by Cat Carmine
Tyler leads me back to the kitchen where we grab plates and cutlery and butter and syrup. We take everything into the living room, even though I spy a perfectly good dining room off the kitchen.
I take a tentative bite of pancake and find it both surprisingly delicious and stomach-settling. I dig in hungrily while Tyler watches.
A minute later, I’m staring down at my empty plate. Tyler’s barely even started on his own pancakes.
“I guess I was hungrier than I thought,” I admit.
“I guess so. Here.” He slides a pancake off his plate and onto mine. Part of me wants to protest, but the rest of me really does want to eat it, so I keep my mouth shut.
When I’ve inhaled that pancake, too, I finally set my plate down on the coffee table and sit back and sigh. I feel better than I did earlier, so I guess there’s some benefit to carbs, after all — they’re good at soaking up leftover alcohol.
“Thank you,” I say to Tyler as he saws into his pancakes. “It was nice of you to make me breakfast, instead of throwing me out on my ass. Which is what you should have done.”
He grins. “Are you kidding me? It’s not every day a guy gets to see the famous Miss Emma completely intoxicated and letting loose like that.”
I shake my head. “I honestly don’t know what came over me. Can I plead temporary insanity?”
“You can plead whatever you want,” he teases. “I still maintain that I liked seeing this side of you. In fact, I’d like to see it again.”
I shake my head. “No way. I’m swearing off alcohol for the foreseeable future.”
“No alcohol needed. I told you, Emma, I think there’s a bad girl buried under there. She just wants you to let her out once in a while.”
I snort. “Trust me, there’s no bad girl. There’s only a drunk one.”
“You weren’t drunk at Veneer the other day. If I recall correctly, you wore more alcohol than you drank.”
My cheeks color. He’s not wrong, and I don’t have a good explanation for what came over me that night. Sure, I could blame last night on the booze. But maybe it had more to do with Tyler than excessive martinis.
“Let me take you out. For real.” He’s leaning towards me, and his grey eyes are focused and intense. “I bet you I can bring out bad Emma.”
“No.” I snap my mouth shut as soon as the word is out. I don’t know if it’s really the answer I wanted to give, but it’s the one that came out instinctively.
Tyler seems undeterred. “Come on. You’ve already broken three of your rules. What’s a few more?”
“Three?” I snap my head around.
“Chapter five — no sex on the first date. Chapter three — never be the first to call. And chapter four — no drunk dialing. Now, to be fair, that chapter didn’t explicitly forbid showing up at a guy’s apartment, fingering yourself, and begging for sex, but I’m gonna assume that was implied.”
My cheeks are as hot as the sun, but somehow the way Tyler’s grinning doesn’t make me feel as embarrassed as I should.
“So, what, you memorized my whole book?”
“Pretty much.”
I have to admit, the fact that he read it at all is flattering. The fact that he can recite it is even more endearing — if a little obnoxious.
“So, what do you say? Let me prove to you that you’ve got a wild side. If you don’t have fun, I’ll never bug you again. You can even keep the shirt.”
I mull over his suggestion. I should say no. I know I should. But Tyler’s right — I’ve done everything wrong so far. So what’s one more? And like Lucy said last night, I’m alone because I have high standards. I’m waiting for the right guy.
But maybe I can have a little fun with the wrong one in the meantime. “Fine. I accept.”
Tyler leans back, satisfied. The heated way he’s looking at me makes me wonder what he’s planning.
And the fluttering in my stomach makes me wonder if I’ve just made a huge mistake.
Ten
Tyler and I make plans to go out on Friday night. It’s an entire week away, but the thought of it never leaves me. Every time I try to work, or sleep, or even hit up the StairMaster, Tyler’s face runs through my mind. His smile. His eyes. His stubble. His laugh.
But more than that, I keep thinking about what he said. Is there a wild side of me that’s been buried all this time? You’d think if I had a wild side, I’d know about it, right? But everything I’ve done with Tyler so far is completely outside of who I thought I was. Who is Emma Holloway? I don’t even know anymore.
I sit at the small desk in the corner or my bedroom, staring at my computer screen, and sigh. I force myself to put Tyler out of my mind, at least temporarily, and focus on the task at hand — one of the letters I’d picked to include in an upcoming advice column. It’s from a woman who thinks her boyfriend is about to propose and wants to know if it’s okay to tell him maybe. He’s a good guy, she writes, with a good job and good manners and her family likes him, but she just isn’t sure.
I mull over the question for a long time, but every time I start to type out a response, I hesitate. The old me would have told her to say yes, that good guys with good jobs don’t come around all that often. But every time I start to type out that response or something like it, I end up frantically backspacing. The words sound hollow.
What I really want to tell her is that if her heart isn’t in it now, it probably never will be. I want to tell her that if she isn’t ready to leap with him, she needs to leave him. I want to tell her that if she isn’t screaming his name from the rooftops — and between the sheets — that he isn’t the guy for her.
But that isn’t on brand for me. People come to me because I give them practical, well-reasoned advice. There’s no reason that Not Sure in Nebraska should walk away from a decent relationship with a decent guy, right? Women would kill to be in her position. I can’t be the one to tell her to throw it all away.
Eventually, frustrated and completely blocked, I slam the laptop closed. I consider texting Rori to see if she wants to do something tonight, but I’m not sure I could talk to her without bringing up Tyler. And frankly, I’m not ready for my sister to know anything about this. It’s not that I think she’ll judge me, exactly. It’s more that she’ll enjoy it a little too much.
The thing is, Rori calls me Emma The Perfect, but I’m the one who had to grow up in her shadow. Rori is the oldest in our family, and growing up, she was the golden girl. She had a heart that was ten times too big for her; she still does, actually. She’s been volunteering since she was old enough to scrub out kennels at the animal shelter, and when she was seven she started a campaign to raise money to buy books and games for the local children’s hospital. She even donated all her birthday gifts every year. Who could compete with that? Our parents were so proud of her. She was their angel.
And then there’s Blake. The baby of the family. It was hard to compete with her, too. With her blonde hair and blue eyes and cherub cheeks, she was always Daddy’s little girl. Mommy’s, too, for that matter. She was closer to both of them than either Rori or I were — I guess that’s why she opted to stay in Highfield and work at the flower shop with them.
That left me. The middle child. Average in every way — not beautiful like Blake and not insufferably goodhearted like Rori. So, I found my own niche. I might not have been born gifted, but I could certainly act that way. I started focusing on my grades, my appearance, my manners. Anything that might make me stand out.
And it worked. My teachers started to praise me. My parents, too. Every time I heard someone say “Why can’t you be more like Emma?” I got a secret thrill. I liked being perfect. I liked being someone worth emulating, instead of just plain old Emma, nondescript middle child. It made me feel worthwhile.
It still does.
I guess that’s why everything with Tyler is throwing me for a loop. Because the things I’ve done with him are … far from perfect. No one says “Why can’t you be more like the girl wh
o banged a stranger in the bathroom? Why can’t you be more like Emma, who showed up at her crush’s house begging for sex and tacos?”
Crush.
The word tickles something inside me. Is that what Tyler is? A crush? I guess he must be. I’m sure it’s only a brief infatuation, brought on by the fact that he’s so different than the guys I usually date. And okay, I’m not going to lie, the sex was pretty good. Incredible, really. So were the pancakes, come to think of it.
But sex and pancakes don’t make for a good relationship. I want someone I can marry someday, someone who works hard and wants a family and a 401K. I want exactly the kind of guy that Not Sure in Nebraska found, the one I almost told her to throw to the curb. I scrub my hands over my face, trying to clear my thoughts, but still, all I can see is Tyler.
But Tyler’s not that guy. I’ve heard enough about him from Rori to know that he’s exactly the opposite of what I’m looking for. He’s a playboy, a partier, a trust fund kid who never really grew up, who never had to work hard for anything. The fact that he’s even running Good Grant Books seems like a bizarre anomaly, a blip in the treasure map of Tyler Grant’s life.
So I don’t know how to explain the thrill that runs through me when my phone buzzes and I look down to see that it’s him.
“How’s the hangover?” he writes.
I grin and type back. “Took two days, but I finally feel normal.”
“Nothing about you is normal, Emma. It’s what I like about you.”
Another thrill runs through me at that. I don’t know how to respond, so I send back a tongue-out emoji. Very mature, I know.
He doesn’t answer for a minute, and I’m just thinking about sending something else, when another text dings.
“Are we still on for Friday?”
I bite my lip. I’d agreed to this date in a compromised — read: hungover — state. The rational part of me wonders what the hell I’d been thinking. But it’s too late to get out of it, right? I mean, backing out would be rude. I hate to be rude.
“Yes. What do you want to do? Nothing involving too much alcohol, ok?”
“I have something in mind.”
“Oh?”
“Something that will let us see what kind of Emma is hiding out under that poised exterior.”
“Oh?” My heart thrums in my chest. I can’t imagine what kind of date he has in mind. I’m not even sure I want to know.
Except I totally, one hundred percent do want to know.
This time, he sends back an emoji, a winking face. I swallow.
“Looking forward to it,” I finally manage to type, even though my hands seem shaky.
“Good.” There’s a brief pause, the pulsing dots letting me know he’s still typing. Finally, his next message comes. “Make sure you wear a dress. You’ll see why on Friday.”
Something about his message makes me shiver. Am I really going to do this? What the hell is Tyler planning? I feel nervous and excited and skeptical and curious all at once. Still, I manage to type out one more message in response:
“Where should I meet you?”
Eleven
On Friday, I follow Tyler’s instructions and find myself at an intersection in Greenwich Village. He told me it would be best if we could meet out here on the street, but there doesn’t seem to be anything around here but clothing stores and galleries. I wonder which of these we’re going to and why Tyler would choose this place. I expected a flashy restaurant, something with expensive wine and huge slabs of imported beef. That seems like his style. There isn’t anything like that around here.
I tug at the dress I’m wearing — another little black dress, of course, because let’s be honest, I don’t really own any other kind — and check the time on my phone for the hundredth time.
He’s not late; in fact, I’m early. But I’m still anxious for him to get here.
My heart leaps when I see him come around the corner. More than I expect it to, actually. I try to force myself to look cool as he approaches, but I can’t help but check him out. He’s wearing a blazer, like he was the first time I met him, but this time he’s paired it with jeans. Expensive looking ones, the kind that sit just below his waist and hug his muscular thighs in exactly the right way. His dark hair is perfectly tousled, and his grey eyes light up as soon as he sees me.
“You look great,” he says, leaning in and kissing the corner of my mouth.
I touch my fingers to that spot as soon as he pulls away. I can’t keep the dumb smile off my face, but it gets more heated as Tyler proceeds to look me up and down, eying my bare legs appreciatively.
“So do you,” I muster. He grins.
“I’m glad you found the place okay.”
“Yeah, about that — where exactly are we going?”
Instead of answering, Tyler points up, right above my head. I crane my neck and finally see a sign I hadn’t noticed before. It’s painted black, matte. The lettering is black, too, but a high gloss this time so that it stands out a bit, but discreetly. It says Darkly. Nothing else. The sign itself is small, not much bigger than a Prada handbag. No wonder I hadn’t seen it.
“What is this place?” My genuine curiosity is getting the better of me, and for a second I almost forget to be nervous.
“It’s a restaurant. But it’s kind of special. More like a dining experience.”
A dining experience? Color me intrigued.
Tyler takes my hand and pulls open a heavy door. Inside is a stairwell, descending down into a dark interior. The stairs themselves are lit only with minimal emergency lights.
I look at Tyler, confused. “What is this place?”
Instead of answering, he holds his hand out. “Do you trust me?”
Now there’s a loaded question. For a minute, I stare at him, and then down at his open palm.
Do I trust him? I don’t know.
But in this moment, I want to.
“I trust you.” I slip my hand into his.
Tyler begins to lead me down the stairs. When the heavy door swings shut behind us, the stairwell gets even darker. I can barely make out Tyler’s form in front of me as we carefully pick our way down to the landing below. I can’t believe this place exists. Surely, this stairwell alone is a lawsuit waiting to happen.
When we get to the bottom, I still can’t see anything. There’s one lone, glowing red light in front of us. It looks like a buzzer of some kind. Tyler punches it.
I squeeze his other hand. I’m more nervous than ever. Where the hell is he taking me?
There’s a noise like shifting metal and a slight breeze. I can feel, more than see, a door open in front of us, but it’s as dark on the other side as it is on this one. I grip Tyler’s hand like it’s a life preserver.
“Good evening,” a voice comes from the darkness. I can only make out the faintest outline of the man in front of us, lit in red from the dim glow of the buzzer. “Welcome to Darkly. Is this your first time here?”
“Yes.” Tyler’s voice comes from beside me.
“Then allow me to explain to you how things work. First, please take hold of this rope. I’ll use it to show you to your table. How many of you are there?”
“Two. Reservation under Grant.”
“Ah, yes. Welcome, Mr. Grant. Is your date with you?”
“She’s right here.” Tyler squeezes my hand.
“Hi,” I squeak. It’s so weird to not be able to see the man we’re talking to. I can barely even see Tyler. This is already officially the weirdest date I’ve ever been on.
Tyler wedges something into my hand. It feels like a piece of nylon rope. I can tell he’s holding onto it with his other hand. There’s a gentle tug on it, and I realize our host is holding the other end.
“My name is Paul,” he says. “Please, follow the rope. Step carefully. There are no more stairs, and the path is quite clear, so as long as you walk slowly and keep hold of the rope, you should have no problems. I realize this is a bit disorienting. That’s completely nor
mal.”
He tugs the rope again, and Tyler and I shuffle forward in the direction he leads us.
“Darkly is a completely unique, all-dark dining experience. The only one of its kind in New York City. It was founded on the belief that by removing the sense of sight, diners could develop a much deeper appreciation for the nuances of the food being served. The smells, the taste, the feel, even the sounds are enhanced. You’d be surprised how delicate a knife slicing through the finest steak can sound.”
I blink in surprise. I listen closely and realize we do seem to be moving through a restaurant. There’s soft music playing, a hum of conversation, silverware clattering against plates. A rich garlicky aroma permeates the air.
“Our chefs range from the classically trained to modern geniuses of molecular gastronomy. Each night is different, and there’s something for everyone. To facilitate a smooth dining experience, all our servers — including myself — are legally blind. That means we’re used to operating without the use of our sight and are better able to support you in having a comfortable dining experience. I’ll be your guide for the evening, so to speak.”
I blink against the dark. I keep expecting my eyes to adjust, but it’s completely pitch black in here. I feel blind. Disoriented. Intoxicated.
I’m holding too tight to the rope to reach for Tyler, but I can feel the warmth of him in front of me. I try to concentrate on that as we move.
“I’m coming to a stop,” Paul cautions.
Tyler and I both stop, although I bump into Tyler’s back and giggle nervously. He reaches back and slips his arm around my waist, pulling me to him. In the darkness, his spicy cologne envelops me, making me feel almost delirious for a second.
“I’m putting you at a four-person table,” Paul explains. “There are two chairs on this side and a bench on the other side. Would you like to sit next to or across from each other?”
“Next to,” Tyler answers quickly.
