by Jo Adler
“Possibly.”
He glowers for a moment. “You’re not fooling me, mister. I can tell from that goofy grin that you had a memorable evening. When was this?”
“Last Friday,” I report. “It was the grand opening party, although they did a few trial nights before that to iron out the wrinkles.”
“Standard operating procedure,” Lionel says. “I’ve worked in enough bars and restaurants to know that things run much more smoothly if you do a few soft opens.”
I nudged him with one elbow. “That’s what all the boys say about you, sexy. Things run smoothly because you did a few—”
He stops me with a yelp. “That’s enough of that shit! Now, did you and the big, studly daddy have a second date yet?”
The question is intended as a joke, but hits me like a roundhouse punch. Lionel sees me flinch and turn away, so his next remark doesn’t surprise me at all.
“Well, fuck him then! He doesn’t deserve anyone as sexy and cute and smart as you, buddy.”
“That’s kind of you to say,” I murmur.
“What was it?” he asks, lowering his voice. “What did the bastard do to hurt you?”
“I don’t want to get into the details,” I answer. “Let’s just say that it reminded me of how things ended with Taylor.”
Lionel’s mouth flops open. “The fucker went after someone else that night?”
“No, nothing like that,” I say. “And it doesn’t even matter. I just met the guy. I’d rather know who he really is at the outset as opposed to investing real time and emotion into a relationship. Not to mention how presumptuous it is to even talk about such things after one night.”
Lionel wraps his arms around me for another hug. “I’m still sorry to hear that he wasn’t a good guy,” he whispers. “You deserve only the best after enduring two years with that asshole Taylor. Maybe it’s time to ditch the older guys and try someone closer to our age.”
I smile. “Habits die hard. I’ll try again sometime down the road.” I pause. “Like, maybe in another ten years or so.”
Lionel smiles. “Well, that might actually work,” he says. “Because then you’ll be closer in age to the guys you’re hunting right now.”
32
▬ ☼ ▬
ADAM
Devon pours more wine into my glass and motions for the server. We’re at a new Italian restaurant on the Upper West Side. I’d originally balked at the location because of the distance from my house, but it’s beginning to feel like Devon’s choice was intentional to get me out of the Village for a few hours to distract me from thinking about Nick.
“How’s the bass?” Devon leans forward. “It looks almost as scrumptious as the bartender.”
My eyes dart toward the handsome twentysomething tending bar. He resembles Ryan Gosling, with a heart-shaped face, crystal blue eyes and sandy hair that gleams with pomade. I’d definitely fuck him once, but he looks thinner and bonier than the kind of man I’d be into for a long-term connection. The bartender smiles when he catches me checking him out, but I shift back to Devon.
“It’s okay,” I tell my friend. “How’s your bunny wabbit?”
He laughs and raises his wine glass. “Here’s to your twisted sense of humor, Adam, and to our prospects when we go dancing after this.”
“I’m not going dancing,” I say after we touch glasses and drink some wine. “I turn into a pumpkin after midnight.”
He cocks one brow. “Some boys like that sort of thing, you know. They’re into smooth, ribbed daddies filled with seeds and pulp.”
“You’re disgusting,” I hiss through a grin. “But I imagine that you’re right.”
“Sounds like Nick was into somebody more like you.” He pauses to nip at his wine. “I’m sorry it didn’t go as planned.”
I shrug. “Never say never.”
Devon laughs. “Too true. It’s all that hope springs eternal shit, right? The sun’ll come out tomorrow. Look on the bright side of life. Stop the world, I want to get off.”
“I don’t know if that last one fits, Dev.”
He glowers. “This is my playlist, jackass. It fits if I say it fits.”
I’ve seen the flash of mischievous indignation in his eyes before, so I know it’s time to drink some wine and leave him alone for a few minutes. Devon’s one of the most high-strung, fussy people that I know, but he’s also my most loyal friend. He’s seen me on top of the world and smashed to bits in the valley below. I’ve learned that his mercurial moods and brief outbursts are part of the total package. They balance his optimism, joyful spirit and steadfast devotion.
“What would you have done if the tables were turned?” Devon asks after the brief conversational respite.
I smile. “What tables?”
“Don’t be difficult,” he warns, adding a bristly edge to his voice. “You know what I’m talking about; if you were the younger guy that saw your would-be daddy groping another handsome guy through the window.”
For a brief second, my mind fills with rude things that I could say to my friend. I’m not Nick. I’m no longer twenty-three. And I was never in that sort of situation. But then I admit to myself that Devon’s right about me being difficult. I agreed to dinner because I didn’t want to sit alone at home, ordering Chinese and watching Notting Hill for the millionth time by myself. It’s been my standard escape whenever it feels like I’ll forever be the guy trapped in a disastrous relationship or searching for someone to build a life with. I used to believe that was Brent. And even though there were fissures and the occasional argument, I never changed that belief until he walked out the door.
“So?” Devon brings me back to the present moment. “What would you have done?”
I offer a fizzy grin. “The exact same thing, of course. And you know very well that I actually did that once back in Omaha.”
Devon squints. “You did?”
“Remember the bar in the Old Market where we’d go on Friday nights?”
“The one by the candy store?” he asks.
“Right next to it,” I say. “We were there one night when it started to snow really heavily and my car wouldn’t start. When you went inside to use the phone and call a tow truck, I sat behind the wheel, feeling like an idiot for ignoring my mother’s warning about the forecast. I had to work at six the next morning in Lincoln, and things were looking totally fucked. But then—”
“Oh, shit!” Devon jumps in. “Then that silver fox in the BMW offered to jump your battery and you guys ended up fucking in his office up the street.”
My heart sinks at the memory. I was barely twenty, eager to explore the world now that I was finally living on my own. After a disastrous attempt at dating a classmate named Alicia, I’d discovered the courage to claim my truth and come out to my friends and family.
That night during the snowstorm, after he dropped Devon at his brother’s house and we went back to his office, the hunky guy in the BMW—an insurance executive named Kyle with emerald eyes, a lean, muscular build and a fat, veiny cock—invited me to his house the following weekend. He gave me specific instructions about when to arrive and where to park. I was so naïve that I didn’t realize the explicit details were designed to keep his neighbors from knowing that he was hooking up with a college student while his wife was at her weekly book club meeting. When I pulled into the drive at Kyle’s house a few minutes early, his wife asked me why I was blocking the garage because she was running late. Since I was young and cocky and more than a little arrogant, I told her that I was there to meet my new boyfriend.
“And they did not live happily ever after,” Devon says with an exuberant laugh. “Remember how hurt you were? I think it was probably six months before you’d even consider going out to the bars with everyone.”
I glare at him. “It wasn’t that long, you goof. It was a month at the most.”
“Whatever,” he replies. “Your precious little heart was shattered. And you were crushed by the duplicity.”
&nbs
p; “What’s your point?”
“My point is simple,” Devon answers. “Nick was probably excited to spend time with you again. But when he saw you with your arms wrapped around Liam, his brain decided that you were guilty until proven innocent because of his recent experience with his ex.”
I shake my head. “I don’t buy it. Not one bit. If he thought that was the case, he should’ve asked me directly that night.”
Devon’s laugh is high-pitched and annoying. “Oh, please!” He clasps his hands together and holds them against his chest. “Aren’t you just the most precious thing? Did you do that with Mr. Cheating On His Wife back at home?”
“That was different,” I say, flashing back to the long ago scene in Kyle’s driveway. “I was confused.”
“And hurt,” Devon adds. “Just like Nick’s feeling right now.”
“But he’s not a child,” I say. “He should’ve had the balls to ask me about Liam.”
“Judge not,” Devon says with a playful sneer, “lest ye be judged.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I demand. “Am I judging Nick because he assumed that Liam and I were somehow involved?”
Devon’s mouth puckers. “Well, hallelujah! I believe that you’ve seen the light, Mr. Coleman.”
“So you’re telling me that I’m supposed to reach out to Nick again?”
The puckered lips slide into a silly grin. “Uh-huh. That’s exactly what I’m saying. If what you’ve told me is truly how you feel—that you sensed some kind of special spark with Nick—then you better fucking climb down from the high horse that you’re riding in your ivory tower to call the boy and invite him to dinner so you can talk.”
“Dinner?”
“Or a coffee,” Devon says. “That part doesn’t really matter. The important thing is getting a chance to sort out this little wrinkle.”
I think about the idea for a couple of seconds. But before I can tell Devon that I’ve actually been considering the very same thing in the back of my mind, he starts chattering again.
“You know that I’m right,” he says. “I can see it on your adorable little face, big guy.”
I groan. “Yeah, you are. And if I promise to reach out to Nick as soon as we finish dinner, will you promise to never again call me ‘big guy’?”
Devon giggles again. “Not a fucking chance,” he says. “Because I love to see you flinch every time that I do!”
33
▬ ☼ ▬
NICK
I’m folding carryout boxes in the storeroom at Dede’s pizzeria when she rushes through the door with a business card in her hand.
“You are not going to believe this,” she whispers. “Your new friend Adam and his people are relentless.”
I inspect the card after she hands it to me: Charlotte Holgate, Executive Assistant to the President & Chief Creative Officer, Coleman, Sanchez & Partners.
“I don’t know the name,” I tell Dede.
Her eyes go wide. “Well, she knows you, mister. That happens to be someone from Adam’s office.”
“So? Is she ordering pizzas or something?”
Dede tilts her head to one side, giving me a smirk. “Don’t be dense, sweetheart. She asked for you by name.”
“She did?”
“And she’s taking up one of our tables,” Dede adds. “Maybe you could go ask why the executive assistant to the president and chief creative officer is here so paying customers can sit down if they want to actually eat something.”
I jump to my feet. “Are all the tables full?”
Dede swivels toward the door. “Not yet,” she reports. “But I don’t want anybody camping in here if they’re just going to flap their gums.”
When I step into the dining room a moment later, I spot Adam’s associate immediately. It’s like the Sesame Street song: ‘One of these things is not like the other.’ Our usual crowd is mainly young artists, students, musicians and indie creative types. Charlotte Holgate looks like someone who never travels below Fifty-Seventh Street, lives and breathes haute couture and freshens her lipstick every five minutes. As I zigzag through the tables and chairs, she looks up from her phone and waves one slender hand.
“I’m so glad to meet you,” she says, halfway rising from her seat. “And I’m so sorry to disturb your day.”
“No problem,” I reply, sounding slightly dumbfounded. “What can I help you with?”
She motions for me to sit across from her, so I pull out an empty chair and plop down. When I’m seated, I detect a faint hint of gardenia perfume that wafts around her like an invisible veil.
“I wanted to talk to you about Adam,” she says.
I immediately shake my head and push the chair away from the table. “There’s nothing to say,” I tell her. “Plus, this is really weird for you to come here and lecture me about my personal life.”
Her nose crinkles when she smiles. “Lecture you? Is that really why you think I’m here?”
I shrug. “Maybe that’s the wrong word,” I answer. “But it feels like that. I mean, I barely know Adam. We just met a week ago or whatever. So it’s…” I pause to gather my thoughts. It seems beyond surreal that someone who works for a guy that I don’t really know showed up here to discuss…whatever this is. “It’s very nice to know that Adam’s friends support him and everything, but I’ve really got nothing to say.”
As I get to my feet, Charlotte reaches into her massive black leather satchel and pulls out a phone.
“Just one second?” Her eyes are pleading and there’s something soft and gentle in her voice. “I wrote down a couple of little things that I wanted to share if I had the chance to talk to you.”
I sit down again, tapping one foot from nerves and embarrassment. It feels like everyone in the dining room is watching us. I imagine that they’re trying to figure out why Dede’s delivery guy is sitting at a table with someone who could join The Real Housewives of New York City with one blink of her false eyelashes.
“Okay, here we go,” she says after swiping and tapping her phone for a few moments. “And before I say another word, I want to thank you for taking the time to hear me out.”
I nod silently when she glances up.
“The thing is,” she begins, “I’ve known Adam for a very, very long time. I’ve seen him happy, and I’ve seen him not so happy. I’ve been by his side as he built the firm from a tiny two-room office in a very dodgy building in Midtown to the current operation with offices in New York, London and Los Angeles. We have more than one hundred—”
She stops suddenly. “Sorry, Nick. That was starting to sound like a sales pitch to a new client. And that’s not at all what I want to talk with you about.”
The front door opens and two regulars head for our table. They’re a married couple, both in their seventies and prone to curmudgeonly rants about politics or their sex life. Since they order both delivery and carryout, they’ve become friendly with me. They’re both photographers, so we usually chat for a few minutes about new gallery shows and exhibitions. But when they glide up, I quickly apologize and tell them that I’m in the middle of something.
“Me, too,” says Eleanor. “I’m in the middle of my life.”
She’s giving me a stern glare, but then her husband starts chuckling and tugging on his beard.
“This your mother?” he asks.
Charlotte squeaks. “Do I look old enough to be his mother?”
Benny snorts. “You bet, toots. Although the plastic surgeon did a pretty good job of trying to make you look like his older sister.”
My eyes bulge at the remark and I quickly send them on their way with a promise to stop by soon to checkout Eleanor’s new work. She has a gallery show coming up in a few weeks, and I’ve been giving her feedback about some of the prints.
“Well, they’re more fun than a lobotomy!” Charlotte quips.
My face is bright red. “I’m sorry about that,” I tell her. “They’re really cool people. It’s just that they
weren’t born with filters.”
She giggles. “My kind of people, actually,” she says. “So don’t sweat it, kiddo.”
“I won’t,” I tell her. “But I really do need to get back to work.”
“Of course, but just one more thing?” she says.
There’s an authentic glimmer in her gaze that’s undeniable. In the short time that we’ve been talking, I’ve started to find her to be engaging and compelling as well as slightly pushy.
“Okay, sure.” I glance over my shoulder at Dede behind the counter. She’s been watching us the whole time, and I can’t wait to hear what she has to say about my highly unusual visitor. “But just a few more minutes.”
Charlotte sighs. “Thanks, Nick. I was actually very nervous coming down here today. I’ve never done anything like this in my life, but I felt somehow compelled to intercede before it’s too late.”
Now I’m laughing. “Too late? What are you talking about?”
“Look,” she says, “I’m just going to cut to the chase because I’ve already taken up too much of your time.” She stops, takes a breath and looks at the notes on her phone for a few seconds. “I was your age once,” she continues. “A man that I was interested in cheated on me. I thought that it would never happen again. But guess what? It did. After that, I decided it must be me. I was very naive. And quite timid. My parents argued a lot when I was little, so all of that convinced me to give up on love.”
The front door opens again, but I don’t even look up. I’m intrigued now by Charlotte’s earnest remarks.
“Anyway, one day, at the entrance to the Columbus Circle station,” she says, “I dropped my purse. It was rush hour. Everyone was in a frenzy to get home. Except for one man. He helped me scoop up my things. Then he helped me to my feet. And then do you know what he did?”
I shook my head
“Well, he smiled,” Charlotte says. “Then he told me to have a nice night. And then he vanished into the crowd.”
