Man of My Dreams (19 page)

“Well, if it isn’t the beautiful Mia Page.”

I lift my eyes to see that all strapping six foot three inches of the sandy haired, impeccably dressed Noah Matheson has found his way over to this of all tables. And he’s using that word again.

He makes eye contact with Lisa. These two were actual friends ten years ago. They had a relationship that consisted of relevant friendship-like things. Not like the non-existent, obsessive nature of our one-sided relationship. They exchange a hug and a kiss on the cheek before he starts to pull out the empty chair. Next to me!

“Please tell me this seat isn’t already taken?”

I shake my head, giving him permission to sit. Did I mention his choice of seat is right next to me? As he does, the spicy, musky smell of his cologne travels through the air and into my nostrils, doing orgasmic things to my mind and body.

I’m back to spinning my rings, round and round. If I don’t quit now, the skin beneath them will turn raw.

Noah takes notice of my hands, gawking. “So, who’s the lucky guy? And why didn’t you call me after you broke up with that boyfriend of yours?”

It takes a minute for me to put two and two together, but then I realize he’s referring to the comment he made that night in The Room.
If you and that boyfriend of yours don’t work out, you know where to find me.
When he spoke those words all those years ago I never imagined he would hold me to them.

“Sorry, Noah, but it ended up working out.” Well, at least it was working out until a few months ago.

Noah looks stunned. “Wait. What? You married
that
guy?”

I nod, sheepishly. Why am I suddenly embarrassed that I married so young?

“Well, good for you and even better for him. Here I was waiting on a phone call all these years when I should have known all the good girls are always taken.”

Suddenly I feel the urge to flirt. “You know, Noah, there was a time when I was yours for the taking. I do hope you didn’t string your wife along before making her Mrs. Matheson.”

Thankfully, Lisa is too busy with the fashionably late Kristen. I don’t need her to hear this and risk the chance of it spreading its way through the grapevine.

Noah cocks his head back, laughing. The way his Adam’s apple vibrates...it makes me wish my lips had the chance to travel there once. “What? What’s so funny?”

“The Mrs. Matheson comment. I don’t have a wife. Never even came close. I guess you can call me the ultimate bachelor. Although, if the right woman came along...things could always change.”

I want to tell him that the right woman passed him by years ago, but that wouldn’t be fair. Not to him, not to me, not to Declan. While I loved the fantasy of being with Noah, I wouldn’t exchange the idea of him for what the reality of the last eight years of my life had given me.

“So what have you been up to, Mia Page?”

I smirk, loving how easy it is to talk to him. “It’s Mia Murphy now. And I’ve been raising two crazy daughters for the last four years.”

His eyes go wide. “You have kids? Daughters? Oh my god, your poor husband. If they look anything like you he’s screwed.”

Why hadn’t I ever thought about that? Cara and Charlie dating is so far off it seems unthinkable, but then again time flies by so damn quickly. High school doesn’t exactly seem like it happened ten years ago.

As we talk, I learn a bit about where Noah’s life has taken him and the construction company he owns two towns over. When he names some of the projects he’s worked on I’m impressed. I’ve seen some of them, even been in a few of them. The idea of walking through a building created by Noah’s masterful mind and creative hands has me in disbelief. He went to college on a baseball scholarship. I was sure that I’d turn on the TV one day and see him playing for the major leagues. I guess dreams change over time.

A crowd has formed on the dance floor. Rowdy classmates mouth the words to that annoying song by Chumbawamba. I hated this song back then and I still hate it now. When it ends, Daniel makes an announcement about slowing down the music. He even uses a cheesy deejay line,
“grab that special someone and bring her on the dance floor.”

The beginning bars of
Champagne Supernova
somehow transform the luxurious Country Club into a dimly lit gymnasium. I danced with Chad Myers to this song during Homecoming. Noah waltzed around with Lila Peters. That night I wished I was Lila. I wonder if Noah wished he was Chad.

“Wanna dance?” His hand grazes mine and for the first time all night I worry about where this flirting might lead. I remind myself that there’s no harm in a dance. It’s not like he’s asking me out on a date.

I skip the words and my body takes over, letting my hand rest in his as he escorts me to the dance floor.

If you had told me ten years ago that I’d be swaying to these words wrapped in the arms of Noah Matheson at our reunion I would have laughed in your face. It’s all so effortless. His hand rests casually at my hips. Mine hang relaxed around his neck. How many times had I longed for a moment like this between us when we were in school? Oh, like a million. I hate thinking it’s a little too late for my dreams to be coming true.

Together we sing along to the song. I wonder about the significance of the words. Ten years ago they had none. It was just a cool bunch of words strung together to an even cooler guitar riff.

Tonight I find weight in the lyrics.
Am
I a dreamer? Yes, in the literal sense, I dream—very vibrant, colorful dreams. A lot of them involve the man dancing with me. But the word ‘dreamer’ also speaks of someone’s character. A romantic, a fantasist, an idealist. Do I encompass those qualities?

I want to believe I do. My love and my marriage to Declan is not a sham. Our love has always been the center of my universe, the power that could conquer all. But after so much distance and doubt, dancing with Noah feels pretty damn right too.

Noah interrupts my thoughts with a husky whisper, “I should have done this a long time ago, Mia. I was so dumb back then. I can’t believe I let you slip away.”

His admission makes me stagger; all of a sudden I have two left feet. I can’t just let his remark slide. “Yeah, you were pretty dumb. I practically followed you around like a puppy dog waiting on you to ask me out. But you never did.”

Our song is over, but he continues to hold me in his arms, surveying me and everything I just said. “Really? I swear I had no idea. You mean to tell me if I had played my cards right and stuck my head out of my baseball cap for a damn second I could be the one taking you home tonight?”

His words shock me. Does he mean it the way I’m thinking or is he being sweet? Like, take me home to screw me or take me home to our house, where we could have lived as a committed couple? I clench my eyes shut, trying to figure it out.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He nods his head in the direction of the bar. “And the guys from the team have been eyeing me since I walked in. Hopefully they’ll cut me some slack when I tell them I chose to catch up with the one that got away instead of them.” He winks and escorts me back to our table.

Every one of my senses are on overload from his touch, his scent, the sounds of the things coming out of his perfect mouth. Ten year old regrets flood in, drowning any bit of my remaining sanity. In this moment I know what Declan felt when he let that girl from the hotel kiss him. Face to face with temptation, my love for my husband isn’t strong enough to make me turn my back on the what ifs.

“Let me toss back a few drinks for old time’s sake. Can I bring you back anything?”

“No, I think I’m good.” I say, even though I’m far from it. There is not one ‘good’ image running through my head. In fact they are all bad. Naughty. Mischievously wicked.

And they’re making me brave.

“Hey, Noah?” I call out to him, stopping him in his tracks to the bar.

“What’s up?” he cocks his head, smirking.

Can he read me that well? Is the act as a disloyal wife giving me away? The flirting is one thing, but what I’m about to do crosses so many lines it feels criminal. I scan my surroundings to make sure no one’s watching. When I’m positive, I pull him by his collar. Closer to me.

His breath catches. His eyes widen. Our lips are inches apart. If we weren’t in a room full of gossipy people I would get it over with and kiss him right here. They could never understand what that kiss would mean. An answer to so many questions about my past. A retaliation—an eye for an eye—for what Declan did to us.

I forgo the kiss, but lick my lips for effect. “I hear there’s an after party. Will you take me?”

Noah raises an eyebrow, channeling me to focus on those smoldering green eyes. His lips curl into a satisfied smile. He speaks in a growl of a whisper. “Mia, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. I don’t want this night to end because tomorrow you go back to belonging to someone else.”

I’d gone over this day in my head so many times. There is no way it will possibly live up to my larger-than-life expectations. These four years are supposed to be the culmination of every teenager’s existence. The people who roam these halls with me every day will have a kind of ingrained power over me. Sure, I’m my own person, but the things they think about me, the things they say about me, those are the things that I will end up being judged on. Will I be popular? Will I have as many friends as I did in junior high? No matter how hard I try not to be terrified about it, I can’t help but obsess over my first day of high school.

I’d obsessed over everything leading up to today. My outfit, for example. I don’t want it to seem like I’m trying too hard, but I feel the need to be accepted, while maintaining a sense of self. On our trip to the mall for school clothes my mother scolded me when I asked her if she thought a particular shirt was ‘cool enough.’

“Cool enough for who? Don’t ever worry about what other people think of you, Mia. I’ve always loved your independent spirit. You don’t need a clique of girls or some cute boy to make you feel accepted or to stunt your self-esteem. Just be you and everyone will love you. Trust me on this one.”

Without sounding stuck-up, I knew she was right, even if she was biased. I’d never had a problem making or keeping friends. Grace is a prime example of that. I can’t get rid of her even if I tried. And I can’t even fathom not having her in my life. But this is the first time in my nine year academic career that I won’t have her as a sidekick; I’ll be introduced to new faces I hadn’t known in grammar and middle school. Wesmont mixes kids from our town and the next town over, kids I didn’t know—kids who might find a reason not to like me no matter how sweet and congenial I come across.

I hold the printed program card that was mailed to me last week close to my chest. I’d memorized it, but I find comfort in gripping on to it for dear life. And I’m not the only one. The tight fisted pink slip of paper is what tells us freshmen apart from the upper classmen. We look like lost sheep being herded into our homeroom classes.

I walk into Mr. Singer’s classroom and observe the rest of the sheep. Some look terrified, some cocky, some completely indifferent. I’d like to feel that way—indifferent to this whole first day of the rest of my life, but I’m too excited not to care.

I recognize a few familiar faces from junior high, Lisa Cohen and John Pinetti. When their wandering eyes catch mine they motion for me to sit in the empty desk behind them. I walk over, happy not to have to go through all of these emotions alone.

“Hey guys. How was your summer?”

Lisa answers first, ripping my program from my sweaty grip. “Not long enough.” She says, not looking up from the paper. “Do we have lunch together? John has fourth period and I have third. I don’t want to walk into that cafeteria alone. I might die.”

I know the answer to that before she can find it. Yes, Lisa and I share the same lunch period. The gods of freshman programming have showed mercy on me so far. I don’t want to have to walk in there alone either.

“Thank you, God! And it looks like we have algebra together too. Okay, I can breathe now.” She squeals in delight as we settle in our seats. We still have a few minutes before the bell rings, announcing the beginning of our day.

I scope the room, sizing up my new classmates. Will that girl with the freckles be my lab partner? Will that boy with the mohawk be the class clown? I hate judging books by their covers, but right now I have nothing else to base my opinion on.

And then my pulse starts to race at the sight of the boy making his way into my homeroom.
Oh my God!
This is exactly how I pictured this part of high school. Some gorgeous boy would walk through the door and from that moment on my world would rotate on his axis. This is the guy who will make me want to come to school every day. The guy who will make me long for my first real kiss. My first real everything.
Wow! He’s hot!

There are no empty seats around me, Lisa and John. Now I want to curse the fact that I sat back here with them instead of in the front row, where there are plenty of unoccupied desks. Where
he’s
parked his fine ass. A pretty girl with long blond hair held back in an elastic headband sits next to him, punching him on his muscular arm.
Muscles?
I don’t know many boys our age with arms that look like that. But maybe all the boys from junior high had transformed into teenage gods over the summer.