She opens her mouth to respond, but I ignore her and continue my way, knowing she’s capable of waiting in the car if necessary to avoid sharing a moment alone with me.
The Polo Bar is the only Ralph Lauren bar in New York, and though the entrance proudly displays “LAUREN” in gold, that’s not why I came here. The food and service are acceptable. I open the door and let Lauren take it all in before I assess the layout of the bar. I know that what seems mundane and routine to the average person can be a bit more taxing for Lauren. We’re greeted by the warm, rich atmosphere of the place. The dark wood paneling and deep leatherbanquettes give the space an old-world charm that’s unmistakably classic. The walls are lined with framed equestrian art, a nod to the bar’s namesake and Ralph Lauren’s signature style.
The lighting is soft and intimate. It’s the kind of place where every detail, from the polished silverware to the perfectly arranged glassware, speaks of understated luxury.
The tables are a bit too close together for my taste, so I guide Lauren to the far end. This time, I indulge myself and guide her by resting my hand on her lower back and I watch her take it all in, her eyes scanning the room as she absorbs the surroundings. I adjust her chair, and she sits down carefully, hesitating and doubting me. She’s probably expecting me to pull the chair back, but I wouldn’t do something like that. Right? The waiter hands us the menus, and I pass hers over, knowing it’ll take her a bit to decide. I already know what I’m getting—I always do.
“Assuming this isn’t your first time here?” she asks, glancing up from the menu.
“Nope,” I reply, casually scrolling through my phone.
“So, what dish do you recommend?” she asks, catching me off guard. It makes me pause. The Lauren I remember would’ve spent at least half an hour dissecting every option on the menu before asking for a recommendation.
“Depends on what you're in the mood for,” I say, looking up from my phone. “But you can’t go wrong with the pesto pasta. It's what they’re known for.”
I watch her as she considers it, wondering if she’ll still take her time or if she’s learned to make quicker decisions. I remember seeing her at the coffee shop where I used to work during the summer. Lauren had a routine of going there every day after four o'clock, having a latte and a sandwich. I “coincidentally” worked the same shift and would watch her read the menu for at least ten minutes before ordering the same thing every time.
“Then I’ll have the same,” she says, setting the menu down and immediately shifting her attention to her phone, mirroring what I did just a moment ago. It’s clear she’s changed a lot, and it hits me that Ineed to update my understanding of her, piece by piece. The Lauren I thought I knew has changed, and I can’t help but feel a mix of intrigue and uncertainty as I try to keep up with who she’s become.
“Were you truthful when Andrew asked for your opinion?” I lean my elbows on the table, knowing my mother would have a fit if she saw me like this. I lean forward slightly, eagerly awaiting her response.
“Yes, but I left out something else.”
“And what’s that?”
“Well, he wants them to have a home, and yes, I firmly believe that home is wherever the other person is. I also believe that a three-million-dollar Brooklyn apartment instead of ninety million one would have made her just as happy.”
“Maybe,” I say, letting my back fall into the plush seat and starting to play with the knife, “but we want him to spend ninety million, not three.”
The waiter returns, and I place my order quickly to avoid any distractions. I have Bunny’s attention now and don’t plan to do anything to divert it.
“That’s why I didn’t say it.” She drinks a glass of water and swallows hard enough for me to see the movement in her throat. Her neck is much more delicate than I remember. I can imagine my fingers around it.
“It’s a good investment. At least it was for me,” I say cautiously, waiting to see if she’ll ask about my apartment and if she wants a tour.
“That’s true, but he’s more interested in his daughter’s well-being. Not everyone thinks only about money.”
I smile, a bit amused. “Is that what you think I do? Just focus on money?”
Before she can answer, the dishes arrive, and her attention shifts to the succulent plate of pasta in front of her. We both dig in, the rich aroma filling the space between us.
“Yes,” she says between bites, “you always wanted to be a millionaire like your parents.”
I pause for a moment, letting her words sink in. It’s not entirelyuntrue, but there’s more to it than she realizes. I’ve always lived a good life, and I intend to keep it that way.
I remember the way Lauren used to watch me at school, always with this quiet intensity. It wasn’t anything new; I’d caught her looking more times than I could count. Funny thing is, I found myself doing the same with her sometimes. Because of that unspoken understanding, we knew each other better than we’d ever admit. It was like we were both playing a game, knowing the other’s moves without needing to say a word.
“Tell me something; what happened in Lauren Green’s life after graduation?” I ask, leaning in with genuine curiosity.
She shrugs, clearly downplaying whatever story she has, adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose, and gives me a brief summary. “After college, I moved here with my sister. Now she’s moved to Miami for work, and I decided to stay here.”
Miami? Luca is there. Is that a coincidence? I don’t think so. Her tone is casual, like it’s no big deal, but I can’t help but wonder what she’s leaving out. There’s always more beneath the surface with Lauren.
“Why didn’t you go with her?” Whatever the answer is, I’m glad she didn’t leave.
“I don’t know. I think it’s New York. I don’t want to leave this city; it’s so much more exciting than the humidity of Florida.”
At least we agree on that.
