City Love Page 8

  Again with the piercing blue eyes. My heart skips a beat.

  “That’s a definite possibility,” I say.

  “How can we make it definitely definite?”

  “Promise to tell me another secret next time.”

  “Deal. I can also promise more witty repartee.”

  “Then I’ll definitely be back.” I could totally hang with him all day. But it’s time to meet Rosanna at the arch. “Catch you later.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  As I walk away, he reaches out to me. His hand brushes my arm for a second. A shiver goes down my spine.

  “I’m Jude, by the way.”

  “Darcy. Awesome meeting you.”

  “It was awesome meeting you, Darcy.”

  Jude is a good guy. He’s warm, outgoing, funny, and sharp as a tack. The kind of boy I’d fall in love with if I were still that kind of girl.

  I’m proud of myself for laying some sweet game on him. There’s no reason boys should get to call all the shots.

  TWELVE

  ROSANNA

  D CALLED ME FIVE MINUTES after I left the party last night.

  Me: Hello?

  D: Miss me yet?

  Me: Who is this?

  D: Donovan. D. The guy you were having a scintillating discussion about weirdos with?

  Me: Oh yeah. That guy.

  D: I wanted to make sure you’re getting home okay.

  Me: Um, sure. My apartment is only a few blocks away.

  D: Just watch out for weirdos.

  Me: Will do.

  D: So have you given any more thought to having dinner with me?

  Me: You mean . . . in the last five minutes?

  D: Specifically within that time frame, yes.

  Me: I don’t know. . . .

  D: Sounds like you might need some convincing.

  Me: Convincing of what?

  D: That you want to have dinner with me. I think you know you do deep down. But sometimes awareness has to be coaxed to the surface. Also, I’m not taking no for an answer.

  Me:

  D: Okay, why do I keep coming off as a creeper when I’m trying to be smooth? All I’m saying is this: I had fun talking with you and I’d love to see you again.

  Me: Thanks. That’s . . .

  D: Do you have plans tomorrow night?

  Me: No.

  D: Then you’ll have dinner with me?

  Me: Yes.

  So we’re going out tonight. I’m still not sure how it happened. One minute I was all prepared to let him down easy. The next I was too shocked to invent fictional plans.

  I didn’t want to be flattered. But I was totally flattered.

  On the way to dinner, I stop at an ATM for emergency cash. I really have to set up a new account at one of the major New York banking chains. One of them had a sign in the window offering a special promotion for signing up. I’ll go check that out tomorrow morning. There’s no way I’m going to keep getting slammed with withdrawal fees. Doing a mental calculation of grocery money for the weekend, I decide to take out twenty dollars. I tap in the amount and wait while the ATM whirrs. It spits out a twenty. I fold it into my busted wallet, then take my receipt.

  The receipt says I have seventy-three cents left in my account.

  Um. That’s impossible. I can’t have seventy-three cents left. All the money I have saved is in this account.

  But that’s what the receipt says.

  I moved to New York determined to make it work. Despite crunching the numbers before I moved and discovering that my camp salary would cover housing and not much else, I convinced myself that being frugal would prevail. I moved here refusing to be afraid. Of course I was still afraid. But I squashed that fear under the hope of creating a better life. Or I thought I did. Now I realize that I’m still afraid. Really afraid. New York City without money is a scary place.

  Seventy-three cents.

  This is happening.

  Frozen in front of the ATM, I hastily wipe away tears. I’m mortified even though no one can see how much money I have left.

  Breathe. You can do this. You’re getting paid tomorrow. Everything will work out.

  Reminding myself that failure is not an option is all it takes to get it together. I fold the receipt into a tiny square and stash it deep in my bag.

  D said we’re having dinner at the Waverly Inn. We’re supposed to meet at the bar in ten minutes. My stomach is in knots as I walk down Bank Street. When I researched the Waverly Inn, I found out it’s one of those überschmancy places that’s impossible to get into. Otherwise known as the polar opposite of my scene. The place will be packed with trendy hipsters. Probably even celebs. My wardrobe is not ready for this. I’m teetering awkwardly in the only remotely nice pair of shoes I have, which are sporting a loose right heel for this evening’s excursion. And of course my only decent top was ruined by Nasty Girl last night. I don’t own any dresses. Whenever I needed a dress back home, Mom would let me borrow one of hers. So I’m wearing my second-best top, which is so far below my best top in both quality and appearance that I’m embarrassed for D to see it. Maybe I should have taken Darcy up on her offer to enhance my wardrobe this afternoon. She wanted to buy me new clothes, but there’s no way I could have let her do that. We just window shopped in Soho instead. Picking out things I liked and pretending I could buy them if I wanted to was actually fun.

  The Waverly Inn is adorable from the outside. It sits nestled on a quaint West Village corner, tastefully surrounded by ivy and tiny white lights. A ripple of anxiety shoots through me. How can I even go in there? The second I open that door, I will immediately be exposed as an impostor. I can already see everyone turning to gawk at me when I walk in. They’ll be wondering why such a scruffy girl dared to venture into the Land of the Privileged.

  Calm down. You can do this.

  Part of me wants to stay out here a little longer until I get myself together. But it’s already eight. I take a deep breath. Then I open the door.

  D is sitting at the end of the bar. He’s wearing a pale blue polo shirt and dark jeans that look brand new. His black shoes are very shiny. I wobble on my discount heels. The right one will probably fall off any second now.

  D takes a sip of his drink. He’s having some tan whiskey in a short, fat glass with ice. He looks so good sitting at the bar in his fancy clothes with his fancy drink. My breath catches in my throat. He glances toward the door, smiling when he sees me. Then he gets up and comes over.

  “Good to see you,” D says. He kisses me on the cheek. His hands are cool on my arms. I hope I don’t start sweating. It took all of my willpower to stay calm and collected on the walk over. Not that I’m anywhere near calm and collected.

  “This place is gorgeous.” Bronze fixtures around the bar glow in the dim light. A glimpse of the main dining area reveals a boisterous cluster of tables where sophisticated couples and groups are clearly enjoying themselves. The waiters are wearing dress shirts and ties with crisp white aprons tied around their waists.

  “So are you,” D says.

  A wave of nausea crashes into me. How can I eat when I’m this nervous?

  “Would you like a drink at the bar?” D asks. “Or should we go to our table?”

  “The table is fine.” Would he think it’s lame that I don’t drink? He has to find out eventually. But he’s three years older than me. This won’t be the only time I’m not doing something he does. Alcohol isn’t something I’m dying to try again. I tried some vodka my parents’ friends brought when they came over for dinner last year. It tasted like fire. Not an experience I want to repeat. It’s not even legal for me to drink, anyway.

  D approaches the hostess at her podium. She could be a supermodel. I feel even more awkward in my ramshackle outfit.

  “Reservation for Clark at eight?” D says.

  She checks her screen and gives D a bright smile. “Right this way, Mr. Clark.”

  D steps aside so I can walk in front of him. He puts his han
d on my lower back, guiding me forward. I focus on not tripping while I follow the hostess. Why oh why does my heel have to be loose the first time I’m at a fancy restaurant? I steal glimpses of people at their tables as we pass by. Most of them are impeccably dressed. Even a table of guys in fitted tees and jeans are all extremely polished. How are they pulling that off? If I showed up tonight in a tee and jeans, I’m sure the hostess would have conveniently “lost” D’s reservation.

  When we get to our table and the hostess pulls out my chair, I try to play it off like chairs are pulled out for me every day. But when she drapes a heavy white napkin over my lap, I freak out inside all over again. This dinner is not just a date. It’s a test of endurance.

  “Thank you,” I tell the hostess as D sits down across from me. Maybe I can hide behind my menu for a few minutes until I get my bearings. Then I notice the prices. I knew this place would be expensive. But these prices are outrageous. I didn’t even know you could charge this much for food. There’s truffle mac and cheese for ninety-five dollars. That must be a typo. How can mac and cheese be ninety-five dollars?

  “Sorry, but um . . .” I lean in toward D. He leans in, too.

  “Celeb sighting?” he asks.

  “Actually, I was wondering how mac and cheese could be ninety-five dollars.”

  He laughs. “Ridiculous, right? But wait until you taste it. You won’t know what hit you.”

  “Wait, you’re ordering it?”

  “Why not? It’s insanely delicious. The plate is supposed to be for a larger table, but you could always take the rest home.”

  The concept of a ninety-five-dollar takeout container of mac and cheese is beyond me.

  “Oprah was at the table next to mine the last time I was here. She ordered the mac and cheese for her table. If it’s good enough for Oprah, it’s good enough for us. Am I right?”

  I nod in a haze. He was sitting next to Oprah? I freaking love Oprah. She is a true humanitarian. She spreads the love and the wealth and wants to educate the world. And D was sitting next to her? I am totally counting that as being one degree from Oprah.

  “Are you okay?” D asks.

  “Yeah, I’m just processing. I kind of love Oprah.”

  “Celebs are always here. We’ll definitely see someone you know.”

  We survey the other diners surreptitiously.

  “See anyone famous?” I ask.

  “No. You?”

  “No.”

  “No worries. It’s still on the early side. This was the best reservation I could get on short notice.”

  Even I know that eight is prime time for dinner reservations in New York. Finding out how D got this reservation only one day in advance would probably infuriate me. Inhabitants of the Land of the Privileged are gifted with a wide array of perks. The Waverly Inn menu is a good example. Do these people realize how lucky they are to be able to have dinner here whenever they want? True, I might not be the only person being treated tonight. Other guys on dates might have saved up for a long time to be able to take their girlfriends here. But for the most part, the kind of people who eat at the Waverly Inn are the kind of people who consider dropping a few hundred dollars for dinner just another Thursday night out. The menu blows my mind. Everything is so outrageously overpriced. Thirty dollars for pasta? Really? This is how investment bankers impress the ladies? What kind of materialistic airhead would be charmed by this charade?

  The truffle mac and cheese arrives with a flourish. It smells amazing. It looks amazing. D motions for me to pick up my side plate. I hold it out for him to serve me some mac and cheese decadence. Not sure of which fork I should use, I decide to go for the one farthest to the outside. I sink my fork into the gooey cheese delight. The scent of truffle oil tickles my nose. D watches while I take my first bite.

  “Oh. My. God,” I say. This is the most incredible thing I’ve ever tasted. In my whole entire life.

  “There’s more where that came from.”

  “You have to stop me from eating the whole plate. I could eat this every day and never get tired of it.”

  D leans back in his chair, sipping the glass of red wine he ordered with dinner. He gives me a contemplative smile.

  “What?” I press my napkin against my lips. “Do I have cheese on my face?”

  “I love that you appreciate this so much.”

  I can’t deny it. He got me. He got me with the fancy restaurant and the one degree of Oprah and the most decadent truffle mac and cheese deliciousness I’ve ever tasted in my life. Remaining unimpressed would be futile.

  “Thank you for bringing me here,” I say.

  “Why do you sound like it’s the end of the night? It’s only the beginning.”

  “No, I just . . . wanted you to know how much I appreciate it. I’ve never been to a restaurant like this.”

  “Like I said. It’s only the beginning.”

  D may be a materialistic manwhore, but he’s also very fortunate. Money gives him the ability to do things I will probably never be able to.

  “What’s it like being a grownup?” I ask.

  D laughs. “It definitely doesn’t suck. Having the freedom to do whatever I want, whenever I want is awesome. Growing up on the Upper West was cool, but I couldn’t wait to have my own place.”

  “You said your apartment needs work?”

  “My loft, yeah. We renovated, but there are still some things I want to do.” His eyes sparkle at me in the candlelight. “So what about you? What do you want to do with your life?”

  “I want to be a social worker.”

  “Admirable profession. Do you plan on staying in New York?”

  “Definitely. I’ve always wanted to live here.”

  “You’ll have a tough time on a social worker’s salary in Manhattan. Rents are insane.”

  “I don’t care. I just want to do what I’m passionate about and help make the world a better place while I’m doing it.”

  “What makes you so passionate about social work?”

  The main reason is something I could never tell D. Or anyone. When people ask why I want to go into social work, I focus on our society’s abysmal moral standards instead of revealing my darkest secret.

  “Watching people interact with each other,” I say. “Seeing how much people lack compassion. Most people don’t realize the effect they have on the people around them. Or the effect they have on the whole world. They just don’t get it. Yesterday I was at the 7-Eleven and I saw a dad with his son who looked like he was seven or eight. His son was hungry. He wanted a hot dog. When he reached for one of the hot dogs in the warmer, his dad slapped his hand away. Not a light tap. A full-on, hard slap. His dad yelled at him for how he’s always doing stupid stuff like that. He was like, ‘What’s wrong with you?! Why are you so stupid?’ But that wasn’t the most surprising part. Parents mistreating their kids is unfortunately a lot more common than we realize. What struck me the most was that the boy didn’t cry. At first I couldn’t understand that. How could he take his father physically and verbally abusing him without a trace of emotion on his face? Then I realized that the boy was hardening himself against feeling emotion. You could tell his dad yells at him like that all the time. And if he slaps the boy like that in public, what happens at home must be way worse. That little boy has programmed himself to avoid crying when his dad treats him like dirt. He’s eight years old and already cold as ice.”

  I take a shaky sip of water. I’m getting way too worked up for a first date. But I can’t help it. Kids being mistreated in any way makes me so angry. My heart aches for all the pain and suffering that boy has to endure for many years to come.

  “That’s how boys grow up to be assholes,” D says. “He probably used to cry when he was younger and his dad made fun of him for being weak. As if being in touch with your emotions is a bad thing.”

  “Now there’s a generation of emotionally immature guys who are unable to open up in a relationship. Men like that douche are raising the next gene
ration of detached, unfeeling pricks. I couldn’t stand watching him. It was horrible.”

  “Did you say anything?”

  “I wanted to. I was about to go up and ask him to please stop abusing his son or I’d call the police. But he would have just laughed at me. Nothing I could have said would have changed him. And I was afraid he’d take it out on the boy. His anger at me would have come out later that night, or the next day, or the next week. And it would have been my fault. So I stayed quiet even though it was killing me to not say anything.”

  “You did the right thing. That guy was deranged. He might have hit you. Better to stay out of it.”

  “I disagree. I hate myself for not saying anything. If no one speaks up when they see someone being mistreated, these cycles of abuse will continue. We all need to take a stand. Why do people have to be so disappointing? We’re better than this. As a democratic society, we are better than this. I need to have more courage next time.”

  D leans back in his chair. “Your idealism is sweet. It’s refreshing to be with a woman who has strong opinions for a change. With other girls I’ve dated it was like, have an original thought, you know?”

  Um. Is he seriously talking about other girls he’s dated? On his first date with me? How tacky is that? The date takes an even sharper turn when I ask D about his internship. He reminds me of how disgusting his career choice is.

  “My supervisor has this one client who won’t stop yelling at him. The client has only made fifty million this year. He thinks it should be double by now. No matter how many times my supervisor explains that this is the best we can do in a crappy market, he’s never satisfied.”

  “How much money does he need?”

  “That’s beside the point. He has more money than he could ever spend. The guy is worth billions, but it’s never enough for him. He just wants to make as much as possible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he can.”

  “But he already has more than enough.”

  “It doesn’t matter. One of the excellent things about this country is that there’s essentially no limit to how much you can achieve. If you work hard, you’ll achieve greatness.”