Brooklyn Girls

by Gemma Burgess

  “Girl of the people,” he says, ordering me an Amstel. I glance up at him. He’s real. He’s really real. “So, are you a vegetarian?”

  “No.” I reach for a smart-ass comment, and thank God, one arrives. “I’m very committed to eating dead animals.”

  “Good. So am I. I’ve put our name down for a table at Frankies across the street. It’s a meat place.”

  “Aces.”

  Pause.

  Where has the old I’m-so-experienced-at-dating Pia gone? I can’t think of what to say. I can’t think of what to do. I can’t think of anything, in fact.

  Merde.

  What would my friends do? Julia would talk about work. Madeleine would stay silent like the Sphinx. Coco would babble and giggle. And Angie would sit back, smirk, arch her brow, and act in control.

  That seems like the winner, don’t you think?

  So I sit back and take a sip of my beer, then swivel my eyes up to look at him.

  He’s doing just the same thing to me.

  Come on, Aidan. Take control of the conversation, please, I think as forcefully as I can.

  Instead, he just looks over at me and gives a tiny grin.

  A challenge.

  Well, I’m not speaking first.

  I take another sip of beer, still looking at him. To help calm my nerves, I find myself focusing on the little scar on the bottom of his lip. I bet girls always ask him where that scar is from. I will not do what other girls do. If he is a cockmonkey—and his calm self-confidence makes me wonder if he might be—then I will not fall for his act.

  Then I remember: Julia’s question numero uno. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  “No, I don’t, but thank you for inquiring,” he says. “And do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No. Why would you ask me that?”

  “Well, why would you ask me that?”

  “Because you bailed the other night to see a woman,” I say. “Emma. Or Emily. Or, um, whatever her name was.”

  I don’t mention seeing them on the street together all those weeks ago. Too stalkery.

  “Oh, you mean Emma. My sister,” says Aidan. “I’m so sorry about that, you must have thought me very rude. Her boyfriend had just dumped her, for the third and final time.” He holds up his phone. “Look, here’s a photo of us on Christmas Day with our parents last year. See? Brother. Sister. Same nose. Sadly for her.”

  “I believe you.” I glance at the phone quickly, just to be sure: it’s the stylish British woman I saw him with on the street that day. His sister. They do look alike. Damn. Now I seem like a jealous psycho. That’s even worse than a stalker. “Good. Just, uh, a routine background check.”

  “Hey, I totally get it.”

  “There are a lot of cockmonkeys out there.”

  “Cockmonkeys?”

  “Players … you know, one of those guys who cheats and lies to get what he wants.”

  “Oh, you mean a cad. A scoundrel. A total bounder. I can assure you that I am not any of these things.” He pauses. “I’m really bloody boring, now that I think about it.”

  I start giggling nervously. God, I love his accent.

  Aidan’s cell beeps. “Well, what do you know. Our table is ready.”

  Frankies 457 Spuntino looks just the way you’d want a modern Brooklyn restaurant to look: quirky but grown-up, with a dilapidated serenity that is almost but not quite unaffected. But it’s the backyard that really makes me gasp: a little fairyland, with flowers, vines, and candles strewn everywhere. It’s magical. I pause on the stairs leading out of the restaurant, just to gaze.

  “I know,” Aidan says, pausing next to me. “It’s a real dump.”

  My nerves make me giggle a little too loudly at this. I quickly try to shut myself up, but I have a chronic giggling fit. Oh, God. By the time we get to our table, I still haven’t stopped.

  “Still laughing, huh? I didn’t think it was that funny,” says Aidan. “I mean, really. I can be much funnier than that.”

  I erupt into giggles again, oh, God. This is like giggling Tourette’s. With concerted effort, I press my lips together, my chest still hiccupping with squashed nervous laughter.

  “Would we like a prosecco to start?” asks the waitress.

  Aidan turns to me. “Would we?”

  I manage to nod. Then we’re silent again. So far I’ve grilled him about a mythical girlfriend and then giggled like an Ewok on laughing gas. Nice.

  “We should just play twenty questions, and get it over with,” says Aidan.

  I can do that. “Okay. Shoot.”

  “Brothers? Sisters?”

  “Only child. And is it just you and, um, your sister Emma?”

  “Emma and three brothers.”

  “Older or younger?”

  “All older. Emma’s eleven months older than me. I was a surprise.”

  “The spoiled baby…”

  “Neglected youngest, more like. What’s your relationship with your parents like?”

  “Uh, distant. My father is kind of old, he’s not exactly a talker, and my mother is insanely achievement-oriented. You know how stereotypical Indian mothers just want their daughters to get married? Mine just wants me to have a work ethic and stop getting into trouble.”

  Aidan grins. “You? Trouble?”

  The waitress delivers our prosecco. “Ready to order?”

  “Umm…” I say, looking at the menu in my lap. I seem to have forgotten how to read.

  “How would you feel about ordering lots of wine and antipasti and cheeses and breads, and just having a seven-course picnic meal?” says Aidan.

  “I would feel very comfortable with that.”

  We order, and as the waitress leaves, we clink our glasses lightly. I meet his eyes, and we both smile. I suddenly feel every part of me relax. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be with him. This warm, sure, right feeling.

  “My turn for questions,” I say. “Why did you move from London to New York?”

  “I guess I feel at home here. I don’t really feel that way anywhere else.”

  “Neither do I,” I say. It’s true. I really do feel at home here. I belong. I think of New York and Brooklyn and Union Street and Rookhaven, and I think, mine. “I’m Swiss-Indian, you know, but I really feel like I’m not defined by my nationality. I didn’t choose it, there’s nothing I can do about it.… I hate being judged by something I have no control over.”

  “I understand exactly what you mean.” Aidan grins at me. “Everyone can belong in New York. Okay, my turn. Favorite ice cream?”

  “Strawberry,” I say.

  “That’s so uncool. I thought you’d say raw cocoa with chili cardamom, or something totally fly.”

  “Fly? Nice word. You’re so hip. Well, I have always liked pink food. Probably because I’m a girl. You?”

  “Choc chip mint.”

  “Oh, come on, that is uncool,” I say. “What are you, six?”

  “I’m twenty-nine. And you?”

  “I’m twenty-two,” I say. “Dude, you are old.”

  “And you are … far younger than I thought,” he says, laughing in apparent shock. “Christ! I thought you were mid-twenties at least.”

  “Are you saying it’s time for me to get Botox?”

  We finish the glasses of prosecco so quickly that Aidan orders us a bottle while we keep playing Twenty Questions.

  He finds out about the places I grew up, and Rookhaven, and the girls, and SkinnyWheels, and how I love Toto more than anyone has ever loved a truck, ever.

  In turn, I discover that he works for a venture capital company (whatever the hell that is; he gives me his business card to prove that he’s not making it up: Aidan Carr, Senior Associate); loves his dog, Ziggy, whom he adopted when a friend got a divorce (“Zig was traumatized, but we got through it”); spent a year after college working in Australia; and has fourteen nieces and nephews thanks to his elder brothers.


  “Fourteen!” I’m shocked. “That’s kind of excessive, isn’t it?”

  “We’re lapsed Catholics, but old habits die hard,” he says.

  Twenty Questions was an inspired idea. And every tiny piece of minutia I discover about him makes me feel confident that my initial instinct to like him and trust him—the same instinct I’ve been doubting ever since—was right.

  “Are you glad you moved around so much? Growing up, I mean.”

  “Definitely,” says Aidan. “I think being an expat brat means you can adjust to new situations easily, make friends quickly, all that sort of thing.”

  I grin. “Expat brat, huh. I like that. But most expat brats I know are, um—”

  “Fucked up?” he suggests.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess so. You seem kind of unfucked up.”

  “Here’s what I think.” Aidan lowers his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “There is no unfucked up. People think there is, but there’s not. We’re all fucked up in different ways. It’s simply a question of making your fuck-ups work for you.”

  “What a beautiful sentiment. You should put that on a Hallmark card.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  We grin at each other as our crostini arrive.

  “I like your eyebrows,” I say.

  “I like your thumbs,” he replies.

  “My thumbs?”

  “They’re very long and elegant. Look.” He picks up my hand. The touch of his fingers on mine makes me shiver. It feels so intimate. And scary.

  I pull away and concentrate on my crostini. “I bet you say that to all the girls you meet in cabs.”

  “Well, yes, but usually I’m lying.”

  “Oh, charming.”

  “I am, aren’t I?”

  Our eyes meet, and I’m flooded with that warm feeling again.

  Aidan pauses for a second. “Right, I’ve been thinking about it, and we should just get the first kiss out of the way.”

  “Before we even finish eating?” A kiss? Now? The idea has my heart beating in my throat with excitement.

  “God, yes. Do you know how much garlic is in some of these dishes? This is just smart planning. Trust me.”

  “Smooth, Aidan. Smoooooooth.”

  He pauses. “Smooth like charming and debonair, or smooth like—what was the term? A total cockmonkey?”

  “Charming, I think,” I say, frowning as though deep in thought. “Debonair.”

  “I knew I should have brought some character references,” he says. “Okay, fine. In the interest of making it clear I’m not a cockmonkey, let’s not kiss tonight. Let’s say that the kiss has to be saved for the next time we meet.”

  “It does?” I say with a stab of disappointment.

  “Yes,” he says. “And now, let’s eat. Because bubbles make me giddy as a schoolgirl.”

  I giggle again and realize that I’m a little drunk.

  “Tell me more about your food truck.”

  “Um, I’m thinking about hiring a helper this weekend, actually. I know this actor who seems to spend his life doing odd jobs for people around Brooklyn.”

  “Thank God actors are useful for something. Oh, try this. Chicken liver with pistachio. Don’t look at me like that, it’s amazing.”

  I bite into the chicken liver skeptically. But he’s right: it really is amazing. “All these things that you always think are horrible are actually so delicious, isn’t it incredible?”

  “Incredible. Next time we should go to The Spotted Pig and have fried pig ear, it’s recockulous.”

  “You’re a real food person, huh?”

  “No, just greedy. Okay, keep talking.”

  “That’s all there is to tell,” I say. Not entirely true, but “and I owe a loan shark thousands” isn’t first-date conversation material. “I had an idea, I bought a truck, I’m trying to make it work.”

  “You’re so grown-up,” he says, shaking his head and grinning.

  “Oh, my God, I am so not,” I say in shock. “I’m a complete mess, I promise.”

  “But you’ve got everything figured out,” he says. “It took me years to find out what I wanted to do with my life.”

  “Years?”

  “Well, I was a trainee in an investment bank, hated it, got a job at Google that I thought was the answer to everything, hated it, then went back to investment banking and still hated it. I felt like such a loser … but eventually I figured out what would make me happy. And now here I am.”

  “Taking over the venture capital world?” I say.

  He laughs. “Something like that.” He glances up at me and grins. “It’s interesting and fun. I’m happy.”

  “Interesting and fun is what it’s all about,” I say.

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  We pause for a second and raise our glasses to each other, my heart goes thumpetythump.

  “I don’t think I’ve got everything figured out.” I feel so comfortable confiding in him, it’s bizarre. Like we could just talk all night and it would be this easy. “And I don’t know if I’m meant to be a food trucker forever. Or even work in the restaurant industry. I’m not particularly gifted in the culinary arts.” He grins. “I don’t know what I’m meant to do with my life, actually, but I’m trying as hard as I can to work it out.” I pause. “And I guess that’s okay.”

  “Okay? It’s incredible,” says Aidan. “You’re twenty-two and you’re out there, making it happen for you.”

  “Thanks, but God, I’m so far from making it happen.” I sigh, gazing into my glass. “I just want to prove to my parents that I’m not a total princess, that I can do something with my life beyond spending their money. And that I’m not the disappointment they think I am.” I blush. “Um … anyway, sorry, I’m being boring.”

  “No, you’re not,” he says. He reaches out and grabs my hand. “I love talking to you. You’re perfect.”

  His hand feels so right on mine, his skin is so warm and smooth and, yes, that’s exactly the word, perfect, and our conversation is honestly the most relaxing yet stimulating and enjoyable that I think I’ve ever had, that all of a sudden I feel like all the pent-up worry and tension is finally leaving my body. I feel clear and calm for the first time in weeks.

  I look at Aidan’s face, and feel … certain. This is right. It just is.

  And that’s when I see it, out of the corner of my eye, the outline of a person so familiar that I instantly turn to stare: very tall, dark-haired, well-cut suit and shirt, no tie.…

  I breathe in sharply and snatch my hand away from Aidan.

  “What?” says Aidan.

  I turn back to him, but I can’t speak.

  Because just twenty feet away from us is the first guy I fell in love with. My high school boyfriend who wooed me, won me, dumped me, and told me I deserved it and should have seen it coming.

  Eddie.

  CHAPTER 21

  I grab my glass of prosecco and drain it.

  Then I pour myself another and drain that, too.

  “Where is that waitress? Do they have any vodka?”

  “Are you okay?” says Aidan, frowning.

  “I’m fine. Can I get another drink?”

  “Of course, I was going to order some wine.… Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look—”

  “I’m fine!” I interrupt him. “Let’s just get some more drinks!”

  For the next twenty minutes, I focus on watching Aidan’s lips move, nodding when he pauses, and laughing when he smiles. But slowly he stops smiling.

  “Look, is there something you want to tell me?” he says. “Did I say something, or—”

  I drain my third glass of wine. “Nope! Chillax, hahaha … No, no, everything’s fine.” I quickly stand up, nudging the table slightly as I go. Everything wobbles, but nothing falls. “Phew!” I say. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the … thing.”

  Aidan stands up to see me out—such good manners—but I can’t even acknowledge him.

  All I
can think is: Eddie. Oh, my God, Eddie.

  Even though it’s been forever since I last saw him, the moment I clocked his profile against the back wall of the restaurant, I knew him. How can you remember someone so well—his walk, his voice, his mannerisms, the way he pulls his chair in, everything—after so long apart? And why, why, why am I freaking out this much? I am over him! I am completely over him.

  I weave my way through the backyard, trying not to ricochet off tables as I go. Eddie’s table is right next to the restaurant wall. As I’m heading up the outside steps, I glance down at them. He’s got his back to me but it’s Eddie, it’s definitely Eddie. He’s with a slim girl with perfect honey-colored hair, and sitting across from them is a sophisticated-looking older couple. Her parents, I guess. I pause at the top of the stairs, just as Eddie says something and they all laugh loudly.

  I walk blindly into the restaurant, almost knocking over a waitress as I go.

  “Ladies’ room? Please, where tell me?” I say. Apparently I am unable to structure a proper sentence.

  She points me to a door opposite the kitchen, and I skip-run toward it. Once in, I use my foot to knock the toilet seat closed and sit down, my breath coming out in heavy, uneven gasps.

  Eddie.

  We were together for almost two years. It’s not just my brain that remembers him, it’s my body. I know exactly what his jaw feels like against my lips, what his fingers feel like entwined in mine. I know what his voice sounds like when he growls “Keller” first thing in the morning. I know that he’s secretly still scared of the Count in Sesame Street and can recite Toy Story from start to finish. I know that despite being one of the most popular guys at boarding school, he hated it until he met me. I know it all.

  I know that when he told me I was perfect and he loved me, he lied.

  And that, apparently, I should have seen it coming.

  I look down at my hands. They’re shaking.

  I didn’t bring the clutch to the bathroom, so I don’t have my phone. I can’t even text anyone. Angie would know what to do … or maybe even Julia. And Coco would offer moral support. Madeleine … ah, who knows what the hell she’d do.

  I wash my hands in the sink, and stare at myself in the mirror, trying to breathe. I will not have a panic attack. I will not allow that to happen.