Hen:Shit, my stomach just growled so loud it woke the cat up and she gave me a ‘what even the fuck, human’ glare. I hope I have food.
Me:Youhopeyou have food? Is this an issue for you, not having food? Are you sure your business is doing ok?
Hen:Not like that. More like ‘I can’t remember when I went grocery shopping last, so I hope I have something edible left.’
This man was starting to worry me. I nibbled on my left thumbnail for a moment - a bad habit I’d been trying to break for years - and then decided to go for it.
Me:Go get your stuff together. You’re meeting me for lunch.
Hen:…
Hen:…
Hen:I am? Where? When? Today? Are you sure? I’m sure I have something to eat, you don’t need to feed me.
Me:Today, and yes I’m sure. How about…hmm, the Cheesecake Factory on Seventeenth? Their menu is huge enough that there’s sure to be more than one something for each of us to choose from. And, well, cake.
Hen:Ooh, cake. Ok, I’m persuaded if you’re sure. When do you want to meet?
Me:It’ll take me about twenty minutes to walk there. I’m not sure how long your commute would be. How about I just head over there and you meet me when you can? If I’m not waiting in their lobby, I’ll be at the bar. Waiting to hear about your sex furniture business.
Hen:Oh my god we arenotdiscussing that in public!
Me:Oh yes, we so are. Go change your clothes or whatever, and I’ll see you in a bit.
Hen:You’re dangerous. See you soon.
7
Henry
Week 5
It ended up taking me more than an hour to shower off the sawdust and pencil shavings, dig out some decent clothes, and make my way into the city to meet Jamison. I hoped he was still waiting for me. He’d said he’d wait, but he probably hadn’t expected to have to waitthislong. As I entered the restaurant, I scanned the lobby area for his familiar face - those sharp, foxy eyes and slightly pointed nose - but found nothing other than a large family eyeing me suspiciously when I paused in the doorway to look.
Self-conscious now at having drawn attention to myself, I ducked my head and walked farther into the room, still not spotting Jamison. He’d said he might be in the bar, though. Ignoring the mother of the large family, who was now glaring right at me - what washerproblem? - I headed to the side, where the lobby opened up into the bar.
Finally, I spotted Jamison’s dirty blond faux-hawk above the heads of the crowd. He was parked at the bar itself, sipping aglass of something and chatting happily with the bartender. I almost felt bad interrupting, since they looked like they were having such a good time and I knew I wasn’t nearly that entertaining, but I could hardly stand him up, so I crossed the bar area until I could sidle up next to the man I was meeting.
Jamison put down his martini glass carefully and turned to look when I appeared at his shoulder. “Hey!” he said with a grin. “I was starting to worry you weren’t going to make it, I’m glad you did.” He gestured me to the empty seat next to him.
Grimacing at the delicate-looking stool, I nevertheless took the seat with a muttered prayer that it would support my weight. “Hi.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Sorry it took so long, I was kinda covered in sawdust and needed to get clean, and then the drive took a while, and…” I shrugged helplessly. “Suburban living, you know.”
Jamison’s grin turned teasing. “You mean you had to find your way out of the woods.”
“I don’t live -” I sighed, rolling my eyes. There was no use arguing; I might as well play along. “Yeah, sure. Had to hike out.”
He took another sip of his drink, then tipped the glass at me. “You want a drink?” The bartender, still hovering in earshot, raised his brows in my direction.
“Can I just get a strawberry lemonade?” I asked, feeling silly to make such a request at a bar but knowing that since I had to drive home, it was the wisest choice. I wasn’t exactly a lightweight - the night I’d met Jamison was evidence of that - but with my anxiety meds, I processed alcohol unpredictably and I much preferred to be safe than sorry. I turned to Jamison to explain that, but he didn’t look the slightest bit curious about my order, so I let it drop. “Did you want to eat here at the bar, or get a table?” I asked instead.
“Bar’s fine with me,” he assured me. “Jakob is taking good care of me so far.” He flashed a wink at the bartender, who just rolled his eyes and handed me my lemonade, then produced two menus from under the bar and presented them to us with a flourish.
“Half-price apps,” he told us, “for the next hour. Martinis are two dollars off all day. Today’s special is Steak Diane. Give me a nod when you’re ready to order.” And with that, he moved down the bar to serve a long-haired girl who was waving as if she’d been waiting for an hour.
We studied our menus in companionable silence for a few minutes before Jamison looked up at me. “Whatcha thinking of getting?”
I flipped a few pages, considering my answer. “The Chicken Riesling looks really good,” I finally said.
