. “Wait, wasn’t a scene in
Sleepless in Seattle
filmed here?”

“Yeah,” I reply, “that scene with Tom Hanks and his friend when they talk about—”

“Tiramisu,” we both say at the same time.

I smile and look away.

“I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other since New Year’s,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s funny how life just speeds along.” I bite my lip and scold myself for making such a sterile, benign comment.

“Well,” Cam adds, “I’m glad we finally reunited. I’ve been thinking about you.”

My eyes meet his. “You have?”

“I have.”

He’s confident—bold, even. Lo would approve. But I still don’t know how I feel about his bravado.

“Have you thought about me?” he continues.

“Well, I guess,” I say, feeling the color grow in my cheeks.

“You know what I can’t get out of my mind?”

I shake my head. “What?”

“What you told me about yourself that night,” he replies. “About your gift. Your ability to”—he pauses to hush his voice—“to see love.”

“Oh,” I say. “I had hoped we wouldn’t go there.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s . . . complicated.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Trust you?” I say with a grin. “I hardly know you.”

“But you trusted me the night we met,” he counters. “Why not continue to trust me?”

I nod. “You have a point.”

The waiter delivers two martinis that Cam ordered before I sat down, and we clink glasses before each taking a sip.

“Here’s what I’d like to know,” Cam says. “When you’re out places where couples gather, what’s it like for you?”

“Well,” I say a little cautiously, “it can be interesting.”

“How so?”

I tell him about a typical episode, and he shakes his head in amazement or disbelief, or both. “I’m fascinated. So you’re saying that if you look around the room, you’ll probably see something that will trip off your . . . gift?”

I nod. “Love is all around, in many forms. And if it’s real love, I’ll see it.”

“Does it hurt?” Cam asks, sinking his chin into the palm of his hand.

I shake my head. “No, not really. It mostly feels like pressure in my head. And then my eyes feel like they’re clouded over. I’ve lost my vision entirely at times. It’s disorienting, a little unpleasant, but not painful, per se.”

He looks thoughtful, then nods. “There must be a scientific explanation for this. There has to be.”

“You sound like my neurologist, Dr. Heller,” I say with a grin.

He nods. “I mean, no offense, but I just don’t think I can buy into all the voodoo.”

“Who said anything about voodoo?” I spar back.

“I’m sorry,” Cam says. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just trying to wrap my head around all of it.”

“My head might not belong to me much longer,” I continue. “My doctor wants me to have surgery.”

“Surgery?”

I recount the dismal prognosis I was given today.

“What are you going to do?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Honestly, sometimes I think I’d be better off with a lobotomy.”

He grins. “Well, I know a fair amount about those.”

“And how is that?”

“Oh,” he says, “nothing that interesting. I’ve poked around on the subject for articles in the past.” He pops an olive into his mouth from his martini glass. “Anyway, it was years ago, and nothing I want to bore you with.”

I think about my conversation with Flynn about Cam’s late girlfriend. Is he drawn to topics of the brain because of Joanna’s injuries?

“How did you come to be a medical writer?” I ask.

He looks momentarily thoughtful, as if considering whether to peel back a layer and reveal a truth about himself, but the look in his eyes quickly changes. “It pays a hell of a lot more than writing about sports,” he jokes.

I smile, and when the waiter asks if I’d like another martini, I say yes.

“See those two over there?” Cam says, changing the subject. He indicates a young couple engrossed in conversation, with an open bottle of red wine on the table in front of them. I look away from them quickly.

“They’re young,” he continues. “They’re good-looking. They’re obviously into each other. Do you think they’re in love?”

I roll my eyes. “Do we have to do this?”

“Yes,” he says with a devilish smile.

I sigh and look back across the room. I let my eyes search the couple in question. I watch them sip their wine and exchange witty banter. The woman, dressed in a low-cut blue tank top, reaches across the table and places her hand on the man’s wrist, just briefly, and he smiles. I squint, then brace myself for what I expect to come, the fog bank that will inevitably roll in.

I wait, but nothing happens.

“What is it?” Cam asks. “What do you see?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nada.”

He shakes his head. “You mean, they’re
not
in love?”

“Not that I can see.”

He takes a sip of his martini. “But they look so . . . happy.”

“Happy doesn’t always mean love,” I say. “You’d be surprised how many people you think are in love are really not.”

“So they’re faking it?”

I shrug. “
Pretending
is the word I like to use. I think people want to be in love. They want to have perfect lives and project that to the people around them.”

“But you can see through all that,” Cam says.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say.

“But mostly you don’t want to see it?”

I sigh. “It feels like I’m interfering.”

“How so?”

“Well, what if you knew that your best friend’s wife didn’t love him? Would you tell him? Or what if your brother was madly in love with a woman who didn’t return his affection? Would you say something?”

Cam nods. “Interesting, yes.” He smiles and takes another sip of his martini.

“You still don’t believe me, do you?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he says. “It’s just that it still doesn’t add up, logically, for me.”

“Love isn’t logical,” I say.

“And we’re at an impasse again,” he continues. He looks around the restaurant again, then indicates a couple by the front window. “How about those two? What do you see?”

I sigh again. “You really want to know?”

He nods. “But let me guess,” he says. “No love connection between them. I don’t mean to come off as rude, but they’re completely mismatched. She’s way too beautiful for him. Look at the guy. He’s bald and, what, five foot seven on a good day?” He shakes his head. “I vote no.”

I turn to see the couple Cam is so interested in, and I can immediately see why he’s made such a stark analysis. The woman
is
beautiful. Model beautiful. And the man, yes, he is not handsome. Not in the slightest. I nod at Cam, just as my vision begins, unexpectedly, to cloud. I rub my eyes.

“What is it?” he asks, leaning forward.

I nod and close my eyes tightly. “Yep, it’s love. Big love.”

“Big love?”

I nod, eyes still closed. “You should feel the pressure in my head right now.”

“Are you OK?”

I blink hard. “I will be,” I say. “I need to head to the restroom.” I hold on to the edge of the table to steady myself, but I’ve misjudged the strength of my legs, and they buckle underneath me.

When I open my eyes, I feel stunned, and my head hurts. Cam is hovering over me, and so is the man from the window table. He’s dabbing my forehead with a napkin. I see a bloodstain on the edge of it.
My
blood?

“Jane,” Cam says. His eyes are big and filled with concern. “Jane, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” I mutter. “What happened?”

“You fell and hit your head,” he explains.

“Knocked yourself out cold,” the man with the supermodel girlfriend (wife?) says. “Left you with quite a goose egg and gash on your forehead. But no major damage done. I see no signs of a concussion.”

Cam looks at the man, then back at me. “Still, if you feel nauseated later, or suddenly sleepy, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to head to urgent care. Concussions can be sneaky. I know from my research.”

The man nods. “Yes, if there’s nausea, make sure she’s seen right away.”

Cam grins. “Pretty lucky to fall at a table across from a neurosurgeon.”

“I’m Andy Westfield,” the man says. “I work at Harborview Medical Center. And this is my wife, Anna. It’s our tenth wedding anniversary. We met here twelve years ago.” He exchanges a sweet glance with his wife. “I still don’t know what she sees in me. Well, we’ll let you get back to your dinner. You’re going to be fine.”

I smile. “Happy anniversary. And thank you.”

Cam offers me his hand, and I feel a fluttering in my stomach as I take it and let him help me to my feet.

“I’m so embarrassed,” I say as I take my seat again.

“Don’t be,” Cam says. He carefully considers his next words. “You know, I’m beginning to believe you.”

My eyes meet his then, and in this moment, I feel that he sees me. Not just my exterior, but me. He sees
me
.

“I’m glad,” I say with a grin. “I’m so glad.”

1112 Broadway E. #202

J
osh takes his fiancée’s hand to help her out of the car. Katie is blindfolded, and has been for the past ten minutes. Josh has a surprise for her. A big one.

“Can I take this thing off now?” she pleads. “I’m dying!”

“Just a moment longer,” he says, closing the car door, then leading her up the walkway to the three-story Capitol Hill brownstone he purchased for the two of them. The Realtor just delivered the key this week, and he stared at the shiny brass for a long time. Katie deserves a mansion, of course, a castle, but he dropped every last penny of his savings into the brick townhouse standing before them now, and it’s pretty spectacular in its own right. Newly renovated, its three floors include a chef-quality kitchen with a six-burner Wolf range, an upper-floor home office, where Katie can work, and a master bathroom with a shower stall built for two. Josh’s heart rate quickens when he thinks of their co-shower this morning.

It’s a terrific street, too, with great neighbors; just yesterday he met one of them, a neurologist by the name of Dr. Heller. She mentioned that the local public elementary school is walkable, and that their music program won a national award recently, which made Josh think about the life he’d live with Katie here. The children’s voices in the yard. Their future.

“Josh, I have no idea what’s going on,” Katie says impatiently. “It’s not even my birthday. What in the world do you have up your sleeve?” She wraps her arms around his neck and runs her fingers through his hair.

He loves it when she does that. No other woman has touched him the way she does. Then again, there has never been another woman like Katie. She is a force—in life, and in bed. He smiles to himself as they reach the front door of their new home. “OK,” he says, slipping the key into the lock, then pushing the door open before pulling off her blindfold. “Welcome home, beautiful.”

Katie covers her mouth with her hand. “Josh, are you kidding me?”

“That would be a pretty cruel joke if I were,” he says.

“Josh!” she screams. “This is the house.
The
house. The one I saw online. The one I showed you. I thought you were completely spaced out.”

“Not true,” he says with a grin. “I went to have a look at it the next day.”

She shakes her head in amazement. “But I thought you said it was too expensive, too urban?” She looks at her fiancé with astonishment and then falls into his arms. “You are the most wonderful man on this planet, do you know that?”

He winks at her, then reaches for her hips and pulls her closer to him. “Come here. I’m going to carry you over the threshold.”

She loves the way his strong arms lift her up, the way he holds her like a prize, a treasure, as he walks through the doorway. He sets her down in the entryway, and she runs her hand along the railing.

“Do you like it?” Josh asks. “I mean, it won’t be forever. But I think it’s a pretty great place to start our life together.”

“It’s perfect,” Katie replies.

“Come on,” he says, taking her hand. “Let me take you on a tour.”

She follows him through the house until they end up in the master bedroom. “Our bed will be great here,” he says, pointing to the far wall. “That way, we can wake up and see the sunrise.” He points ahead. “See, there’s even a little view of the lake. See that?”

She nods. But she’s not looking at the lake. She’s looking at Josh. She’s overcome with desire for him then, this man she loves with every ounce of her being. It’s intense, palpable. Their eyes meet, and they kiss, deeply, passionately.

“We have it so good, you know?” she says. “I don’t think there ever was a woman who loved a man as much as I love you.”

“We do have it good,” he says. “We have the very best kind of love.”

She nods. “You know what they say about stars?”

“What do you mean?”

“That some of them burn hot, then fizzle out,” Katie continues. “They’re short-lived. And others burn low and slow. They’re less bright, but they go on for thousands and thousands of years.” She shakes her head. “We’re some mutant combo of both. We burn hot, and we burn long.”

Josh pulls her to him so her body presses tightly against his. He lifts her sweater over her head and lets it drop to the hardwood floor. She unbuttons his shirt next, then unfastens his belt. Moments later, there is skin on skin, mouths entangled, bodies fused together. And then, cries of pleasure echo against the bare walls.

They are home.