“Why?” I asked. “I mean, I think there might be another event I have to attend tomorrow night for work. It’s not set in stone yet.”
“Well, you’ll just have to tell the office you can’t go,” my mother said.
“I can’t just tell them I can’t go to something they send me to,” I said, not trying to avoid the desperate edge to my voice. “It would be disrespectful. What if they got some other personal assistant to attend things because she was more available than I was? I’d lose out on so much.”
“Gemma, surely to goodness they’d understand that you wanted to have dinner with your mother and her fiancé on your birthday.”
I scowled and whipped my phone around to glare at the display. What the hell? How had I forgotten my own birthday? But there it was, the telltale date displayed on my calendar app. My birthday was tomorrow.
“Twenty-three years old,” my mother was saying. “And already so successful after college.”
“I guess,” I said, feeling dazed. I’d forgotten my own birthday, and my mother was getting married. There was a punchline somewhere in all of this, but I couldn’t help feeling like I’d gotten socked in the gut. I was happy for my mother, sure, but was it such a terrible thing to ask the universe to spread some of the spiritual love around? I was struggling to get by, forgetting even the date of my birth because I didn’t have anything to celebrate, and my mother was in a wonderfully fulfilling relationship and was getting married.
No, that was terrible of me. I was terrible for detracting from my mother’s good news just because I wanted a bit of my own. My mother deserved her happiness. I needed to work to earn mine.
“You guess?” my mother said, her voice echoing in my ear. “You’re very successful, Gemma. I’m very proud of you. Try to make some time for Frank and your mother, wouldn’t you? We’d love to celebrate our good news with you. And talk wedding planning, of course.”
“Of course,” I said automatically. “Okay. I’ll tell the office I can’t do the event because of my birthday. I just can’t make a habit of doing that.”
“People celebrate for their birthdays, Gemma,” my mother sighed. “They have to realize that.”
“Okay, well, I’ve got to run,” I said quickly, looking up and biting back a litany of curses. I’d missed the stupid bus because I’d been so pathetically wrapped up in my despair. I was going to be late to the bar, and I’d get a chance to stew in my misery on the way.
“I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow!” my mother said. “I can’t believe it’s been more than a year since I’ve seen my own daughter — and that you haven’t even met Frank. You’re going to love him. He’s such a doll.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow,” I said, not bothering to hide my shudder. There was no one around to judge my reaction to that statement.
I dragged myself to the bus stop and plopped down on the bench, all energy spent. I could barely draw the strength to fish around in my bag for my journal and a pen. It would be no more than fifteen minutes for the next bus to arrive, but that didn’t make me feel any better.
I opened the journal to a fresh page and began jotting down a few notes.
“Have been attending events in the evening for the office,” I wrote. “Saw Claire Danes at one of them.” I paused and considered that one. “Was too shy to ask for an invitation, so only ogled from afar. Am going abroad for a business trip about a reorganization.” I narrowed my eyes. That one was tricky. Where would I go? Would I have to research somewhere to make it even more plausible? The one good thing would be that I wouldn’t have to talk to my mother on the phone, feigning poor coverage or expensive rates for international calls.
“Destination not determined as of yet,” I scribbled finally. “Told the office I wouldn’t attend an evening event on my birthday. Fallout?” I considered that one. It was a horrible thing to do to my mother, who only wanted to introduce me to her fiancé and take me out for my birthday. Then again, it would be a good way to discourage her from trying to take surprise trips to the city to see me.
I flipped through the pages of my journal, refreshing myself on the narrative I’d created, the life I’d invented for myself. I’d taken careful and copious notes to keep track of everything so I wouldn’t be caught in a lie. If I was caught once, I knew it would only be a matter of time until everything unraveled. My mother would be devastated, and I would feel like an asshole for the rest of my life because I couldn't hold it together for her.
Was I proud of this tangle of bullshit? Of course I wasn’t. I would’ve much rather been successful on my own, to have gotten the jobs in the tall buildings that I’d really wanted. I hoped to, one day, still have that. That maybe I’d have a spare moment to update my resume and go to a library and shell out some change I should be saving for the laundromat and print it out to take to some more interviews. But right now, I was tired, and all I wanted to do was put my mother’s mind at ease over me living in New York City.
Right now, the lies weren’t hurting anyone. If my mother knew the truth about my jobs, my apartment, my quiet, quiet desperation, it would hurt her.
That’s how I justified my pretending with her. That the truth would hurt her too much.
I pulled myself up off the bench and boarded the bus that rumbled to a halt in front of me. Things would get better, because they had to. I was about to turn twenty-three. Couldn’t things go right for once?
Chapter 3
I tried to focus on waitressing, but it was difficult. I knew it wouldn’t translate well to tips. The kinds of men who frequented this establishment were of the opinion that I should be completely devoted to their every whim. If I looked distracted, they’d take it as an affront.
I did the best I could, smiling at all the appropriate moments, laughing at the jokes I’d heard millions of times before, balancing martinis on a tray held high above my head without spilling them. All right. Maybe that was a mild achievement. I’d only been able to accomplish that by stealing a pair of martini glasses from the bar and practicing at home, filling them up with water and adapting the way I walked to avoid sloshing the contents out on the tray or myself or, even worse, one of the affluent clientele.
I was quite certain that I’d gotten this job based on looks only. At my day job, I walked for a living. I couldn’t afford to feed myself half of the time because of exorbitant rent. That potent combination meant that I was at my skinniest. Gone were the classic fifteen pounds I’d put on during my freshman year at college — gone, and then some. I’d had to purchase new clothes for myself, which had been financially devastating, as the pounds melted away.
I had to be at least a little bit thankful. I’d gotten this job because of my new figure, because of weight I hadn’t meant to lose. Throw a little winged eyeliner and a bold lip on top of that, and I could enjoy some pretty hefty tips.
It sucked that this should’ve been enough to be a living wage. It could’ve been, anywhere else in the country, perhaps, but not in New York City. Maybe I had to admit defeat. I was going to be twenty-three. I had a bachelor’s degree. What was I doing walking dogs and waiting tables? I could’ve done that without a college education — and the debt that I’d accrued and had to defer while I scrambled to keep a roof over my head.
Maybe I had to leave the city I loved so much in order to survive.
“Excuse me, miss?”
“Yes, how can I help you?” I tried to flash my money-making smile, but it wouldn’t come. I was just too upset. Too sure of my own failure.
“I’d like to figure out what I can do to make you smile again.”
I blinked swiftly to bring myself back into the present, to shake off the sadness and desperation I was feeling. Seated in my section, and very obviously flirting with me, was a very handsome, very British individual. He even looked European — or at least, like he wasn’t from the boroughs I was used to spending time in here in the city — with ice blue eyes, blond hair perfectly parted on the side and slicked with
a subtle product, a five o’clock shadow that I wanted to rub my cheek against…
I laughed out loud at myself and shook my head in disbelief. What was wrong with me?
“Well, that was easy,” he said. “May I ask what was so funny?” His accent was like music.
I pursed my lips, reaching for one of my many lies that were usually so easy to deploy, and came up short. That made me laugh again.
“Are you going to let me in on the joke, or am I going to have to sit here, left out and even more alone than I already am?” He affected a pretty pout that made me laugh even harder.
“Okay, but you have to promise not to laugh,” I said.
“Isn’t a person supposed to laugh at a joke?” He was so cheeky, his eyes sparkling even in the dim light of the bar.
“I don’t even know why I’m about to tell you this, but when I looked at you, all I could think about was rubbing my cheek against yours and letting your stubble scratch me.”
I felt my face go bright red as he blinked at me, obviously surprised by my candor. He was probably as surprised as I was. I could’ve told him any number of things — that I was laughing to myself over a conversation I’d shared with a guest earlier, about something a friend had told me days ago, even about some silly joke I’d seen on a sitcom.
Instead, I’d told him the truth — the bald, embarrassing truth. It was a wonder he didn’t run away screaming.
“I should’ve lied,” I said, covering my eyes helplessly with one hand and peeking through my fingers at him. “Now you’re freaked out.”
“I think freaked out would be the wrong description,” he said thoughtfully, as if he were carefully considering what words would be next out of his mouth. If only I’d been as careful.
“What would be the right description, then?”
“Turned on, I suppose, would fit the bill.”
He looked up at me slowly, his blue eyes taking their sweet time, and white hot fire shot through me wherever that gaze touched. I was blushing even more heavily by the time he made eye contact with me again.
“I hope you’re not offended,” I said stupidly. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“I don’t care why you said that,” he countered. “I like a woman who’s honest about her feelings. It’s positively refreshing, especially in this city.”
“Well, thanks for making me smile again,” I said. “I needed that. Now. Do you need anything? Like an appetizer? What about a fresh drink?”
“I’d only be interested in a fresh drink if you were sitting here, enjoying one with me,” he said.
I got hit on all the time. It wasn’t my ego talking; it was the God’s honest truth, and practically part of the territory that came with cocktail waitressing. Men got progressively drunker throughout the evening, and increasingly convinced that they could have a shot with me. I didn’t mind entertaining it. It usually garnered some decent tips.
But this time, for whatever reason, it was different. Maybe it was this man’s accent, the way he looked at me, the way my own body reacted to his eye on it. I was halfway convinced, though, that it had been my own reaction — the one to tell the truth — that made this particular encounter different.
I lied to strangers with just as much ease as I lied to my mother. It didn’t make me proud, and it came from a place I didn’t like to give too much attention to. But my inclination to tell the truth to this man — a very shameful truth, too — made things instantly different.
“I have about an hour left in my shift,” I said, glancing at the clock hanging on the wall above the bar. “Can you hang tight until then?”
He smiled winningly, and toasted me with his cocktail. “With you to look forward to at the end of it, I can face anything.”
I grinned back and walked away, shaking my head, to attend to the rest of my tables. Was I really about to agree to drinks with a man I didn’t know, a man who’d picked me up at the bar where I worked? Why was this man so different from all the rest? But even as I asked myself that, I knew he was different. He’d asked me to join him for a drink, after all, and not in his bed, like other classy individuals had done. I’d never met anyone British before, either, and I delighted in hearing him talk. The prospect that I could make a night of it, asking him questions about himself and hearing him answer in that rich lilt…did things to me.
And you know what? Screw it. Screw everything. I deserved to have fun. I was about to turn twenty-three, I was supposed to come up with proof of some fabulous lifestyle I’d invented for my mother, and I had no idea what I was really meant to do with my life. I deserved one last hurrah before the mess that I knew tomorrow was going to bring.
In forty-five minutes flat, I was standing in front of that mystery man, purse in hand, grinning like a fool.
“You know, I don’t even know your name,” I informed him as he stood and adjusted his suit jacket.
“A problem easily solved,” he responded, offering me his arm. “I’m Peter Bly. Pete’s fine, though.”
I took his arm. “What a gentleman! I’m Gemma. Gemma Ryan.”
“I am so pleased to formally make your acquaintance, Gemma,” he said, securing my hand with his. “Gemma — now that’s a lovely name. Gem. You’re somebody’s jewel.”
“I guess,” I laughed. “I don’t know if I’m still going to be my mother’s jewel after tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?” Peter asked, and I had only a brief moment to be mortified at myself, at my frankness. Why was I being so honest? This man didn’t know me at all. I could be whoever I wanted to be. It was one of the most refreshing parts about being one person in a city of millions. When you got to a place where no one knew you existed, you could transform yourself, reshape yourself into the person you’d always wanted to become. I’d been shy in my hometown, whatever personality I might’ve developed squashed by my overbearing mother. But I’d tried to force myself to blossom in the Big Apple. It was such a city of possibility. My very essence was made possible by being here, and here I was, reverting to being myself in front of a beautiful stranger. I was hopeless.
I snorted at myself. “It’s my birthday tomorrow,” I explained, and then, on the way out the door, I found myself gushing suddenly in explanation. It was as if I had a faucet in my mouth and had somehow opened up the tap completely. I couldn’t have stopped talking if I tried, regaling poor Peter with anecdote after anecdote of my complicated relationship with my mother, my impossible existence in New York City, my terrible jobs, my terrible apartment, and the terrible thing of having to prove to my mother, on my birthday, that I was everything I claimed to be over the phone.
It only barely registered in my racing mind, much later, that we had completely changed locations, were seated by a large window out onto the street, draped across a couch, a pair of cocktails perched on the table in front of us, mine completely untouched.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, grabbing my drink and downing it in one long series of gulps. “All that talking made me thirsty. What kind of drink was that? That was good. Where are we?”
Peter laughed, and I was grateful to him for it. “We’re at a place that just opened up. It’s new. I heard it was decent. You talked and talked so much. Sounds like you needed to get all of that off your chest.”
“Out of my head, anyway,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’m really sorry. I’m usually not like this.”
“I hope that’s not true,” Peter said. “I like the way you are. Candid. Honest. Different from anyone else I’ve ever met here.”
A server appeared at my elbow as if by magic, bearing another drink like the one I’d just downed.
“Thank you,” I said, pleased but puzzled. “I have no idea what I’m drinking, but it’s really good.”
“Blood orange martinis,” Peter informed me, the server nodding and smiling before moving away. “I heard it was one of the specialties here. Citrus Meridian. All of the cocktails have some kind of citrus flair.”
&n
bsp; I was glad I wasn’t imbibing in the cocktail at the moment, or else I would’ve spit it out all over us. “What? We’re inside Citrus Meridian? How could I have missed that?”
“You were talking about how you were afraid you were wasting your life here in the Big Apple,” Peter said, taking an innocent sip from his own martini. “Which I don’t think you are, for the record. It does the character good to struggle a little bit. Think of how satisfied you’ll be once you do make it. Your success will be all the sweeter for your suffering.”
I blinked at this unexpected advice. “I hope so… I mean, I hope I’m successful. One of these days. But seriously? How did you get into Citrus Meridian? Can we discuss that success?”
Peter laughed. “I know a guy who knows a guy. It’s not that hard to get in.”
“I heard you had to wait months in advance to get a table,” I told him. “Look at us! Look at where we’re sitting. This has to be one of the best spots in the entire place. You can see everything.”
“The general idea is that everyone can see us,” Peter gently informed me.
“I didn’t need to know that,” I said, freezing with the martini halfway to my lips. “I’m wearing my work clothes.”
“So am I.”
“My work clothes are from a bar,” I said. “I’m sweaty. I’ve spilled part of a drink on my shirt. The bottoms of my shoes stick to things. Oh, my sweet Lord. Is that Katie Holmes over there?”
“The Dawson’s Creek actress?” Peter craned his neck. “Where?”
“She’s done a lot of other work besides Dawson’s Creek,” I protested, laughing. “There. Oh no! Don’t stare. She’s going to think we’re weirdos.”
“Don’t worry about what you look like, Gemma,” Peter said, shaking his head at me as I tried to yank out invisible wrinkles in my black button-down. “You look beautiful.”
I paused in my fidgeting and flushed. “You’re very kind.”
“It’s going to be your birthday in exactly thirty minutes,” he said, checking what looked to be a very expensive watch on his wrist. “Let’s make it one to remember, shall we? My twenty-third birthday was a sad affair that I would rather forget.”
CALLIE (The Naughty Ones Book 1) Page 51
