“Today’s Monday.”The girl had turned her nose up.“Who goes out on a Monday? You’ll be fine. Just go there.”Then she’d huffed her way over to her seat, in a tiff over something—maybe me not askingherto the Italian place?Come on ...
Now I sat in an Uber, my palms sweaty for the first time since I felt up Sharon McKinley behind the barn. It had been smooth sailing for me back home. Couple of pull-ups on the bar across the stable doorway, toss a few barrels of hay for the obliques, add in football and track, andbam—get any girl you want.
Not so much here in the Rotten Apple. Here, you needed to work at it, make money, work out, make reservations. Though, I didn’t think Em was like that—she was something else altogether.
The car came to a stop in front of a corner restaurant, complete with a black awning with the name of the restaurant in white lettering, brick-lined steps to the door, and a valet. Money and garlic wafted from the doorway of Trattoria V, and I’d never felt lesser.
After tossing a ten to the Uber driver, even though you weren’t supposed to tip, I slammed the car door. The guy probably had a family of four and moonlighted as an Uber driver while I was playing Richie Rich on Central Park South.
At least I’d been wise enough to wear dark jeans, no rips, and a button-down. The boots couldn’t be helped. It was either boots or Adidas—which were new for me. I’d adopted the sneakers after being transplanted to this strange city. No matter what, I wasn’t ever going to be a loafers guy.
I turned to look down the street as a lone figure made her way up the sidewalk, wearing tight-ass jeans, ankle boots, a flowy-type shirt baring one shoulder, and her long dark hair a wild mess from the windy night.
“Hey there, old fogie,” Emerson said, greeting me with a smile.
“You take the subway?” I couldn’t help the indignation in my voice, but there was no way I’d ever want my date to take the subway alone at night, even in the summertime when it was still light outside.
“Yep. Not all of us can Uber around to fancy dinners on a Monday.”
“Yeah, this place isn’t really my speed. I asked a girl in one of my classes. I should’ve known better, but I wanted to impress you,” I said, adding a wink.
“Oh yeah?” Emerson’s eyebrow raised, and I noticed a small scar above her eye. I wanted to run my finger along it and ask her how she got it.
“Let’s try it, though. I got all dressed up,” I said, trying to lighten the mood—hers and mine. “When in Rome ... or whatever they say. I’ve never been to Europe.”
She ran her fingers through her wind-blown hair, looking at anything but me.
I tried to picture what we looked like. Two complete strangers on a street corner, indecisive and hesitant, attempting to make a plan.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Um, this place. It’s sort of out of my comfort zone, let alone my budget.”
This made me laugh. “A, this place is so far out of my comfort zone, you have no idea. And, B, I don’t know what it’s like in ...” I snapped my fingers, trying to remember where the hell she was from. “... Sea Isle City, but where I come from, the guy always pays on dates.”
“Oh,” was all she responded, and I couldn’t hold back my surprise.
“Wow, justoh, nothing else? No sarcastic wit?”
“I’m going to have a moment of clarity right now, and since you already know my most embarrassing story, I’m not going to get upset over this. But here’s the thing. That’s the first time anyone—man, guy, or girl, for that matter—has ever said anything like that to me.”
It couldn’t be helped. I ran my hand down her arm, the soft fabric not catching on my now smooth hands. I tucked the memory back in the recesses of my brain.
“Well, there’s always a first, and I’m happy to be it. Now, let’s go eat at this place that’s supposedly so good, and hope we’re not hungry when we leave.”
Her gaze met mine, all her fears, insecurities, and emotions swimming in those green seas. “Can you afford it?”
I laughed again. “Yeah, sadly I can. Tell you more in there.” I jerked my head toward the awning, took her hand, and led her to the restaurant.
Inside, I told the hostess, “Two. I called earlier. Barnes.” Pathetic, but I did call.
The hostess busied herself, tapping away at an iPad.
“I didn’t know your last name,” Emerson said.
“Now you do. And yours?”
“Bender.”
