position, his strengths, his weaknesses—which, in my opinion, are few, though they’re plenty in his—and his goals. He’s been with CNN since he graduated from Emory with a double major in journalism and English, which was long before I moved to Atlanta. With his good looks and charisma, he could be a reporter or an anchor, but he’s shy and better suited behind the scenes, so he says.
It’s the creative side of him that thrives in production. Plus, he performs well under pressure. That’s why I know this job will be his eventually, if not now. He’ll keep moving up the chain of command until he decides to stop. He doesn’t want to leave Atlanta, and he doesn’t want to rule the world.
Family’s everything to Wade. He’ll never live more than three hundred miles away from his momma.
I don’t blame him, really. She’s the type of mother you read about—soft and loving while firm. She raised him alone after his father took off when he was five. The man Wade calls Dad married his mom when he was in elementary school. He’s an only child, and it shows.
Atlanta works for me, too, because I can also get home easily. It was convenient for a while, but I haven’t made the trip in a couple of years. I just… couldn’t.
We stop for breakfast at a diner outside of Macon. Because it takes our bodies a while to catch up with our minds each day, neither of us likes to eat first thing in the morning.
Wade waits patiently in the parking lot with me while I brush my hair and put on some lip gloss, but his stomach isn’t as tolerant. I can hear it over the radio.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I open my car door.
He shakes his head and gets out. I wait until he’s locked the car to walk over to him. “You’re going to scarf a heart attack omelet, and you’re prettying up your lips to do it.”
I shrug and let him open the door of the diner. He steps in close after he crosses the threshold, and warmth spreads through every part of me he’s touching.
“Two?” the hostess asks, smiling as she picks up two menus before we even answer. She walks across the room with purpose and stops when she reaches a booth in the back.
It’s an old-fashioned place, with Formica countertops and pleather stools. They serve malts and Coke floats anytime, day or night. For us, it’s milkshakes with breakfast. It’s a tradition we started the Christmas before we moved in together, when he took me home with him to meet his family for the first time.
We’ve spent the last two Thanksgivings in Savannah and the last two Christmases with my family at my siblings’ homes. He’s never been to New Orleans, and for the first time, I let myself hope that he’ll somehow work it out to be there with me. I want to show him the house I grew up in, walk down Bourbon with him after dark on Christmas Eve, and listen as brass Christmas music pours from every club.
“Hey,” he says. He moves the salt and pepper shakers to the end of the table so there’s nothing between us. “Where’d you go?”
I reach for a menu and open it, even though I already know what I’ll order. “I was thinking about how much I wish I could take you to Bourbon Street on Christmas Eve.”
He immediately looks down at the menu on the table. “Really?”
The doubt in his voice pricks at my conscience. My avoidance of my hometown has obviously bothered him more than he’s ever let on.
“Yes. New Orleans is a… Well, it’s like a different world. I think you’ll like it.”
“I may not make it until Christmas Day, but that’s worst-case scenario.” He reaches across the table for my hands, folding them in his. “What’s Bourbon like on New Year’s Eve?”
“I don’t know, but we could find out together.”
The server interrupts to ask for our orders, and we both ask for greasy, cholesterol-laden omelets and chocolate shakes. Her eyebrows lift, but she nods and takes the menus from us without a word.
Wade waits until we’re alone again to
It’s the creative side of him that thrives in production. Plus, he performs well under pressure. That’s why I know this job will be his eventually, if not now. He’ll keep moving up the chain of command until he decides to stop. He doesn’t want to leave Atlanta, and he doesn’t want to rule the world.
Family’s everything to Wade. He’ll never live more than three hundred miles away from his momma.
I don’t blame him, really. She’s the type of mother you read about—soft and loving while firm. She raised him alone after his father took off when he was five. The man Wade calls Dad married his mom when he was in elementary school. He’s an only child, and it shows.
Atlanta works for me, too, because I can also get home easily. It was convenient for a while, but I haven’t made the trip in a couple of years. I just… couldn’t.
We stop for breakfast at a diner outside of Macon. Because it takes our bodies a while to catch up with our minds each day, neither of us likes to eat first thing in the morning.
Wade waits patiently in the parking lot with me while I brush my hair and put on some lip gloss, but his stomach isn’t as tolerant. I can hear it over the radio.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I open my car door.
He shakes his head and gets out. I wait until he’s locked the car to walk over to him. “You’re going to scarf a heart attack omelet, and you’re prettying up your lips to do it.”
I shrug and let him open the door of the diner. He steps in close after he crosses the threshold, and warmth spreads through every part of me he’s touching.
“Two?” the hostess asks, smiling as she picks up two menus before we even answer. She walks across the room with purpose and stops when she reaches a booth in the back.
It’s an old-fashioned place, with Formica countertops and pleather stools. They serve malts and Coke floats anytime, day or night. For us, it’s milkshakes with breakfast. It’s a tradition we started the Christmas before we moved in together, when he took me home with him to meet his family for the first time.
We’ve spent the last two Thanksgivings in Savannah and the last two Christmases with my family at my siblings’ homes. He’s never been to New Orleans, and for the first time, I let myself hope that he’ll somehow work it out to be there with me. I want to show him the house I grew up in, walk down Bourbon with him after dark on Christmas Eve, and listen as brass Christmas music pours from every club.
“Hey,” he says. He moves the salt and pepper shakers to the end of the table so there’s nothing between us. “Where’d you go?”
I reach for a menu and open it, even though I already know what I’ll order. “I was thinking about how much I wish I could take you to Bourbon Street on Christmas Eve.”
He immediately looks down at the menu on the table. “Really?”
The doubt in his voice pricks at my conscience. My avoidance of my hometown has obviously bothered him more than he’s ever let on.
“Yes. New Orleans is a… Well, it’s like a different world. I think you’ll like it.”
“I may not make it until Christmas Day, but that’s worst-case scenario.” He reaches across the table for my hands, folding them in his. “What’s Bourbon like on New Year’s Eve?”
“I don’t know, but we could find out together.”
The server interrupts to ask for our orders, and we both ask for greasy, cholesterol-laden omelets and chocolate shakes. Her eyebrows lift, but she nods and takes the menus from us without a word.
Wade waits until we’re alone again to
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