The hostess looked down at her book and back up at me. She smiled again and, as if reading from a script, dryly asked, “Have both members of your party arrived?”
“Yes.” I pointed to where Hille was sitting at the bar. “My date is at the bar.”
The waitress nodded and motioned for another waiter. I waited for Hille to turn away from the bartender and look in my direction. When he did, I waved him over. As I admired his lean but athletic body approach me, the room got warmer and I knew it had nothing to do with the actual temperature in the restaurant.
After we were seated, I asked, “So, any vacations planned, Craig?”
“Unfortunately not, but I’m trying to round up the troops for a trip to New Orleans in early spring. You up for it?”
“I could be, although I’m not sure I’m wild enough to flash my boobs to collect beads!”
“C’mon. You’re way prettier than most of the girls who have no problem showing their skin.”
I flipped my hair, tried to smile demurely and said, “You think?”
“Of course! Don’t be silly.”
“Are you ready to order?”
I wiped the stupid grin off my face and turned my attention from Hille to the waiter, a gangly college-aged kid covered forehead to toenails in freckles, at least from what I could see peeking out of his tuxedo shirt and vest.
After listening to the specials, Hille motioned for me to go first and I said, “I’ll have the bone-in rib eye, rare, please.”
The waiter turned to Hille and said, “And you, sir?”
“I’ll have the rib eye as well, but well done. Wanna share the potatoes au gratin, Steph?”
Even though I’d heard the creamed spinach was to die for, I said, “Absolutely.”
After the waiter left, I turned to Hille and said, “Well done? How can you order steak well done? Rare or medium rare is the only way to go.”
Hille shrugged and said, “I don’t like any blood.”
“The blood is the best part!” I insisted.
“Cohen, how about you pay attention to your own dinner or I’ll tell the bartender to secretly replace your vodka with gin so you pass out?” Hille joked.
“Touché,” I said. “But it’s so much better rare.”
Hille reached over, grabbed my drink and motioned like he was going to spill it on me until I said, “You win! Let’s just agree to disagree.” Extending my hand across the table, I said, “Deal?”
Hille shook my hand and said, “Deal.”
“So, read any good books lately?” Hille asked.
“I’m reading Blink at the recommendation of my boss,” I said. I figured it was a more impressive title than The Skinny Bitch.
Hille’s face lit up. “I just read that, too. I thought the stories were nicely written, informing and entertaining at the same time, but in my opinion, they didn’t add up to anything terribly profound. What did you think?”
“Uh, actually, I’m almost finished and haven’t quite formed an opinion yet. But, yes, very entertaining.” I looked around, hoping the waiter would bring our food over soon. I took a sip of my drink and said, “So, I can’t believe the Yankees won their twenty-seventh world championship! And the first year in the new stadium too.”
“I know. It was a great season,” Hille enthusiastically agreed. “It was nice to see A-rod step up to the plate in the post season.”
Chuckling, I said, “I suppose Kate Hudson deserves some of the credit! Kind of concerned about the pitching for next season. Can’t rely on three starters all year.” I figured Hille would be impressed with my knowledge of baseball and hoped I wouldn’t run out of material.
“Agreed. So, how’d you become such a Yankee fan, anyway? Being from Maryland and all, I would have thought you’d be an Orioles fan.”
“I do like Cal Ripkin Jr.”
“Of course you do,” Hille interrupted with a knowing smile.
“Haha. Seriously, though, my stepfather and brother are die-hard Yankee fans and, since they taught me the game as a kid, I was subtly persuaded to share their allegiance. You know, a Reggie Jackson baseball card for Chanukah instead of a Barbie doll, my loyalty in exchange for not getting my butt kicked—that sort of thing. And my real father was originally from Massachusetts and is a Red Sox fan. Since he was a deadbeat, I was even more motivated to root for the Yankees to piss him off.”
Hille nodded. “So, how’s your steak? Besides raw?”
“Delicious. How’s your leather, I mean steak?”
Hille laughed and I felt like the female Jerry Seinfeld.
Although the steak was delicious—juicy, just the way I like it, I wasn’t all that hungry. I didn’t want Hille to think I was one of those girls who didn’t eat on dates, even though he didn’t know we were on a date, so I forced down a good portion of it for appearances. When the waiter removed my plate, Hille leaned towards me and pointed at the table. “You sure you had enough to eat, Steph? It looks like you got more food on the tablecloth than in your mouth,” he said laughing.
Turning crimson, I said, “Shut up, Craig!”
Although I had enough solid food, I needed more liquid courage and, after dinner, Hille and I stopped at one of the many Irish pubs we passed between the restaurant and The Millennium hotel. A live band was playing Irish songs, none of which Hille or I knew but before long, we were swaying to the music and singing “Yes, we drink. And drink and drink. And drink and drink. And drink and drink. And if I might see a pretty girl I’ll sleep with her tonight.” When singing the last line, I was pleased that Hille kept his eyes on me.
As an older man and a girl who looked young enough to be his daughter separated from a lip-lock and got up, we took their spot at the end of the bar. “Let’s do a shot of tequila,” I proposed.
“Don’t think so, Steph. I don’t do shots on a school night.”
Under my breath but loud enough for Hille to hear me, I muttered, “Wimp.”
Scowling at me, Hille said, “What did you call me?”
“You heard me,” I said.
“I’m not a wimp,” Hille insisted.
“I call ‘em like I see ‘em and what I see before me is a w-i-m-p—wimp!”
“You’re trouble, Steph. Fine. I’ll do a stinkin’ shot of tequila.” Hille motioned to the bartender. I was glad it was the old man and not the scantily dressed Elisha Cuthbert look-alike on the other side of the bar.
The bartender nodded to Hille. “Two shots of tequila, please,” he said.
I added, “Can we also get salt and lime, please?”
Hille turned to me and said, “Now who’s the wimp? Salt and lime?”
Removing the salt shaker from the bar, I smiled sweetly at Hille and said, “I’m a girl, Craig. Calling me a wimp just doesn’t have the same effect. Sorry.”
Hille smirked at me while I licked the underside of my wrist and poured the salt. “Cheers, Craig. Lick it, slam it, suck it!”
After the shot, we agreed another drink was probably a bad idea and Hille escorted me to my hotel.
Before he had the opportunity to initiate the end of the night, I said, “Come in for a minute. Check out my cool hotel room. It’s got a great city view.” Then I paused before adding, “Unless you’re in a real hurry to get going.”
Hille stroked his chin, appearing to contemplate. After a brief hesitation, he shrugged and said, “I guess I can hang out for a bit.”
I wondered if he knew what I hoped would happen. I was so nervous I incorrectly inserted the magnetic room key into the slot twice before Hille chuckled, took it from me and opened the door. I glanced at him shyly, feeling my face get red, and said, “Blame it on the tequila shot.”
Hille just laughed again and said, “Whatever you say.”
Even though we had basically been alone together all night, the dynamic changed as soon as we were enclosed within the four walls of my tiny hotel room and my hands were shaking. I told Hille to help himself to the mini bar and went into the bathroom
to channel my inner cheerleader. I looked at myself in the mirror and, with the water running so Hille wouldn’t hear me, said, “Get a grip, Stephanie. You look damn good tonight and you know it. Craig Hille would have to be an absolute fool not to want to hook up with you. He wants you and you know it. Now go out there and get him!” With that, I left the bathroom and found Hille sitting on one of the guest chairs staring at his Blackberry.
Trying not to laugh at his predictability, I said, “Lots of emails, Craig?”
As he put the Blackberry back in his briefcase, he said, “Always, but nothing important or remotely interesting.”
I sat down on the foot of the king-sized bed which faced where Hille was sitting and said, “I’m glad we did this, Craig.”
“Me too, Steph. It was fun. Thanks again.”
“Thank you!”
There was a brief moment of awkward silence until I took a deep inhale and said, “Craig?”
“Steph?”
“This is kind of embarrassing.” And really fucking scary.
Hille shifted his body in the chair. “What’s wrong?”
“Uh, well, the thing is, I’m totally attracted to you right now.” I swallowed hard thinking even the teenagers on “Gossip Girl” were probably more seductive than me.
Hille looked at me, eyebrows raised. Then he let out a shaky laugh and said, “That’s probably just the vodka and that shot of tequila talking.”
I bit my lower lip and shook my head. “Mmm, I don’t think so. I felt the same way before we had our first drink.”
Hille’s eyes were closed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m flattered, Steph. Really. But, uh, what about Paul?”
“What about Paul?”
Hille stood up and said, “He’s one of my closest friends—your ex-boyfriend? Wouldn’t it be weird?”
“Paul hasn’t been my boyfriend in eleven years, Craig! He’s had many girlfriends since me and I seriously don’t think he’d care what we did. It’s not like he asked my permission before he started dating Hope.”
Now pacing the length of the bed, Hille said, “Steph, I just don’t feel comfortable with this. The fact that you dated my best friend for two years kind of freaks me out—despite that it was eleven years ago. It’s nothing personal—just doesn’t feel right. I’m sorry.”
I swallowed my dinner back down. This was not how it was supposed to happen and I wished I’d never said anything. I wished I could say ‘just kidding — psych!’
Defeated but forcing myself not to cower, I looked Hille in the eyes and said, “That’s okay, Craig.” I gave him a closed mouth smile and shrugged my shoulders. “I’ll live.”
Hille looked at me kindly and repeated, “Sorry.”
Willing myself to play it cool, I jabbed him lightly in the arm and said, “Stop apologizing! You’re just making me feel worse. And anyway, you don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I can only imagine,” Hille said with a soft smile.
We stood there in the middle of my hotel room in silence until Hille finally said, “It’s getting late. I should get out of here.”
“Okay, it was good seeing you, Craig.” It was actually a nightmare and I wish I’d wake up already.
“Same here, Steph. When do you leave?”
“Day after tomorrow.” Not soon enough.
“You staying here again tomorrow?”
“Yup.” Please just go!
“Okay, maybe I’ll call you.
“Cool.”
Hille then grabbed his briefcase, kissed me on the cheek and said, “Bye, kiddo.”
Seven
I waited until the door closed behind him and said, “Well, that was humiliating” out loud to myself.
I got undressed, put on my pajamas—my ratty and faded Phi Alpha t-shirt and a pair of shorts—and went to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. As I washed off my makeup and stared at my reflection, I remembered the night the brothers made me an honorary member of the fraternity after I allowed them to give me a swirly. Apparently, sleeping with a brother wasn’t a good enough exchange for wearing his letters. So I stuck my head in the toilet bowl merely to earn the right. And I still held it against Paul.
After requesting a wakeup call for the next morning, I turned down the white comforter on the king-sized bed I considered too big for just my 118-pound frame, got inside and turned on the television set. When Harry Met Sally was on TBS but I wasn’t in the mood for my favorite chick flick. I was also in no mood to watch Samantha Jones have sex with her real estate agent. I usually enjoyed Jay Leno but Alisa Milano was on and I couldn’t help but wonder if Hille would have turned her down. Finally, I decided on Bull Durham until it occurred to me that Hille looked like a younger version of Kevin Costner. I turned off the television set, assumed the fetal position and closed my eyes, but sleep would not come. I replayed the evening with Hille in my mind: the pre-dinner cocktail, our playful banter at dinner, flirting at the bar afterwards and the rejection otherwise known as the most embarrassing moment of my life. I knew Paul wouldn’t give a crap if Hille and I hooked up and wondered if Hille was just trying to protect my ego by using that excuse. Why had I thought he liked me? Maybe Hille always winked at girls and I just hadn’t noticed it. Maybe he was just being friendly when he asked when I was coming to New York again. Maybe my crush back in college had been completely one-sided. Looking up to the freshly painted ceiling, still visible thanks to well-lit Time Square peeking through the window, I offered a sarcastic, ‘Thanks, God. Thanks for nothing.’ Then I buried my head under the oversized pillow and prayed the whole night was just a bad dream.
~ * ~
When I woke up the next morning with a tequila-induced headache, I instantly flashed back to Hille promising me his rejection was “nothing personal,” turned over on my stomach and cried until I forced myself to get in the shower and go to work.
I had done embarrassing things before and, although I beat myself up over them, the mortification always subsided in time. Once, I walked into Union Pub in D.C. only to discover that my skirt was tucked into my jacket and the entire bar got a bulls’-eye view of my ass as I walked to the back to meet my friends. I didn’t go back to that bar for almost a year. I had a feeling this bruise would take even longer to heal, especially since Hille was a staple in my crowd of friends and, unlike a bar I could simply replace with another, he was not someone I could easily avoid. My head felt like it was stomped on repeatedly by Big Foot and I wondered how I was going to get through the day. On top of that, everyone on the Franklin General deal was going to dinner that night. It was going to be a long day.
I fought my way through the crowds of people on the street, including rush hour corporate-types like myself and halted tourists, mesmerized by billboards, office buildings and other attractions of which I, also a tourist in my own right, was too hung over to notice. The two block walk took close to ten minutes and when I finally made it to my firm’s building, I stopped at the little store in the lobby to pick up a sample packet of aspirin and a bottle of water.
“Smile, little lady. It can’t be that bad.”
I looked up into the deep-set sapphire eyes of the elderly man behind the counter, smiled and said, “You’re probably right, but it sure feels that way.”
The man grabbed a copy of Cosmopolitan, handed it to me with my change and said, “On me. Enjoy. Just promise to smile.”
For the first time since returning to my hotel room after dinner the night before, I managed a genuine smile and said, “Thank you so much. You just made my day.” And although I meant what I said, I really had no desire to learn 139 ways to drive my man crazy in bed and would have much preferred a copy of Bon Appetit.
Part of me was desperate to be comforted. I wanted to tell one of my friends what had happened so she could tell me it wasn’t as bad as I thought—that Hille was a dumb fuck who wouldn’t recognize a sexy girl if she was sitting on his face. I even imagined crying to my mother over hot chocola
te and a bottle of Reddy Whip. She would shrug it off and say, “Next!” But I decided to keep my misery to myself. A friend dragged me to a cheesy seminar once about finding true happiness and the quirky moderator encouraged the attendees to “fake it until you make it.” I decided to fake not giving a shit about being rejected by Hille in the hopes that eventually I really wouldn’t give a shit.
I immersed myself in boxes of closing binders with Gina, only taking a short break at lunch time. I felt like ordering the entire menu at TGI Fridays but decided on an egg roll from the Chinese restaurant across the street, relying on the logic that it would satisfy my craving for fried food, yet leave me hungry enough to take advantage of the free dinner later.
Just Friends With Benefits Page 5
