A Second Bite at the Apple

by Dana Bate

  The cab pulls up to the corner of Twenty-fourth and M Streets, next to a tall, crisp condo building. This stretch of M Street is wide and dark and quiet—almost eerily so, when compared to the vibrant bustle on the same street, only three blocks west, at the entry point to Georgetown. But here, aside from a few hotels and restaurants, the area feels deserted.

  I pay the cab driver, ignoring Jeremy’s protests, and help Jeremy out of the backseat. He is wrapped in a thick, wool blanket, one lent to us by one of the other sightseers, who’d brought it for a picnic before the tour. Jeremy pulls it tight as we walk toward the door to his building, his entire body still quivering.

  I usher him through the lobby, a sharp, corporate space with dark leather couches, angular light fixtures, and beige tile floor. We move toward the elevator bay, my hand resting on his back.

  “What floor?” I ask as we step into the elevator.

  “S-s-s-seven.”

  I press the button and glance up at Jeremy, whose face I haven’t seen in the light since he fell into the Tidal Basin. His complexion, once smooth and warm, is now pale and mottled, his lips a faint purply blue.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say for the twentieth time.

  “S-s-s-stop s-s-s-saying that,” he says. “It w-w-wasn’t your f-f-f-fault.”

  “Okay,” I say, even though we both know that isn’t true.

  Jeremy leads me down the seventh-floor hallway until we reach apartment 707. His hand jiggles as he tries to fit his key into the lock, and I reach out and wrap my hand around his, steadying his grip. He smiles, and for a moment I think he might kiss me. But instead he turns the lock and says, “Th-thanks.”

  His apartment is big and clean and masculine. The entryway leads directly into the living room, which features a tan leather couch, walnut coffee table, and plush chocolate-colored armchair. The walls are painted a rich taupe, with framed posters of old movies and concerts hanging around the room—North by Northwest, The Doors, The Big Chill, Radiohead. At the far end of the room, a large window looks onto a courtyard in the middle of the apartment complex.

  Jeremy shuffles toward a short hallway to the right, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. “I’m g-g-g-going to t-t-take a sh-sh-shower.”

  “Okay. I’ll . . . I’ll make you some tea. Or coffee? Whatever you want.”

  “Th-thanks,” he says, and then shuts the bathroom door.

  The kitchen sits just to the left of the entry foyer and, at a first glance, looks like a chemistry lab gone wild. Three huge glass jugs sit in the far corner of the shiny gray-and-white granite counter, tucked beneath the cabinets in the darkest part of the kitchen. All three are draped with large gray towels, and when I peer underneath, I encounter frothy concoctions in varying shades of brown. The counter wraps around the kitchen and extends into the living room as a breakfast bar, with two barstools on the other side. The entire surface is covered with jars of bottle caps and corks and several tall and narrow metal contraptions whose purpose I cannot for the life of me ascertain. There are tubes and hoses curled up like snakes, coils of copper wire standing on end, and, perched at the edge of the breakfast bar, a bright orange Rubbermaid water cooler, the kind they use at professional football games. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I just stepped into a meth lab.

  As I root through his kitchen drawers, I spot two packets of Ghirardelli instant hot cocoa tucked beneath a jar of bottle caps. I fill the kettle and set it on the jet-black stovetop to boil, then empty the packets of hot cocoa into two bright red mugs. As I pour the boiling water into each mug, Jeremy trudges out of his bedroom in a hoodie and sweatpants, his hair still damp and disheveled from his shower. The color has started to return to his cheeks.

  “I couldn’t find any coffee or tea,” I say, lifting the mug of cocoa by its handle. “I made hot cocoa instead. Hope that’s okay.”

  Jeremy reaches out and takes the mug from my hands. “Perfect.”

  He clutches it, hunching his shoulders as he shuffles over to his leather couch. The steam pours off the top of his mug in thick swirls, and he brings his face in close, soaking up its warmth. I give my cocoa a stir and then join him in the living room, sitting at the other end of the couch.

  We both take long sips of our cocoa, and then Jeremy glances into his mug and back at me. “So . . . that was not how I saw this evening going.”

  I place my mug on the coffee table. “I don’t know. You managed to lure me back to your apartment. It all seems very suspicious to me.”

  He takes a sip of cocoa and laughs. “I was willing to do many things to get you to come home with me. Contracting hypothermia was not one of them. Besides, no offense, but after falling into a reservoir, all I want to do is drink this hot cocoa and go to bed. Under, like, five comforters.”

  “You won’t need five comforters. You’ll be back to normal in an hour or so. At which point I’m heading home.”

  “Understood.” He takes another sip and narrows his eyes. “You really think all I care about is ‘getting in your pants’?”

  My face grows hot. “I . . . I don’t know. Not really . . .”

  “Because, believe it or not, I actually like you, Sydney. I’m not sure why you find that so shocking.”

  “Shocking is the wrong word.”

  “Then what’s the right one?”

  “I don’t know. . . . Odd? Unfortunate?”

  “Unfortunate?” He furrows his brow. “Am I really that horrible?”

  “No . . .” I grab my mug off the table. “It’s . . . Well, I know who you are. What you did.”

  “What I did?”

  “At the Chronicle. The whole ‘cash for comment’ scandal.”

  He goes quiet for a long while. Then he nods slowly. “Ah. I see.” He drinks some more of his cocoa. “That was a long time ago.”

  “It wasn’t that long.”

  “Six years,” he says. “A lot can change in six years.”

  I want to ask him more about the scandal. Didn’t he know that what he was doing was wrong at the time? Does he regret what he did? Why did he do it in the first place? But before I can say anything, he lets out a loud sigh.

  “Listen, if that’s why you don’t want to go out with me . . . I don’t know what to say. That’s part of my past. It always will be. But a journalism scandal from six years ago doesn’t make my interest in you any less sincere.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  “I’m not asking you to marry me,” he says. “I just want to get to know you. Take you out to dinner a few times. Have a normal date that doesn’t end with running into an albino housemate or falling into the Tidal Basin. That’s all.”

  That may be all he wants, but all I want is to find someone I can trust. Someone who won’t break my heart. How can I trust him if he’s already on record as being a fraud?

  “Okay,” I say, because despite my misgivings, I cannot deny my attraction to him. “We can try once more for a normal date. But three strikes and you’re out. Got it?”

  He grins. “Got it.”

  “Good.” I play with the handle on my mug. “You might as well pick a night now, before I change my mind.”

  “Oh, so it’s gonna be like that, huh?” He puts his mug on the coffee table. “Fine. Allow me to consult my social secretary.”

  “Oh, please. Like you’re that important.”

  “You have no idea who you’re dealing with. I’m kind of a big deal.” He pulls out his phone and begins flipping through his calendar. “I’m out of town this week for work, and I’m in New Orleans next weekend for my brother’s bachelor party.”

  “Naked dancers on Bourbon Street? Eww.”

  “That isn’t what we have planned. But thanks for the vote of confidence.” He continues flicking through his calendar. “How about the weekend after next?”

  “Sure. Okay. As long as I won’t need a flashlight.”

  “You won’t. I promise.” He rests his phone on the coffee table. “I’d better make this next date count
, huh?”

  “It’s sudden death, my friend.”

  He smirks and scoots closer to me on the couch, his eyes locked on mine. He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, leans in, and kisses me softly on the lips. A voice in my head tells me to pull away, that this is a huge mistake, but something about Jeremy—the tenderness of his touch, the softness of his lips, the piney smell of his freshly washed hair—sucks me in, and instead of pulling away, I lean in closer. Before I know it we are lying on his couch, our legs intertwined, our faces pressed together. Our bodies burrow into his thick leather cushions, and as he kisses me, I kiss him back, even though I know, with near certainty, that this will come back later to bite me in the ass.

  CHAPTER 20

  The next morning, I roll over to find myself staring at the back of Jeremy’s head. I bolt upright.

  “Oh my God!”

  Jeremy starts and turns over to face me, his eyes half open as I pull the sheets up around my shoulders. “What’s up?” he says, rubbing his eyes.

  “I shouldn’t be here. What time is it?”

  “No idea.” He reaches for his phone on his nightstand. “Almost nine.”

  “Shit!” I leap out of bed, draping my arms across my naked torso to prevent him from catching a glimpse of my pasty body. “I should have been at the Dupont market half an hour ago. Rick is going to kill me.”

  “The market doesn’t open for another hour. You’ll be fine.”

  I grab my marled gray sweater off the floor. “You don’t know Rick. He’s an asshole on a good day.” I glance around the floor. “Where are the rest of my clothes?”

  Jeremy rolls over and reaches down to the floor on his side of the bed. “There’s a bra over here.” He tosses it in my direction. “I think your pants are at the foot of the bed.”

  Jesus Christ. “How did this happen?”

  “Well, it was dark, so I guess it was hard to see where the clothes ended up. . . .”

  “No, I mean how did I end up spending the night? I remember us making our way from the couch to your bed, but once we’d . . . you know . . . you offered to walk me home.”

  “I did. And then I went to get you a glass of water, and when I came back you were sound asleep. You looked so peaceful. I figured it was better to let you sleep than to wake you up.”

  I let out a loud groan as I clasp my bra with my back to Jeremy and throw on my sweater. “This is such a disaster.”

  “Thanks. . . .”

  I turn around. “Sorry—I didn’t mean . . . I just didn’t plan on sleeping over.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t plan on falling in the Tidal Basin, so I guess we’re even.”

  I smile in spite of myself and pull on my jeans. “Listen, I have to get to work. But I’ll see you in about two weeks, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  I slip through the bedroom door into the living room, where I throw on my coat and grab my bag. When I look over my shoulder, Jeremy is standing in his bedroom doorway, dressed in a faded gray T-shirt and a pair of black boxers.

  “Would it be okay if I called you before our next date? Just to talk?”

  “Yeah, sure, of course.” I think back to our phone conversation at Rick’s bakehouse and how I basically told him never to call me again. “From now on, you don’t have to ask if you can call me. You can just call. Honestly.”

  “You just seem so . . . I don’t know. Guarded. I don’t want to overstep.”

  “If you overstep, I’ll let you know. And hey, if I really don’t want to talk to you, I’ll just ignore your call.”

  He grins. “Fair enough.”

  He escorts me to the front door and holds it open as I step into the hallway. “I’ll talk to you soon, then,” he says.

  He leans in to kiss me, but I turn my head awkwardly to the side and give him a quick peck on the cheek. Then I walk down the hall toward the elevator, wondering if someday I’ll explain to him why I am the way I am.

  As predicted, Rick rips me a new one as soon as I arrive at the Dupont Circle market.

  “What did I tell you about being on time?” he says as he heaves a wooden crate of sourdough onto the table. It lands with a loud bang.

  “Sorry—I forgot to set my alarm.”

  “I don’t care if your apartment caught fire. Eight thirty means eight thirty. I’m docking you half your pay for this.”

  “Half my pay? But I’m here. The market doesn’t open for another forty-five minutes.”

  “Oh, so you’re gonna argue with me now? You’re late. End of story.”

  “But Rick—”

  He slams another crate onto the table. “End. Of. Story. Now go help your blond friend unload the rest of the truck. I’m too tired and sore to listen to your bullshit.”

  I head over to Rick’s truck, which is parked behind the tent on a blockaded stretch of Twentieth Street, just north of Dupont Circle. The Dupont market is arguably the biggest farmers’ market in Washington, DC, operating year-round and selling everything from thick spools of wool and handcrafted soap to fat hunks of artisanal cheese and heritage meats. Colorful tents pack Twentieth Street from one intersection to the next and spill over into an adjacent parking lot, which is flanked by tall, wrought-iron gates. Unlike the West End market, which maintains a calm, unhurried atmosphere, the Dupont market always feels like a celebration, with throngs of people jamming the aisles and a vibrant chatter filling the air. Even on the last Sunday in March, with forty-five minutes to go until the market actually opens, it is full of energy, as farmers and craftsmen breathe life into the weekend morning air.

  When I reach the back of Rick’s truck, Heidi emerges from the cavernous interior carrying a black plastic crate filled with almond croissants. She glances at her watch. “Living on the edge,” she says. “I’m surprised Rick didn’t impale you with a baguette.”

  “The day is still young.”

  She hands the crate down to me and hops off the truck. “So where were you? You’re never late.” She drags her eyes up and down my figure. “And you look kind of dressed up. For you, at least.”

  I lay the crate on the table and unload the almond croissants into a basket, their sweet, nutty scent wafting across Rick’s tent. I clear my throat. “I didn’t make it home last night.”

  “What? Where did you sleep?”

  My cheeks flush. “Jeremy Brauer’s.”

  “The shady food-writer guy?” I nod, and Heidi stamps her foot, her hands on her hips. “Sydney. What is wrong with you?”

  “I ask myself this question at least ten times a day.”

  “Well, I mean, seriously. I Googled Jeremy after your date last month, and he’s even sketchier than I thought. What kind of guy sells his opinion to the highest bidder, and then pretends his views are totally unbiased? He seems like a total shill.”

  “I know. Believe me, I know. He does not Google well. But the thing is . . . in person he isn’t like that. He’s actually really nice.”

  “I’m sure Robert Mugabe’s wife thinks he’s really nice, too.”

  “Jeremy is a disgraced food writer, not a Zimbabwean dictator.”

  “Potato, po-tah-to.” She grins and jabs me in the side. “I’m only kidding. But after all these years of closing yourself off and refusing to date, why are you choosing this guy, who seems about as trustworthy as Bernie Madoff?”

  “Again with the hyperbole . . .”

  “Whatever. The point is the same. This is self-sabotage.”

  I unload a basket of millet muffins. “You’re probably right. There’s just something about him, you know? He’s very charismatic.”

  “You know who else is charismatic? Drew. And unlike Mr. Brauer, Drew isn’t haunted by an unsavory professional history that’s plastered all over the Internet.”

  “So you’ve Googled Drew, too? Do you Google everyone?”

  “Pretty much.” She tosses an empty container beneath the table and grabs a bucket of biscotti. “Why don’t you let me set up a group date for next Saturd
ay—you, me, Drew, and one of Drew’s buddies. Something casual.”

  “I don’t know. . . .” I glance up and spot Drew setting up a few stands away, unloading a crate of bright red apples off the back of Broad Tree Orchards’ truck. He wears a gray flannel jacket, and his dark mop of hair is tucked beneath a black knit hat. He catches sight of me staring at him, and when he does, he smiles and waves. I wave back.

  “Hey! Stop flirting with your boyfriend!” Rick yells from the other end of the tent, in full earshot of Drew and pretty much everyone else at the market.

  My face is, without question, the color of a tomato. “Sorry . . .”

  “Not as sorry as you will be if you don’t get those oatmeal cookies in a basket, capisce?”

  I quickly begin organizing them. “Got it. Sorry.”

  Rick grumbles an unintelligible retort under his breath and hobbles toward the back of the truck.

  “So? Are you in?” Heidi asks when Rick is out of earshot. “I know Drew will be into the idea.”

  I watch as Drew grabs three apples and begins juggling them like a circus performer, an admittedly adorable smirk blooming on his face as his coworkers hoot and holler and applaud his dexterity. His eyes flit in my direction, and his smile broadens as he catches all three apples in one hand and presses them against his chest. He winks at me, and my heart races.

  “Okay, fine,” I say. “I guess it isn’t the worst idea.”

  What’s sad is that lately, that’s about the strongest endorsement I can give.

  CHAPTER 21

  The following week, I send Stu Abbott a list of ideas for blog posts and video segments for the Chronicle’s experimental Buying the Farm blog:

  • Broad Tree Orchards’ cold storage facility

  • Following crop from farm to market

  • Profile of new food entrepreneur

  • Trend piece—the next kale?