Page 57 of Things I Overshared

“I’m sorry, I didn’t really realize, I guess.”

“Well?”

“Well, what, Em— Mr. Clark?” I say, still unsure what has happened to my stoic travel companion. I’m tempted to glance around for a spaceship and the floating remnants of a human-replacement-tractor-beam.

“Well, I’ve gotten accustomed to it. To you.”

I let out a laugh. “I’veMy Fair Lady’d you?”

“Apparently, because the silence the whole entire drive has put me on edge. Is this punishment? The silent treatment? Because, listen, about yesterday—”

“No! No, I really donotwant to talk about yesterday, okay? I just had . . . an off day, I guess.”

“Come.” He grabs my wrist. It’s not an intimate gesture, but I feel the touch of his hand throughout my whole body. He pulls me to the table and lets go of my wrist to head to the kitchen. “Sit.” I want to say no, mostly because I desperately want to pull off my bra and put up my hair. But his behavior is so odd, I can’t help but obey.

I sit and watch him rummage through the kitchen, enjoying the view.StairMaster. Got to be.He places an unopened bar of Cadbury’s royal dark chocolate on the table in front of me, with a water. I look up at him, confused, and find he’s doing his stare again. My insides, still tingly from the heat lingering on my wrist, tighten under my skin.

“Something has upset you. From today. What was it?”

Okay, what kind of Jedi mind-trick voodoo magic is this? I feel my mouth drop open, but that’s all that happens in response to his question. I am still sitting frozen, staring.

He sits down and settles in his chair like he’s bracing himself. Then he levels me with a weaponized stare—no, smolder—that makes my pulse pound in my head. The look on his face makes me wonder if he really wants to sit and listen to me babble. He couldn’t possibly. But his face also says we’re not getting up until he gets what he wants.

It’s brutally hot.

“You’resureyou want to start me chatting? Because you know once the Sam Train leaves the station, it quickly goes off the rails, deep into the mountains, on and on and—”

“Please,” he pushes, even though his face is still unconvincing.

I open the chocolate. “Well . . . oh, wait. I’ll talk, but you have to eat a bite of this.” I hand him a small rectangle. “Prove you’re not a robot, Emerson Clark.”

He rolls his eyes and takes the chocolate and actually eats it.

“Okay! So, flesh and blood. Doesn’t rule out the vampire thing, but it’s progress.” He sighs. “I mean, when was the last time you had chocolate? Isn’t this the best dark chocolate you’ve ever had in your life? Ugh, it’s almost better than—” His eyes pop up to mine from the table, and I manage to stop myself before sayingbetter than sexout loud. “Um, yeah. Okay. So today. Well, it’s just my job . . . even saying that is odd. It didn’t used to bea job.I loved it at first. But to be told this is what I was born for?This?” I motion toward the binder.

“You don’t enjoy your work?” he asks cautiously.

“I do enjoy a lot of it. I love peopling, as you know—the conversations, and even the thrill of the sale is fun, but I mean

. . . where’s my opus, you know?”

“Hmm.” His brow scrunches.

“Have you seenMr. Holland’s Opus? The movie? Susan made me watch it when we were kids. And, like, all the nineties movies. But anyway, it’s pretty good.” I shake my head, realizing I’m getting distracted again. “So, like my sisters. Skye, she’s this amazing artist, with big dreams and goals. Opus. Obviously, Sadie has written, what, forty novels now? She found her big opus, to write. Susan was always going to head the company—she always wanted to—and it happens to fit how she’s wired perfectly. When Dad retires, no one will be surprised to see her at the helm, right?” He nods. “And Sally is on her track to be a surgeon just like Mom was, healing people and changing lives. A big, grand, meaningful life. Aaaaand then there’s me. Shallow Sam.” I wince as the words come out. It’s maybe the most painful of my nicknames.

“You’re not shallow.” His voice is firm and low.

“Aren’t I? I mean, sales? That’s my big calling?” I scoff and shove a large piece of chocolate in my mouth.

“So, go back to school. Become a pediatrician, after all.” He watches me as I shake my head and smile that he remembers my answer from that silly team-building day.

“I don’t want to start over and do that much school. Not to mention, after my mom, hospitals are . . . not my favorite. Sally is maybe too young to remember, so she doesn’t have the lingering feelings I have, I’m guessing. The hospital was a fun place—we’d go visit Mom at work—and then, it wasn’t. I don’t think I could do it.”

He reaches over and breaks off another tiny piece of chocolate. Satisfaction crosses my face with a wide smile, but I don’t let myself comment.

“It is good. I’d forgotten.” He lifts the piece before putting it in his mouth. He begins to chew, holding eye contact with me. Now my pulse starts to pound not everywhere in my body, but rather in one specific place. I look away first.

“What about you? Are financials your calling? Did you dream of being a big CFO someday?”