“Oh god.No, thank you,” she said, handing me a martini. “It’s dry. It’s clean. It’s what grown-ups drink.”
She cracked the window to smoke a cigarette. I realized I hadn’t checked in since her panicked call the day before.
“Has work let up at all?” I asked lightly.
“I didn’t quit,” she non-answered. “Moving on.” She exhaled the cigarette inside the apartment.
“Between your parents’ wallpaper and that cigarette, I’m finally living out my dream of being a New Yorker in the eighties.”
She coughed. “Seriously,whatis this obsession with New York in the eighties? You’ve mentioned that more times than I can remember.” She exhaled thick smoke. “I never cared enough to ask why.”
I shrugged. “Some weird combination of Nora Ephron’s movies and Jill Clayburgh inAn Unmarried Woman. Although I think that was technically the late seventies.”
“I’ll never understand American cinema. It’s too on the nose. No wonder you got married so young.” She put out her cigarette against thebrick under the windowsill. “You do realize New York was crime-ridden in the eighties,” she continued.
“Okay, okay. Let’s shake off the week, shall we?” I held up the martini glass and took a sip. It tasted like gasoline. I looked longingly at the thirty-dollar rosé it had taken ten minutes to choose.
At 8:30 p.m., Emilie slipped her doorman a twenty, and he hailed a cab to take us to the restaurant on Bond Street.
We were the last ones to sit down. Caroline handed our jackets to a waiter as she launched into short but thoughtful introductions that somehow put everyone at ease.
By the time we got to the part where we all pretended to be too full for dessert, it was like we were eight former sorority sisters who still made time for monthly dinners.
One of the girls, Margaret, had just gone through a breakup after a five-year relationship with her college boyfriend. They’d been broken up for three months, and she wasn’t shy about how much she still missed him. He’d been the one to end it. She was taking her therapist’s advice to “just get back out there,” but dating was, so far, an underwhelming venture. Each guy was more superficial than the last. All they wanted to talk about was their stock portfolio, how many people were in their Hamptons share house, or the podcast they were making with their friends. She worked at a nonprofit for underprivileged Asian American youth and lived in Park Slope.
Maybe it was the Brooklyn address or the wine, but before I knew it, I was announcing in an exaggeratedly self-aggrandizing voice, “I know someonegreat!”
Encouraged by the hopeful expression on every face at the table, I committed the cardinal matchmaking sin of failing to undersell and overdeliver.
“Seriously, he’s perfect. I promise he doesn’t even know what the Nasdaq is—but like, in a good way—and I’m pretty sure he’s never even been to a group fitness class. Not to say he isn’t fit, just naturally talland lean. Hates the Hamptons. Total diamond in the rough,” I heard myself say in a voice that didn’t even sound like mine.
I offered to see if he’d be interested in a setup. She nodded enthusiastically as Caroline euphorically clasped her hands as if to say she’d really nailed this group.
The restaurant split the bill eight ways, making it a unicorn New York establishment. I opened the bill holder, and my eyes landed on a handwritten note scribbled at the bottom of my receipt. The waiter’s name was Alex, and he wanted my number.
I blushed as I tried to covertly show Emilie the note, but the girl seated on the other side of me saw it first.
“Iknewhe was into you!” she whispered. “He was reading the specialsto you.”
Margaret looked delighted. “This isexactlyhow you should lose your Manhattan dating virginity. Blind dates are terrible.”
I reached uncomfortably for my credit card. “This would be a blind date,” I corrected her.
“Not really. We just spent three hours with him. He’ssocute.”
“And funny!” Caroline added.
I could tell it would be new friend suicidenotto leave my number.
As soon as we left the restaurant, I got a text from a 646 number asking if I’d be up for a drink sometime.
I stared at the text for a few seconds, wondering if I’d ever be that person again—someone who got excited about someone cute asking for my number. I put my phone away without responding. I’d been in New York less than three months, and life already felt like drinking from a fire hose.
We tagged along with the group to a nearby speakeasy for another drink. Emilie excused herself while I ordered a round of cocktails. I checked my emails absentmindedly as the bartender made the drinks, then looked over and saw Emilie coming from the direction of the door.
“Were you smoking again? You said you were going to the bathroom,” I said as I handed her a martini, my voice sharper than I intended.
She looked guilty. “If I say yes, will you leave it alone?”
