Читать книгу You’ll Find Me in Manhattan - Jill Knapp - Страница 10

As I pulled my jacket tighter around my chest on this particularly chilly May evening, I had a thought. Dating in New York City is not like dating in the rest of America. Or at least, how I imagine it is from the movies and television shows I’ve watched. If you live in, say, Virginia, and you are going on a date with a guy, he will most likely drive to your house, ring your door bell, and then walk you to his car, where he will open the passenger door for you and tell you how pretty you look. You’ll smile as he closes the door, careful not to accidentally hit you with it, and you use the two seconds that it takes him to walk from one side of the car to the other to subtly run your fingers over your hair, because, man, that walk down the driveway really could have messed it up. Then the two of you will drive off to your destination, most likely The Cheesecake Factory, chatting the whole way there about what kind of music you like to listen to while you drive, and whether or not you still use your GPS to get to the mall.

When you live in Manhattan it’s a little different. For one, no one is picking you up. Unless you live right near each other, which almost never happens, in which case you’ll do one of the following together, you are responsible for your own transportation to and from the location that he most likely chose. So what are your choices? There are really only three options. Unless you have a lot of money to spend on a private car (such as an Uber cab), you are either walking, taking a cab, or taking the subway. All of these choices almost guarantee that you will look nothing like how you did when you left your apartment for this date. If you went down into the grody abyss that is the subway, your make-up has most likely melted off and been replaced with soot. There is no avoiding this. Even if you are only taking the train for one stop, you will be dirty when you exit the station. Another choice is walking. This can be nice if your date falls on one of the five days out of the whole year when the weather is bearable and you have on very comfortable shoes. But, you’re going on a date, so why would you be wearing comfortable shoes? So the safest choice is probably to take a cab. Just make sure to account for the copious amounts of traffic in the city. For me, my date was at seven o’clock. Coming from Murray Hill I decided to give myself forty-five minutes to get to the Upper East Side to meet Michael for our dinner at Café Grazie.

I sat in the cab for exactly thirty minutes and made it to my destination with fifteen to spare. Now here’s my trick. After being a gross cab for half an hour, I got on my phone and tried to find the closest Sephora to refresh myself before meeting with my date. You figure it’s been over an hour since I last so much as looked in a mirror, so I need to use these fifteen minutes wisely.

As I follow the map on my phone to the store, a text from Michael comes in. I feel a rush of excitement as I click on the message icon.

On my way ;-)

That was all he wrote, but it was enough for my heart to skip a beat. Olivia was right. This was a big deal. Anything Michael and I had ever done before was in secret. Now we were going out to dinner on a bona fide date. I felt a fresh batch of nerves hit me as I entered the store and caught sight of myself in a mirror.

Damn it, New York, why are you so dirty?

I spent exactly ten minutes in there, applying some vanilla-scented cream to my hands, which were dryer than a mouth of sand from ever-present New York wind. Sad to say it, but it still felt like winter to me in April. I then made my way over to the make-up section, where I unashamedly swept a generous amount of forty-dollar blush on my cheekbones. While utilizing the mirror, I ran my fingers through my curls, trying to get them to resemble something less Bride of Frankenstein and more Carrie Bradshaw. I scanned the store, deliberately avoiding eye contact with anyone who worked there, and found the perfume wall. Now for the final touch. I picked up a Marc Jacobs perfume that I had been mulling over buying for some time now, and spritzed a small amount on my wrists.

I breathed a sigh of relief and turned on my heel to leave the store. That’s when I saw her.

Cassandra.

The two of us hadn’t spoken since Olivia’s engagement party nearly six months ago. I watched as she gingerly made her way around the lip-gloss section, picking up two very similar shades of pink and studying them in the light. I wanted to go over to her and say something. I hated that we weren’t speaking. I wanted to tell her I was going on a date with Michael. That I was a mental case who ran away from Hayden. I wanted to tell her about what a bitch Olivia’s mom was being, and how overwhelmed I was with school. And I wanted to know all about what was going on with her too. Who was she dating? How was work going for her? Did she miss me?

I took a step forward and then I stopped myself. I had a tiny fantasy play out in my mind. One where I walk over to her, and she greets me with the same cold indifference she had for the better part of last year. I felt a pang of humiliation just thinking about it, and I had waited too long for a real shot with Michael to let anything put me in a sour mood tonight.

So I did what I had to do. I glided sideways out of the store and walked back the two blocks to the restaurant, where Michael was already waiting for me.

“I’ll have the steak, medium rare,” Michael uttered, squinting at the drinks menu. “And an old-fashioned.” He subtly chewed on his bottom lip, momentarily distracting me.

The waitress smiled at him, her blue eyes lingering on him a little longer than necessary. They caught eyes as he handed her his menu, and he gave her a polite smile. I felt an instant pang of jealousy.

I smoothed my skirt out, careful not to accidentally hit my tights with a fingernail, and cleared my throat in an attempt to get the pretty waitress’s attention. She turned her gaze to me and offered me a fake smile. “And for you, miss?”

“Penne in vodka sauce, with a side of steamed spinach, I beamed back. She could stare at him all she wanted. The fact was, he was out on a date with me. “And I’ll also have a glass of cabernet. Thank you.” I held out my menu with a triumphant smirk.

The waitress collected our menus and darted off to put our orders in. The restaurant was crowded, not unusual for a Saturday night. Michael caught eyes with me and I immediately melted. I wondered if he could hear my breathing get heavier whenever he was around. His dark hair was perfectly in place, and I wondered if he had gotten a haircut just for our date. He reached across the table for my hand, and I slowly slid mine over to his, scared that if I moved too quickly he’d pull it away in jest.

But he didn’t pull away. He held my hand gently as we sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, gently easing into casual conversation.

“How was the wedding-gown search?” he asked, as the waitress dropped off our drinks. “Did Olivia find the dress of her dreams?”

“She did,” I uttered through a wide smile. I must have looked like such a fool, but I didn’t care. Even being here, now, across the table from Michael as he held my hand and asked me about my day, felt so surreal. Like any moment my alarm clock would go off and I’d wake up to find out that this was all just a cruel dream. That he had gotten back together with his ex-girlfriend, Marge, and I had broken things off with Hayden for nothing.

“What does it look like?” he asked, now smiling himself. For our first official date, Michael looked as extraordinary as ever, donning a dark-blue button-down, grey dress slacks, and black patent-leather shoes. I tried to hide a hard swallow as I thought about us going back to his apartment to be alone when dinner was over. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and tried to focus on the question he had asked me.

“What? I’m not telling you what her dress looks like!” I laughed, and then paused to sip my wine.

Michael’s index finger drew small circles over my open palm on the table. Damn it, I’d give away government secrets if he kept that up!

“Why won’t you tell me?” he asked, finally letting go of my grasp to take a sip of his drink. I felt a little disappointed that the touching had stopped.

“Because then you’ll tell Alex and he’ll know what his bride’s wedding gown looks like,” I raised my eyebrows.

“That’s right, babe. Alex and I sit around gossiping about wedding gowns,” he smirked. “Actually tomorrow he and I have plans to sit down and really bang out the roses-versus-peonies debate.”

I blinked a few a times before answering him. “Did you just call me babe?”

“Penne Vodka?” the waitress plopped the bowl down in front of me, the sauce nearly spilling on my blouse. She carefully set Michael’s food down in front of him, once again grinning like a mental patient. This time I ignored her staring and dug straight into my pasta. She walked away, strutting just a bit. Michael didn’t look at her again.

“Question,” I said to Michael, without looking up.

“Answer,” he replied, while cutting his steak.

“Will you be my date to their wedding?” I held my breath the moment the words escaped my lips.

He looked up at me just as he was about to take a bite of his food. I sat for a moment, perfectly still as I awaited his response. It was kind of a hard question to answer, considering Olivia and Alex hadn’t even set a date yet.

He offered me a small smile and said, “Sure.”

I slowly let out my breath as he went back to eating.