Before we get on to the last thing on my list, Daddy, I have a little story to tell you. When I was a freshman, back in the good old days when you were alive, I went to a party. Which, you know, I did probably more than I should, but in hindsight, thank God I had fun then, because your death really took the wind out of my sails, Father. So I’m glad I got some irresponsibility in when I could.

Anyway, I was at a party, and I may have been underage drinking (I was, so go ahead and haunt me). And then this ripple went through the room, this shiver of excitement through the herd . . . because HE was here, the king of RISD, the golden boy, the future bazillionaire. Joshua Park.

Who was this young man, you ask? Let me tell you.

Joshua Park is:

1. extremely, extremely handsome.
2. apparently a certifiable genius who skipped a year in high school.
3. the inventor who designed something when he was 18 YEARS OLD that sold to a huge medical company for a ton of money. And then he kept doing things like that. He donated the design of something that will save premature babies and has been on CNN. Based on the rumors, he was about to invent time travel.

He was a senior at this particular party, and everyone was looking at him like he was Prince Harry. RISD’s pride and joy. Word had it that already, he had endowed the school with a million buckaroos.

Josh is also wicked handsome (I mentioned that, didn’t I?), and too cool for normal activities like parties, so he’s not just a genius and already killing it professionally . . . he also has this loner hot guy vibe. So there he is, and this swarm of people enveloped him, like bees crawling over the hive. Of course I was watching (we all were, and his name was being murmured through the crowd like a wave, Joshua Park, Joshua Park).

And then, the weirdest thing happened. I wanted to . . . I don’t know. Rescue him. I wanted to save him. He looked so stone-faced and uncomfortable, blinking a little too much, like he’d been inside for a week and had gotten his first glimpse of the sun, like a sad (extremely handsome) earthworm. My heart just went out to him.

So you know me, Dad. Save him, I would! Give him someone to talk to, someone who could help him relax and not pump him for info on how much he’s worth. Who doesn’t love your little girl, right? I’m nothing if not adorable, charming and a pretty good flirt (your daughter, after all).

I had no plans to jump him, kidnap him, rob him or trick him into marrying me. I just figured I’d meet the Golden One and befriend him and sure, see if the old Carlisle charm would work.

It didn’t.

I twisted and wove my way over, waited the appropriate amount of time as the throng told him how wonderful/amazing/brilliant he was, and finally, had my chance.

“So you’re Joshua Park,” I said. “The man, the legend.”

He didn’t answer. Looked at me and looked away.

“I’m Lauren Carlisle. Freshman, apparel design.” I smiled and hair-tossed (my hair was longer then, and, again, I was eighteen).

He looked at me and gave a tiny eye roll.

“What?” I asked.

“I wasn’t aware RISD had a clothing design major,” he said.

No, of course not. He was too erudite to know that.

“Do you have something against clothes?” I asked, bristling like an adorable hedgehog.

“No.”

“Good. I wouldn’t think so, since you’re wearing clothes. I mean, technically, they are clothes, if also a sin against humanity.” I smiled (charmingly, trying to give him a second chance). He was wearing baggy tan cargo shorts and an orange POLYESTER T-shirt, white athletic socks and sneakers.

No smile for my comment. He was clearly looking for someone else to talk to. This only made me try harder.

“How are you liking your semester so far?” asked I, taking a sip of my drink.

He shrugged.

“Not the most talkative guy, are you?”

Then he looked me up and down and said the following, which, yes, I remember word for word. “I imagine that because you’re pretty, you think people won’t notice that you’re also shallow and not that interesting.”

My mouth dropped open, Father dear. Also, I was chewing gum, and the gum came tumbling out, but I did catch it. “Wow,” I said. “That’s incredibly insulting. You don’t know me.”

“I don’t need to know you.”

I think my head actually jerked back. I mean, I was just being a normal, happy, friendly college student. We had talked for all of fifteen seconds, and yet he had decided I was shallow and boring? BORING? I was many questionable things, but boring was not one of them!

I squished my gum into my napkin and dropped it in his drink, a move I am proud of to this day. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re condescending?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then please, let me be the first. You’re incredibly condescending. No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

And then I went over to talk to my friend Mara.

I glimpsed him a couple of times before he graduated that spring, but we never talked again.

Until tonight. Are you sensing the anticipation, Dad?

The open house was in full swing, and suddenly, I felt on the alert. Not in a scared way, but just . . . aware. The way you can tell a thunderstorm is coming before you even hear a thing. It took a few minutes, and then I saw him, and I recognized him immediately. He hadn’t changed, even though it’s been six or seven years. Still wicked handsome. Still dressed pretty badly (ill-fitting jeans and the ugliest Western shirt I’ve ever seen).

But this time, he was standing alone.

Looking at me.

He raised his chin in recognition, and when I was done chatting with the city councilman, I went over.

“Hello, Joshua Park,” I said.

“Hello, Lauren Carlisle.”

“You remember me?”

He almost smiled. “Your picture is in the foyer.”

So it was, among many photos hung there to thank the contributors and sponsors of the renovation. “Well, we did meet once,” I said. “You insulted me at a party my freshman year.”

“Also, I insulted you at a party your freshman year.”

Then he smiled, and so did I. “This doesn’t look like apparel design to me,” he said, looking around. (He did remember me!)

“I changed majors my sophomore year.”

“And look at you now.”

My heart felt suddenly too big and hot for my chest. It wasn’t that he was (extremely) handsome . . . it was the . . . the recognition. The way those five words . . . honored me. Almost like he was impressed.

“I like your shirt,” I whispered, then cleared my throat.

He looked down at it. “Yeah . . . I . . . I don’t remember where I got it. My mom, maybe. I didn’t know there was a dress code.” He blushed a little. Gah! He was adorable.

“There’s not. You look fine.”

Then he looked back at me. His eyes were dark and serious, but there was a little light in there, too, a candle on the darkest night. Suddenly, it felt like there was a bridge between us, linking us, and, Dad, I had the semi-coherent thought that if I could walk across that bridge, I’d be in the most beautiful, happiest, safest place in the world.

Then, alas, moment interruptus, courtesy of Elisabetta, one of the little cuties who is a regular here, tugging my hand. “Lauren, Lauren, Lauren, Lauren, come see what I just made! I worked the computer by myself, Lauren, and I made you a picture!”

“It’s all right if you go,” Josh said, and those words hit me in the chest like a sledgehammer, because he sounded . . . he sounded so sad. So lonely. It wasn’t all right.

“Do you want to have a glass of wine sometime?” I asked, ignoring Elisabetta, who was jumping up and down, practically tearing off my arm.

“I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Coffee milk, then? Dunkin’? Water? Tea? Del’s lemonade?”

“Um . . . okay. Yes. I would like that.” He blushed again but didn’t look away.

“I’m asking you on a date. Just to be clear.” Because this moment was infused with importance, with promise, I couldn’t just drift off like a feather on the breeze hoping he got that.

Josh’s face didn’t change. “In that case, definitely yes.”

Thank God. Fortune favors the bold and all that. “Okay. Um . . . Elisabetta, honey, one second.” I pulled her hand free and took out my phone.

“She likes you,” Elisabetta told him. (Awesome wingman, my Elisabetta.)

“I . . . I hope you’re right,” he said to the girl, and my heart, Dad! My heart!

Guess I wasn’t just pretty and shallow anymore.

He was looking at me so . . . so thoroughly, like he could see that bridge, too, and he wanted to cross it, too.

“Your number, sir?” I asked, dousing any cool-girl vibe I might’ve had going.

He gave it, and my fingers shook as I typed it in. Then I held up the phone and took his picture. “So I can remember that shirt,” I said.

He smiled, and a bolt of pure golden light flew across that bridge straight into my soul, and listen to me, Dad, I have never, ever, not even once, had thoughts like this. “Thank you for coming tonight,” I said.

“I was just walking past.”

“Don’t ruin it. Let me think you were stalking me in a not-creepy way for the past few years.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Hush. A girl can dream.” And then . . . back to awkward. “I mean, not that I was dreaming you were . . . and also, obviously, I’m not a girl, I’m a woman. Never mind! Bye.” Then I let Elisabetta pull me away, and I looked over my shoulder.

He was still looking. A very positive sign.

So, Dad, that brings me to the last thing on my list.

1. Meet the man you’ll marry.

Consider it done, Daddy. Consider it done.