“Please give this file back to Ben and tell him that I consider the case too risky and that he should find someone else. I’m turning it down.”
“All right, Miss Davis,” says John, and immediately takes the file from me. Yeah, just get it out of here.
And just like that, a scene comes back to me.
I was chewing on my fountain pen because I was so nervous during a test, and clumsy as I am, my whole mouth turned blue and of course I didn’t notice all day long. From then on, the cool jocks called me Blueface.
I would have loved to write him a letter saying:
Rejected. All my love, Blueface.
TWO
Jenna
BEFORE
The Plaza is one of the most beautiful restaurants in New York, and after Benjamin asked so oddly, I got a little nervous myself. Why is Matthew inviting me here for dinner? Is he really going to propose? Well, we’ve been together for seven years now—he could propose.
I click my heels up the marble stairs as fast as I can and am greeted by an outrageously large chandelier. The candles look real, though I can’t imagine anyone still lights them by hand.
I check my watch. Damn—two minutes late again. I’d had a longer-than-expected conversation with Ben about why I turned down Kirillov, but luckily, he understood. As if I’d help someone who made my high-school life hell.
I approach the hostess and dab sweat from my forehead.
“Hello,” I say, slightly out of breath. “We have a reservation under Hudgens.”
She sizes me up, then seems satisfied with my dress and coat. I’m not really a fan of fancy restaurants. I come from simple roots, and I still feel out of place among these uptown crowds. Matthew grew up as a regular guy too—he actually has lessmoney than I do—but since I got a big paycheck, he likes to treat himself. That only works because I cover two-thirds of the rent.
I think it’s nice that he’s inviting me tonight, though.
A pretty hostess takes my coat and leads me to the table. I wobble behind her. The dining room is huge: beige marble, white calla lilies, separate booths at nearly every table and massive chandeliers. I notice that at almost no table sits more than two people—mostly dates. Makes sense: New York has tons of singles and childless couples and bringing a whole family here would be absurdly expensive too.
“Right this way,” says the hostess.
Even though Matthew winked at her earlier, his gaze freezes the moment I arrive.
I wait until the hostess leaves and then sit.
“Sorry, work was?—”
“Yeah, yeah, work again. I’ve been waitingtenminutes,” he interrupts.
I notice he’s wearing one of his nicer shirts, but there’s a hole in his black pants and he hasn’t shaved. He never cares much about his looks: wild black curls, old sweatpants, T-shirts. I’m not superficial, but I believe places like the Plaza are for dressing up. Otherwise, why bother coming?
“Sorry you had to wait,” I say, and he almost slams the menu in my face.
I glance around, hoping nobody saw the menu nearly knock over the wine glass.
“Matthew, we’re at the Plaza…” I murmur, trying to read.
“I don’t care where we are. I just wanted that coq au vin again—you ruined it last time,” he grumbles, tapping his fingers on the table.
“True,” I whisper, swallowing the queasy feeling from the memory of burning the chicken. I can cook, but under stress Imess up. Matthew wants dinner when he comes home, and if I’m swamped at work, I keep botching things.
The waiter arrives before I’ve closed my menu. Matthew orders the coq au vin. “The same for her,” he says, and the waiter takes the menu from my hand without asking.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “I wanted something else.”
