Like he thought I was going to give him my address. Please—I wasn’t that young and stupid.
Will meet you at the restaurant. Where do you suggest? Somewhere with an early bird? Is 7 too late?
They were stupid, overused quips and lines, but even over text, this guy scrambled my brain.
You like Italian? I asked around & there’s a good place in Astoria. It’s Monday, so prob no wait. Trattoria V.
He didn’t even acknowledge my snark.
And he’d asked around? What the heck did that mean?
I had no witty comeback, plus I needed to get back to my tables. I’d need the tip money for an overpriced Italian joint. I assumed we’d go Dutch ... that’s what I’d always done with Robby.
Sounds good. See you then.
That was all I could come up with.
Oh yeah. You will. ;)
Oh boy. One winky face later, my stomach was doing jumping jacks and my heart was sprinting down the street.
I needed a reality check, and lucky for me, I walked right out of the break room and into a coworker carrying a tray of curried rice. Covered in spices and tiny sticky grains of rice was enough to make me stop and smell the coffee, or the harsh reality.
I was so fucking far out of my comfort zone, I didn’t even know the name of the game I was playing.
Price
Icould have called Johnny, but judging by Emerson’s early impressions of me and her quick assumptions, taking my personal driver wasn’t a good look.
I’d Uber to Astoria, and hopefully, she’d let me Uber her home. After that, anything else was wishful thinking.
Yesterday was a real clusterfuck when my freaking phone died. Thank some fucking deity that I added that whole cloud backup shit for school, and I was able to get my contacts back. Standing in the Apple store, I was sadly turning into one of those needy, whiny, self-serving New Yorkers.
“Sir, I need my phone. I need a phone. I need all my stuff on my phone. How much longer do I need to wait? I really need my phone.”
Need, need, needing all the time.
At home, we all had a phone. We texted, called the farm supply store, or sometimes googled shit—mostly porn as teenagers.
Now I needed my fucking phone like I needed oxygen.
One of these days, I was going to hate myself. Probably tomorrow, at the rate I was going.
This morning, I asked one of the richie women in my finance class about restaurants in Astoria.
“Oh, definitely Trattoria V. Ah-mazing!”The girl’s strawberry-red hair had flown all around her face as her eyes widened, her eyelashes fluttering.“But you need a reservation. It’s always mobbed. You need to call a few weeks in advance.”
And there I went with needing all over again.
How the hell did I need a reservation to an Italian restaurant? They were a dime a dozen in this city. A joint, no less, that I wouldn’t have even dreamed of being caught dead in six months ago—let alone being able to afford?
Fucking Christ.
I imagined my mom crossing herself as I took the Lord’s name in vain.
Fuck it. I didn’t have time to worry about my mom.
I explained to Strawberry Shortcake that it was for tonight, and I didn’t have weeks to call in advance.
