Slinking down on my pillows, I cleared my throat. “Can I talk?”
“Oh, sure, Emerson. Should we add your dad on the call? Because what in the ever-loving fuck am I going to tell him?”
“Can you please stop talking so crass?”
“Why? Does your new guy talk like a gentleman? He certainly didn’t look like one with all that wild hair and ratty T-shirt.”
“Robby. You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
I couldn’t say he was, so I stayed quiet.
“See? You can’t even defend yourself. What the hell is your dad going to say about this? This guy protects you from me, and you go acting like a floozy in the big city.”
“I’m not acting like a floozy. I’ve made friends, I work hard, and I’m looking for my mom.”
“And you’re not going to school. Did you know I’m going to be a doctor, Emerson?”
“Of course I do, Robby.”
I stood, lightheaded and weak. What the heck did he want from me? He’d sided with my dad, when all this started because of him.
Walking toward the mini bathroom, I decided I needed coffee.
“I can’t have a bartender as my better half.”
“Wait, what did you just say?”
“You’re a bartender.”
My ass fell onto the toilet seat. “Yes, I know. I’m paying my bills and looking for my mom.”
“You’ve thrown away everything for her. Your dad really got the shit end of the stick. And I can’t exactly be walking around in my pre-med program with someone who isn’t even in school to do anything professional.”
“Well, I guess you came here for nothing.”
“No, I came here to meet with my advisor, remember? I’m going to make something of myself.”
“Lots of luck to you, Robby.”
I hung up with one thought running through my mind. Thank God I didn’t give him my virginity.
Maybe my dad was on to something. I needed to call him, figure stuff out with us, and apologize for bolting, but not right now. First, I needed coffee, and then I’d think on it.
With my first sip of joe, I realized Price wasn’t wrong either when it came to Robby. Robby wasn’t confused . . . he knew exactly who and what he wanted, and it wasn’t me.
My hands curled around the warm cup, I found myself alone in a big city, looking for a woman I’d never met, and without the only two people I’d ever trusted.
A chill ran the length of my whole body—a fear greater than any I’d ever known. But with a resolution stronger than the sludge I’d brewed, I peed and decided screw ’em all.
Emerson
“Thanks, Randy.” I’d stopped in to pick up my paycheck and thank Randy for taking my shift at the bar.
The smell of cumin still hung heavy in my hair from my shift at the restaurant earlier in the day, but I didn’t have time to shower and change before heading to the art show at the Lucky Artist Bakery. Bev’s mom was going to be there, and she was my luckiest and biggest lead to finding my mom, all wrapped up in one.
Wearing jeans, a loose off-the-shoulder gray V-neck, flip-flops, and a messy bun would be how I would meet her. With a fresh coat of mascara and lip gloss, I looked shabby chic. It was the best I could do.
“Want some food?” Randy called after me.
“No thanks, I’m good,” I said over my shoulder, knowing there was no way I could swallow anything past the lump of anxiety in my throat.
Outside on the sidewalk, I made my way toward the subway. I didn’t want to be late to the party, but I also didn’t want to appear too excited. A fireball of mixed emotions swirled in my gut . . . and then my phone pinged.
You heading to the bakery?
How the heck did Price remember?
And did I want him to know?
Since it was time for me to go underground and get on a train, I decided to answer him when I got out on the other side.
Price had been conveniently busy the last few days . . . after my relationship with Robby had blown to bits. Which was fine, because I had enough shit to deal with, like figuring out how to salvage my relationship with my dad while still looking for my mom.
On my way now. How r u?
The second part I added out of obligation. It was hard to be mean, especially when he’d just taken up for me in a bar a few days before.
Good here. Want some company?
Wow, I wasn’t expecting that response. Clueless as to what to say next, I did the easiest thing . . . I ignored his text.
Quickly making my way to the bakery, I went over in my mind what I wanted to say to Bev’s mom. Of course, when I finally walked through the door and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and chocolate filled my nostrils, I forgot every last word.
“Em!” Bev called to me from behind the counter.
My eyes roamed the small shop. People were mingling, some holding hot beverages and others champagne flutes. Bright contemporary art I hadn’t seen before covered the walls. A dude in jeans, a white T-shirt, and cowboy boots—presumably the artist—stood in the corner, talking to a group of people.
As I waved at Bev, a woman made her way from the group chatting with the artist and joined her. Smaller than Bev, the woman was wearing a tie-dyed dress, cinched at the waist with a beaded belt, and a bright orange scarf tied around her head.
Bev waved me closer, and my feet moved of their own volition, the breath whooshing from my lungs. Above them behind the counter hung Paula’s painting—my lucky break at the Lucky Artist Bakery. The tips of my fingers and toes tingled with fear and excitement.
“Hey, thanks for coming,” Bev said while stepping around the counter and pulling me in for a hug.
“Place is packed.”
“I know, right?”
Bev’s mom joined us. “Hi, I’m Sheila. You must be Emerson. Bev hasn’t stopped talking about you,” she said to me with a smile.
“Nice to meet you . . . glad you could be here. You know, that you’re feeling well enough,” I said, stumbling over my words and emotions.
“Me too. Do you like the work?” Sheila waved her hand around the bakery, and I scanned the bright splatter-painted canvases.
“I do. It’s fun, cheerful, hopeful.”
“That’s what I thought, and we can all use a dose of that,” Sheila told me.
“You can say that again,” I said, without going into the details of my week.
Bev gave me a quick grin. “And they’re selling.”
“Well, that’s good.” I looked around again, amazed by a neon painting and then one made up of primary colors. Completely out of my comfort zone, I never thought I’d be at a New York City art show.
“Bev told me you love that one.” Sheila changed the subject, glancing toward Paula’s painting.
“I do. There’s something that makes me feel settled looking at it. At ease.”
My phone burned in my pocket as lies spun from my mouth. I wasn’t the best version of myself, continuing to ignore Price’s text, telling half-truths to my only friend and her mom.
“Did Bev tell you I have another one? Paula painted them one afternoon just for fun for me. They were meant to be a set. Funny, this was long before I owned the bakery, way before the idea of this place even existed. We were two young New Yorkers who liked dessert. That’s why she made the cookies floating out like that. We were goofing around, I guess. When we still could. Goof around, I mean.” She looked wistful as she spoke, as if she were reminiscing about better days.
I shook my head, still stuck on her initial question. “Did Bev tell you I have another one?” I’d never been this close to finding my mom, or at least having more clues.
A chill ran up my spine and landed in the back of my neck. I ran my hand there, massaging out the excitement. Or was it anxiety? Still, I continued to hang on her every word, especially the mention of my mom’s name.
Sheila put her hand on her hip and jutted it out like a fashio
n model before explaining. “Of course, we didn’t eat cookies. We were too worried about our curves and dieting. If I knew now that none of it mattered, I’d have eaten the cookies.”
“Ha, well, I eat cookies. Bev will tell you that’s how we met. Over your PB&J cookie. It’s become a weakness of mine.” Among other things.
“Bonded ever since. All because of a cookie . . . nothing to do with me,” Bev joked.
“I’m so happy Bev is branching out and making new friends,” Sheila said. “The last year hasn’t been easy for her. That’s why I said if you liked the painting so much, you could have the other one. Would you like it?”
Biting my tongue, I kept myself from shouting, “I would!”
Instead, I said politely, “I couldn’t do that. Maybe Paula wants it back. As a memory.”
“Pfft, no. I haven’t seen her in a few years, and I doubt she’d want it back. She left most of her past behind.”
“Oh, that’s sad,” I said, not knowing how to respond, thinking that was the most appropriate thing to say. The harsh reality was that I knew all about how Paula left things in her past. Including me.
A couple approached the counter, wanting a sweet treat, and Bev went to help them.
Her mom patted my arm. “Then it’s settled. Next time you and Bev get together, I’ll give her the painting for you. I have to go mingle. So great meeting you, Em. Is that okay? Calling you Em?”
The words stripped from my brain, I nodded like a brainless bat.
Her nickname brought me back to the present and thoughts of Price.
“See you in a bit,” Sheila said before taking off.
“Want a cookie?” Bev called to me.
I really wanted to lie down, close my eyes, and dream of my mom. Instead, I took a PB&J cookie and a closer look at the paintings.
The back pocket of my jeans buzzed. Price wasn’t one to give up easily.
Come on. I’m lonely.
He’d added a puppy emoji at the end, to which I replied:
You should get a puppy.
I should. Let’s go tomorrow and pick one out. I’ll adopt a lonely, abandoned pup.
He was relentless, I had to give him that.
I took off work tonight, so I’m working a double at the bar tomorrow.
So, let me take you tonight for some good food, and then we’ll get the pup on Sunday. You need to eat.
Loneliness and wanting to get away from the ghost looming behind the damn coffee-cup painting won, and I shot off a quick text.
Tell me where to meet you.
Nope, send me your location. I’ll come grab you in an Uber, and we’ll go.
I knew there was zero sense in arguing, so I complied, and then went about hanging around the counter with Bev until he texted
Here.
Bev and I agreed to get coffee early the following week, and then she wanted to show me her dance studio. We said Tuesday or Wednesday, and I was out the door without a glance behind me.
Price flung the door to an Uber open and yelled, “Hey there!”
“Where’s Johnny?” I slid into the back seat of the black sedan.
“Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not,” I told him, pulling the door shut behind me. “I was honestly asking.”
“I told him to take his wife out. They had a babysitter for their five-year-old.”
The car stuttered in stop-and-go traffic; the driver seemingly knowing where to go. We jerked forward and came to a fast stop.
“Geez, I don’t think I could ever drive here.”
“I did when I first got here. Determined to do this my own way.”
“I thought a limo picked you up and brought you to the Big Apple?”
When I referenced our conversation during our first dinner out, Price smiled.
“You remembered what I said. Well, another perk of being my dad’s son is a sleek Tesla kept in the garage underneath my building. To get me out to the Hamptons, where, yes, my dad owns another place. Keep your judgy opinions to yourself. Anyway, refusing a ride from Johnny, I tried to take the Tesla to class one day. My patience for all the traffic here was nonexistent, so I didn’t try again.”
“Ha! I drove myself here and then sold my car when I got as far as Queens. I needed the money. It’s been a month, and this is the first time I’ve thought about selling it, unloading all my stuff, and taking a cab to a three-star hotel.”
People and cars whizzed by both of the passenger windows. The city was lit up like Christmas all around us, frenetic energy buzzing in the air.
“But I don’t know how people keep up with this pace forever,” I said to the window.
“Crazy. I’m still settling into it, and on the farm, we keep long hours.”
“The thing is, I can’t ever get that car back.”
“You’ll get a new car,” Price said, running the tips of his fingers over my hand.
My eyes started to water about the damn car. “Jesus, this is the most inconvenient thing. I’m getting all teary over a car. With you. It’s just that my dad got me that car. I guess I shoved everything about my dad to the back of my mind when I got here. I haven’t even told him I sold it.”
Price wove our fingers together and squeezed my hand. “You could always tell him that prick Robby sold it.”
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. “Stop.”
“Made you laugh, though.”
I nodded and smiled through damp eyes.
The Uber came to a stop, and I saw we were in front of a big storefront.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Come on,” Price said.
“Is this what you do on a Friday night? Shop for housewares?”
As he held the door open for me, I took him in. Worn jeans, hole in the right knee, and sneakers on his feet. His eyes matched his faded blue T-shirt. With his hair messy and framing his face, he certainly could have been a model or whatever. But he wasn’t.
He turned toward me. “Come on. You can help me pick out a nightstand.”
“Seriously?”
“No fucking way, pardon my language,” he said while grabbing my hand.
He stopped for a second, looking around for something, and when he spotted an elevator, he pulled me that way.
“Should I be concerned?”
“Nope. All the chatty chicks in my class said the restaurant here is the place to go, so I figured we’d try it.”
As we waited for the elevator, he explained. “I had Rudy, the doorman, call for me. Apparently, he can get reservations anywhere. Mrs. Flugel in the penthouse introduces him to all the right people on the phone, and he manages her reservations.”
“Is that so? Has she been to my Bangladeshi place?”
Crap. As soon as I mentioned it, I remembered I hadn’t showered and changed since serving lunch. “Ugh, look at me. I forgot I was in jeans and flip-flops. You think I can go in?”
“Stop it, you look great. This city’s also weird with all the fancy dressing up, and for what? Just to eat?”
The elevator dinged, and the door opened to the most eclectic restaurant I’d ever seen. Mismatched chairs, funky glass chandeliers, potted plants lining the walls, and glass tables.
“I’m going to bring Mrs. Flugel out for lunch this week,” Price told me as we waited for the hostess.
“Don’t you dare.”
“Oh, I never back down from a dare.”
“Hi, can I help you?” A peppy redhead, wearing the shortest black shorts I’d ever seen and some sort of crop top, interrupted our moment.
“Reservation for Barnes,” Price told her, only bothering to take his eyes away from me for a beat or two.
Yeah, I’m here with him.
“Right this way, Mr. Barnes,” Little Miss Hot Shorts said, her tone a bit cooler this time.
I decided to enjoy myself. I’d never had the attention or passion of someone like Price, and I’ll be damned if I wasn’t going to savor it.
Price
We sat at the railing on an upper level, Emerson sipping a coffee while I enjoyed a bourbon on the rocks. The furniture store sprawled out below us was definitely the weirdest concept I’d seen in New York yet, but the food had been good. And Em seemed to be enjoying herself.
“Me? I don’t think there’s room in my apartment for anything from here.”
“Come on, one thing. What’s the point of eating here if you can’t pick out something? You know what? It should be a like a Happy Meal. They should let everyone who orders an entrée take a souvenir home.”
This made Emerson laugh, her chin tipped up, her hair spilling down her back. She’d had it in a messy bun when I first picked her up, but she’d quickly tugged it out, allowing it to hang loose in long dark waves. It was an inky mess like the lake at night, rippling with invitation, beckoning me to come closer. My hand itched to run through it, pull her next to me, and kiss her softly.
Emerson was like an after-dinner drink—you tasted her slowly, enjoyed every last morsel, and yearned for another long after you were finished. It was hard not to roll my own eyes at the cheesiness of my own thoughts, but they were what they were.
“Okay, I’ll play,” she said, jarring me from my daydreams. “I would take that armoire.”
She pointed toward a distressed white cabinet, small drawers down one side, a cabinet running the length of the other. The paint was chipped in a perfect pattern because it had been manufactured to look that way. At home, we had plenty of pieces like that—except they were worn from actual use and making memories.
“That?” I pointed toward the piece on display.
“That. Sorry to disappoint. Did you think I’d pick that oversized bed with furry throws and pillows all over it?”
Wanderlove - Rachel Blaufeld Page 8
