With one little quip, the serious mood was broken, and we were laughing in each other’s arms. It was the first time I’d felt relaxed in this city full of concrete and hardened people.
“Want to go eat?” I asked Emerson, mesmerized by her complete lack of ... I don’t even know what to call it. Lack of being impressed with any of this shit?
“Yes. Where to?” she asked while I grabbed my keys.
“Want to go down to Chelsea Market?”
“Oh yeah. I haven’t been over there yet. Is this okay?” She waved a hand in front of her outfit.
“Yeah, why?”
“It’s not designer or anything, Mr. Price,” she said with a wink. “Can I go like this?”
“Shut it,” I said, texting Johnny. “Let’s hitch a ride there and then make our own way back, later?”
“Sure,” she said, fidgeting with her hands, twisting her fingers together.
“Look, I don’t want to try to hide this. I have a driver. He doesn’t have anything else to do, so let’s have him take us,” I said, unable to help my defensive tone.
“It’s cool. Look, I’m not judging. We all have our shit.”
Johnny was waiting outside when we pushed through the heavy doors onto Central Park South. I told him where to drop us, and he pulled away from the curb without comments or questions. Small miracles do happen.
Emerson’s phone buzzed, and she asked, “Do you mind if I grab this?”
I shook my head, and she swept her finger over the phone.
“What’s up?” She looked out the window as she listened, nodding. “Oh, that sounds great ... Glad your mom will be there ... Sure, let me see if I can get the day off. I don’t want to make too much work for her ... Um, okay, I’ll text you.”
After quickly disconnecting the call, Emerson smiled like I’d never seen her smile before. Granted, we’d only spent a few times together, but suddenly, irrational jealousy raged just beneath my skin.
“All good?” I asked, tempering my feelings at whoever the fuck put the smile on her face.
“Oh. Yeah. That was my friend Bev. She runs her mom’s bakery. It’s cute. We should go there sometime.” Like creamer in coffee, her comment lightened my mood. “Anyway, they’re having an art show next Friday, and she invited me. I’ve been wanting to meet her mom, and she’ll be there.” Her eyes turned almost blue, excitement sparking in the normally light green orbs.
“You like art?”
“I do,” she said, looking away. “I think so, at least. I’m figuring that out lately. Bev’s mom knows a lot of art people, and a few may be there. I can ask questions, mingle, figure it out.”
There was something she wasn’t saying. Emerson was hiding a thing or two, but I didn’t push. After all, I hadn’t been up front about Moira or my original plan to go back to her, or my reticence to admit I was somewhat happy with Moira’s dismissal of me.
Deciding to let it go, I wanted to live in the here and now and savor this decent moment in this dreaded city I’d been plopped down into.
Johnny dropped us off on the corner near Chelsea Market, where the buildings were markedly less vertical and the vibe less severe. I felt my breathing get a bit easier. My dad could have at least taken time to know me, understand my likes, help me find my own way in this city, rather than just deposit me where he did without any input from me.
“This place is just the right amount of hipster. Not too garish, zero feel of old money, but casually hip, yet not overly hip,” Emerson said, rambling as we made our way down the aisles of Chelsea Market.
I turned to her and lifted an eyebrow. “Casually hip?”
“What? I like to really understand a place. So, kill me,” she said, holding her hands up in surrender.
“You do work with the bunny! I mean, you’re sort of casually hip—”
With a pretty decent side-eye, Emerson told me, “Shut it.”
“I like it here too. Food’s all pretty good, and the vibe is just right,” I said, giving in and agreeing with her.
We paused in front of a Mediterranean restaurant.
