Page 15 of Love’s a Script (Hearts Collide #1)

Chapter Fifteen

CHESA SALVADOR: Can you explain the meaning behind the name of your premarital workshop, “Pentimento”?

BLAIRE HATFIELD: Yeah, so a pentimento is an Italian word meaning “to repent.” I know that sounds grim, but it also describes a phenomenon that can occur with old oil paintings where the artist’s sketches, previous drafts, or mistakes that were painted over begin to peek through the completed work.

CS: How does this concept inform your approach to premarital counseling?

BH: I ask my clients to let go of the idealized version of their soon-to-be spouses because holding on to it can sometimes mean forgoing a more beautiful, interesting version of their partner.

I want couples to acknowledge the whole, not just the nice veneer, to foster a deeper connection that can help them in the future when conflict inevitably arises.

* * *

At the activity sign-up desk, situated against a vacant wall on the main floor, Ruben was surprised to see the forms were filling up with names.

There were calls to play classic board games, participate in scavenger hunts, and join a guitar jam session.

One could practice yoga in the lobby, screen movies in the lobby, and do karaoke in the lobby.

Even the hotel’s laundry services had a sign-up sheet.

Under normal circumstances, Ruben wouldn’t have bothered browsing the activity desk, but with no place to go and no schedule to adhere to, he’d joined Mary after breakfast in search of entertainment.

“See anything interesting?” Mary asked when they converged at the middle of the long table after starting on opposite ends.

“Nah,” he said. “What about you?”

“Polka dancing,” she said.

“Really?”

“Yeah, you know, to release the stress of the day.”

Ruben smiled picturing Mary getting down and folksy while wearing an outfit more suitable for lounging. “I’m sure you’ll have fun,” he said.

“Oh, I’m not actually going to do it.”

“Why not?”

“The class requires a partner.”

The instinct that had Ruben offering Mary his spare bed moved him to now say, “Tell me when and where.”

Mary laughed.

“I’m serious,” he said. There was far worse company to keep than his lovely matchmaker’s. “Let’s do the polka.”

“No, that’s okay. You don’t have to.”

“What will I do instead? Ski?”

After consideration, Mary said, “All right, but promise me you’ll tell me if you’re not enjoying yourself so we can bail.”

He agreed, and an hour later, he was standing in a bare conference hall with Mary and eight other couples for Gisela’s Polka Dance 101.

It had been easy to commit to the class when it had just been a concept, but now he was uncertain if the year of tap lessons in elementary school would carry him through.

“Today you will learn the polka,” Gisela said. “And by the end, you should be able to hold your own on any dance floor.”

They began the class out of hold, practicing the basic steps. Half jumps up and down, half jumps side to side. Over and over again, working up to the tempo of the zippy, brass-instrument filled music playing from a small portable speaker.

“We’re kinda killing this,” he whispered to Mary who, like him, had picked up the choreography relatively quickly.

When it was time for them to get into hold, Gisela said, “The polka requires you and your partner leave enough space between your bodies to pass a melon.”

“What type of melon?” one man asked.

“A sensible golden honeydew,” Giselle replied automatically.

As Ruben turned to get into position, he was met with Mary in a tank top. When the hell had she removed her sweater? The tops of her breasts were visible with the new neckline, and he stalled as if it were the first time seeing cleavage.

“Do you wanna try?” Mary asked, dragging him out of his stupor.

“Yeah, let’s do it.” He closed the distance between them, placing one hand high on her back while she rested hers on his shoulder.

They completed the setup by loosely joining their free outstretched hands.

Gisela went around the room, adjusting people’s forms, and when she made it to them, she pressed Ruben’s hand more firmly between Mary’s shoulder blades.

“Support her. And no slouching, both of you.”

As Mary fixed her posture, her breasts pushed into the space between them, and Ruben pretended not to notice as he kept his eyes on the center of Mary’s forehead.

He was so focused on not looking down, in fact, that he missed the violins that cued the first step of the dance and was out of sync with Mary for the remainder of the routine.

The second attempt didn’t go much better.

All the moves he’d nailed on his own had become clumsy with a partner.

“I think I might’ve spoken too soon,” he said, frustrated.

“No, we’ve got this,” Mary said, her hands tightening where they held him. “I think the problem is you’re leaping like a gazelle, but my legs are much shorter than yours.”

So on their next trial, while their instructor shouted reminders about posture, foot articulation, and leaving space for the honeydew, Ruben focused on shortening his steps.

And for the first time, he didn’t completely mess up their flow.

They continued to improve, prancing, albeit stiffly, across the floor.

“You having fun?” Mary asked him during a brief water break. “It’s okay if you’re not.”

“No, yeah, I am,” he said. That wasn’t entirely true, but he was committed to finishing. During one run-through, Ruben, so intent on perfectly executing an element, tripped over his own feet and nearly toppled onto Mary.

“I’m so sorry,” he said when they’d straightened, but she was laughing, hard.

The bright sound and her delightful eye crinkles sent goosebumps along his arms. Beautiful.

Beautiful. Beautiful , was the sudden chant in his head that replaced all concern for choreography.

His footsteps were lighter as they bounced and leaped and spun past other couples.

By the time Gisela shouted, “From the top for the last time!” the space between Ruben and Mary could fit a citrus at best, and the routine included a whole lot more intermediary steps not associated with the polka, and he imagined they looked far from refined reeling around the room.

He wanted to remain suspended in the moment, force his lungs to accommodate, his legs to carry on, and the lively tune to play indefinitely.

But the final note did come, and they collapsed to the floor, breathless. Grinning.

* * *

Mary felt she’d lived several days by bedtime. She was freshly bathed and sitting against her headboard in a tightly cinched robe, half watching a wedding-planning reality show while Ruben was in the shower, whistling the polka tune they’d danced to earlier in the day.

She’d enjoyed the lesson with Ruben more than she’d wanted to, but through it, she’d realized she’d given her emotions too much power.

She didn’t combust feeling the muscles in his shoulder, nor had she melted into a puddle while watching his full lips mouth the count of the dance.

He was just a man she happened to find exceedingly handsome, and she’d survive however many days they were stuck in this hotel room together.

“Your calves feel like they’ve been run across a washboard, right?” Ruben said when he entered the room, along with the scent of the hotel-provided soap.

“A little,” she replied, averting her eyes after noticing how low his sweatpants rode on his hips.

“What are we watching?” he asked as he followed her by sitting up in his bed.

“Nothing really.” She slid the remote across the nightstand to him. “You can change it.”

But Ruben didn’t move for the remote, and for a few minutes, they watched a couple and a wedding planner—the star of the show—tour a venue and complain about it every step of the way.

“What are they even talking about? Not chic enough?” Ruben said, gesturing at the TV. “It’s a damn castle.”

“I think they’re looking for something understated. An art gallery or an upscale restaurant, maybe.” As she suggested this, the scene cut to the pair inside a museum, gushing over it. Mary was also able to accurately predict the kinds of florals and food service style the couple ultimately chose.

“I’m impressed,” Ruben said. “I don’t know how you made sense of their confused visions.”

She shrugged. “I get a lot of practice interpreting what people say they want.”

“I’ve been wondering,” he said, “how hard is it keeping all your clients’ information straight in your head?”

“I always have access to everyone’s profiles, so I don’t have to rely on my memory. But some details stick more than others. Like, I remember your top travel destination because it diverged from the typical answers I see. I also find it easy to remember client archetypes and?—”

“Client archetypes?” Ruben asked.

“It’s how we sometimes categorize clients unofficially.”

“And what are these categories?”

“Oh, uh, they just help us understand a client and their worldview,” she said vaguely.

“Are they pejorative?”

“No,” Mary replied, regretting mentioning it at all. “They’re blunt, yes. And they can sometimes sound a bit like a psychological evaluation, but that’s why we don’t share them with clients.”

He nodded. “So what archetype do I fall under?”

“Did you not hear what I just said?”

“I did, but we both know I’m not like other clients.” He smiled mischievously, spurring warmth across Mary’s body.

“I won’t be the reason you cry yourself to sleep tonight.”

“You don’t think I can handle it?” he asked, amused.

Mary thought about it for a moment. “No, I believe you’re one of the few who could.” Ruben valued candor. It was a quality she personally and professionally admired in him. “All right, is this conversation off the record?” she asked.

“Completely,” he said. “I don’t conduct interviews while lying in bed in my pajamas.”

The reminder of the unusual situation they were in further assured Mary of her otherwise questionable choice to tell Ruben, “You’re what we call a duck.”

“A duck?” he said as he sat taller in bed, his face lighting up. “Like the bird?”

“Yeah, you’re someone who, on the surface, appears chill, even-keeled like a duck gliding across the water, but underneath, you’re always thinking and assessing like the fast-moving duck feet underwater.

For matchmaking, it’s relevant because you’re the sort who could start to over-intellectualize your feelings. ”

“Jesus,” Ruben said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, and how did you come to that diagnosis?”

“You’re a self-identified smartass, generally confident, but you also write the longest post-date assessments out of any of my clients past or present.”

He laughed. “Really? They’re that long?”

“Absolutely.”

Ruben’s laughter swelled, and Mary joined in.

“My bad,” he said. “I’ll be more aware of the word count going forward.”

“No, don’t worry about it. As I said, you’re the only one who does it, so I have time to read your op-eds.”

Mary returned her focus to the show, thinking they’d come to a natural conclusion on the topic, but then Ruben asked, “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“If you came to you for matchmaking, what category would you fall under?”

She shifted in place, uncomfortable with the sudden focus. “Honestly, I don’t know. It’s hard to self-assess accurately. I need distance.”

“Okay, how about you from a decade ago?”

She paused. It was an intriguing exercise, and scrutinizing the old her came easy.

“I’d definitely categorize nineteen- or twenty-year-old Mary as a chameleon.

She was someone who tweaked her interests, her personality, and even her sleep schedule to better suit whoever she was with.

In matchmaking, that type of client can be difficult because they don’t quite know what they want but also seem content with anything.

It’s hard to narrow down and filter out candidates for them. ”

Becoming a matchmaker had been an eye-opener.

It had changed how Mary viewed romance because she had the honor of witnessing great loves and true loves.

Suddenly a boyfriend who, for instance, didn’t know her last name was Neilson and not Nelson after a year of dating wasn’t going to cut it anymore.

Ruben’s persistent gaze brought Mary to the present. He was studying her like he was seeing her for the first time. She’d said too much. Gotten a little too real.

“I hope you don’t think my past personal shortcomings affect my competency as a matchmaker,” she said.

“No, not at all,” he replied. “It makes you more human and less like some omniscient deity flinging heart-shaped arrows at people.”

She laughed stiltedly. “Okay, good. Just making sure.”

They turned their attention back to the TV program, but Mary continued to feel the raw singe of exposure even after the room went dark for the night.