Veronica quickly reroutes herself, like a GPS after a wrong turn. “And I love your carpe diem-isms. So, let’s go carpe the hell out of the night. Besides, why is it less crazy for me to see Lars than for you to see . . .” She trails off, waving her hand as if to say you-know-who.
I point to her. “That. Right there. That’s why it’s less crazy. I don’t even know my pseudo-date’s name.”
“Maybe it’s better that way,” she says softly, her words laced with meaning.
Maybe she’s right. When you’ve had your heart shredded in a Cuisinart, then your sense of order in the universe sliced off at the knees with a serrated blade, maybe it is best to do things differently.
Tonight will be different. Tonight doesn’t have to lead to anything more. Tonight can be a moment in time. A pleasure I take, not just one I talk about.
We leave our room, head down the escalator, and through the brass revolving door that swooshes us onto the street. The doorman hails a taxi, and we slide inside.
Veronica gives the driver two names. “I have no idea which one is closer, but I checked on my GPS, so I think it’s—”
“I don’t need a GPS. I know exactly where both are. I will take you first,” the driver says. A few minutes later, he drops Veronica at a restaurant, and then he shoots me a grin.
“Who needs GPS? I’ve lived here my whole life. There isn’t a sight in this city I can’t find.” He taps his forehead and smiles confidently at me in the rearview mirror.
A few minutes later, the car jimmies up to the curb, and he smacks a meaty paw on the black leather seat. “See? No GPS, and here you are.”
“Brilliant,” I say, and press the fare into his palm.
On the street, I glance up at the sign.
It’s a little bistro.
“Huh,” I mumble, because it looked bigger when I checked it out on Yelp. But if I’ve learned anything from my decade in advertising, it’s that photos can beguile you.
But it’s cute enough, and I head inside, my pulse skittering in excitement.
My God, what if he’s a serial killer?
Don’t leave with him, then, girl.
What if he’s a lech?
Walk away.
What if he’s not even here?
He’ll show.
I do a clean sweep of the bistro and its ten tables and Lilliputian bar. There is no Skarsgård look-alike.
Perhaps he’s in the little boys’ room.
Or little lads’ room.
Thinking of his English accent makes me smile, and I grab a seat at the bar and order a glass of white wine. I’m sure he’ll be here any minute. You don’t ask a woman out while dressed in nothing and then ghost her.
I glance around, then fiddle with a napkin. I need something to do.
Do I stare at my phone as I wait? Or does that make me look too millennial? I don’t want to seem like I’m scrolling through my Facebook feed like an addict when he wanders in.
The bartender slides over a glass, and I pay, then engage in small talk with him—the spring weather, how it’s been a warm season, and so on.
That kills all of two minutes.
Drumming my fingers on the bar, I straighten my shoulders and sip my wine.
And I wait.
And I wait.
Screw not looking like a phone-obsessed junkie. I have a magazine on my cell phone, and I’m going to read a long, in-depth article on growth in the travel sector. There. I’ll be doing business, like I’m not even waiting for him.
I’m keeping myself occupied, and if he shows, fine.
I barely notice the men who stroll into the bistro as I read. Well, I do notice that none look like the man from the dock. I do catalog that none have the impish grin of the handstander.
I’m keenly aware that it’s seven thirty-five and my wineglass is empty, and the sector is growing at 11 percent with the biggest opportunity being on the luxury side, and I’m done, I’m done, I’m done.
No one stands me up.
I leave, hail a cab, and return to the hotel where I promptly get acquainted with the way my evening was intended to unfold: a bubble bath, some music, and a novel.
After I’ve finished soaking, I grab one of those plush hotel bathrobes I never use because I’m not a person who likes bathrobes—since nudity or clothes seem like vastly more reasonable choices—but tonight feels like a bathrobe kind of night.
Bathrobes are for disappointment.
