Page 7 of The Vow

“As your potential employer, do you mind if I ask you a few more questions, Alex?”

“If you ask me where I see myself in five years, I’m leaving.”

She pulled a cigarette from the pack. I picked up a matchbook, struck a match, and then another, and another, until like a caveman, I discovered fire. Alex leaned into me, and I could see shades of chestnut in her hair.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. How long have you been a smoker?”

“That’s relevant?”

“No. Just curious.”

“About ten years. I picked up the habit from... an ex.”

Instinctively, I glanced at her ring finger. “And how long have you been writing?”

“About the same amount of time. Are you married, Pip?”

“No. I’m not.”

“Ever been married?”

“Negative.”

“What’s wrong with you? You look like you’re in your thirties, like me. Your looks aren’t half bad,” she said, studying my short, dark hair. “So, what’s wrong with you?”

If her last name wasn’t Adams, I’d liken her to an Italian relative whose greeting always begins with “Why aren’t you married?” My cousin, Frank, had the comeback to end all comebacks. The last time we were all sitting around the dinner table scarfing down breaded veal cutlets, and rapini sauteed with fresh garlic, Frank told my mother, “Because chasing skirts is a lot more fun.” It had earned him a slap across the head from more than one matriarch, but the younger generation had laughed and burst into a rendition of “Just a Gigolo/I Ain’t Got Nobody”.

Ignoring the fact that Alex was wearing a skirt, I told her, “I’m not dead yet.” She looked away, lost in her thoughts, but came back to me just as quickly.

“Are we going to discuss the terms?”

“In a second. Hey, Nick?”

“Yeah, buddy.” He sauntered over acting disinterested, but eventually he’d interrogate me for every minute detail. Nick was like the brother I never knew I wanted.

“Give me a white Sangria. Make that two.”

“Made a fresh pitcher this morning. Comin’ right up.”

“Thanks.” Turning my attention to Alex, I said, “The terms are simple. There’s a house for rent next to mine. I’ll pay the rent, plus utilities. I’ll maintain the yard. You’ll also get two hundred dollars every two weeks for groceries.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem since I barely eat. And the story?”

“I want a love story. About two people falling in love.”

“Us.”

“Yes.” I needed a river of booze to quench my parched throat. “Fiction but based on us.”

“You and me.”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“Why, what?”