What was this Monday turning into?
At this point, if for no other reason than to just see how absurd we could make this week go, I might as well just admit to Tara that I’d already agreed to it. But that seemed like a step too far. Let it happen one thing at a time.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“Do it,” Tara said. “I promise you’ll have a great time. And you’ll learn to relax a bit.”
It was a bit ironic, I suppose, that I felt the need to not laugh too hard at that.
When we hung up a minute or so later, I was left staring at my phone, wondering how Tara had been able to let go of things that were so much a part of her for so long. Working at the family-founded company? Did not matter. Living under Mom and Dad’s roof rent-free? She could take the financial hit.
Letting her ex of two years go to her sister?
If she could let go of Steele that easily, was he really that much of a catch? It wasn’t like I could ever recall her struggling with their breakup, either; there had been some typical moments of grieving and sadness and yelling, but I also had recalled how she’d managed to move forward mighty quickly. Was he really that great?
Who are you going out with? The Steele that dated Tara a couple years ago? Or the Steele that you hung out with Saturday night?
I crawled out from underneath the desk, brushed myself off, and grimaced when I saw some dust on my skirt. But then I felt ridiculous for feeling stressed about it. I had no client meetings today; it didn’t really matter how I looked.
Frankly, I worried about a lot of things that didn’t matter. Maybe Tara was right. Maybe I did need to let loose and relax a little. It wasn’t like “letting loose” in my case meant going to Las Vegas and making a bunch of regrettable choices.
In my case, it just meant considering one of a million and two alternative paths that differed from “coddled from the cradle to the grave by Mommy and Daddy.”
* * *
Thursday Evening
Waiting at a red light, I checked my phone. It was about five minutes until seven p.m., our arranged meetup time, and I had never felt so incredibly nervous for our meetup.Our date, let’s just call it what it is.
I had insisted in our texting that Steele come to Albuquerque if he wanted to buy me some drinks. It was my way of keeping control, of making sure that we didn’t go somewhere grimy and gross, and that if things got weird, I could make a quick exit with ease. I suppose it was also still my way of having to make sure everything was perfect, but at least it was defensible.
The light turned green. I went straight, took a left turn at the stop sign, parallel-parked on the street, and got out and smiled at what I saw.
I’d chosen a place called Copper Lounge for our drinks, and it was the kind of place I wished I could have a drink at every day. It looked like a lounge straight out of the Cosmopolitan in Las Vegas; with its rounded furniture, light, fun, and tasteful palette, and ceiling-to-floor pearl-strewn curtains, it was the kind of place that the white-collar folk of downtown Albuquerque would bring clients or dates to for a good first impression. In short, it was a very Elizabeth Rogers place.
And then I pictured how Steele had shown up to my office on Monday—in his cut and jeans, looking like he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, the epitome of rough and tumble—and could not envision him driving up here and doing anything to dress the part. It was one of the reasons I had always felt grossed out going to Santa Maria with Tara. I got that some boys had messy houses and didn’t clean like I did, but I was never sure they were even capable of looking professional.
Suddenly, it felt like I had picked the worst place possible.
But call it stubborn pride, call it letting the woman decide, call it sheer stupidity on my part, I was not so willing to change suddenly. Maybe Steele would surprise me. Maybe I’d surprise myself. Maybe it wouldn’t matter a damn bit.
I’d get my answer soon enough. I could hear his motorcycle approaching.
It was strange how a sound I had once associated with a sickening, disgusted feeling was slowly morphing into one of interest, one of playing with fire. I shouldn’t have been excited by the sound of a bike, but…
I heard the bike parking, but I didn’t see Steele yet. I held my breath, praying that if he had dressed for the part of a bike, he’d at least done so with a button-down shirt. I could handle that.
And then he turned the corner, and…
He had on his cut, ripped up jeans, and a white t-shirt.
And he looked fucking hot as hell.
But…
He barely had anything on.
“This is where we’re going?” Steele said, looking at the sign above my head. “You gotta be fucking kidding me. All these fancy rich people?”
