First Real Kiss

“What’s the point, then?”

“That I don’t remember the day, and my injury wasn’t treated professionally.”

“So it wasn’t reported, and this list might be incomplete?” I asked. “Fine. That’s a good point.” A willow branch scratched against the glass of the car window. “But for whatever reason, I just get the feeling I should pursue this list. I guess I understand if you were hurt in the Great Quake and it’s uncomfortable for you, and you would rather not be involved.” As a life coach with loads of counseling training, I should have been more sensitive to that.

“It’s not that.” He fiddled with the air conditioning controls. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

Again with that false hope hang-up. When would he ever get past that? “Don’t worry. I’m okay with having false hope. Hope floats, and it lifts me higher. I don’t worry about being lifted, even if I fall—because at least I’ve had the view.”

“Oh, so you don’t hate a view. I get it.” Twinkles filled his eyes. He leaned over, took my chin, and kissed me. “Let’s get after it. Who’s first on the list?”

“So, you’ll help me?” Elation rippled through me. While laughing, I said, “I love you, Luke.”

Both of us froze solid.

Nervous laughter. “It’s a figure of speech.” I pushed his arm. He looked down at his arm where I’d touched him, then he took my hand.

“It was inevitable.” His voice was full of meaning—meaning I couldn’t understand. “Let’s go see”—he took the list—“Gilson Kelso.”

Gilson Kelso it was. On Elm Street.

Armed with the clipboard stack of release forms that Marcia had provided, we showed up at Mr. Kelso’s house. Luke looked at me, as if to ask permission, and then rang the doorbell.

Dogs barked loudly, viciously. I took a half-step back.

“You don’t like dogs?” Luke asked.

“I like dogs. But these sound …” I pictured the jugular vein thing again. “However, if it means we can find the guy who rescued me, it’s worth it.” If only I’d worn a turtleneck today. Made of Kevlar.

“I’ve got you.” Luke stepped in front of me protectively. “Dogs like me.”

Everyone seemed to like Luke. Except me, who seemed to be confessing love for him all over the place.

Did I?

Love him?

I couldn’t. There was a man out there in the world somewhere who I’d vowed to find and love if he’d have me. I couldn’t let Luke or his insanity-inducing kisses confuse me.

Loud footfalls sounded, then some yelling for the dogs to shush. The door opened ten degrees, stopped by a door chain. From the bottom, four dogs’ snouts poked out, all panting. A face appeared in the crack.

“What do you want? Who are you? Didn’t you see the no soliciting sign?”

“Are you Gilson Kelso?” Luke asked. “This is Sheridan Chandler, the Library Rescue. She’s looking for someone from the day of the Great Quake.”

And that’s how it began.

House after house—from Ianthe Papadopoulos to Brian O’Brien—we knocked and were either rebuffed or embraced. Often both, in that order.

“You’re the Library Rescue! I saw you on TV!” I got that a few times.

Luke reaped “Oh, hi there, Dr. Hotwell,” accompanied by batting eyelashes about five times.

All in all, we covered twenty-eight of the seventy-two addresses, all in one day.

Only fifteen agreed to sign the release form. Marcia wouldn’t like that.

The sun dipped low on the ocean horizon, and my knuckles were starting to feel chafed from so many raps on front doors, even though Luke and I took turns. Why didn’t people have doorbells? This was the twenty-first century.