by Sara Ney
She hesitates a split second. “Gardening club.”
His brows go up like I knew they would. “They have gardening clubs in the city?”
Not ones she’d be a member of, I want to grumble.
“Where do you even put the flowers? Rooftops? It’s all concrete!” He’s genuinely perplexed, and I wish he would stop the inquisition so he doesn’t expose her lie.
That would be more embarrassing.
“Did I say gardening club?” Nan doesn’t even have the courtesy to look abashed. “I meant I have a meeting at the children’s wing of the new hospital. I’m on the board and there’s a staff meeting this afternoon. If I want to make it across town in traffic, I should leave now.”
She hasn’t even waited for the food to arrive before going through with her ruse, probably paid for the entire meal well in advance and gave the server instructions for Brooks and me to have carte blanche—most likely even instructed the staff to keep the alcohol flowing.
As if he and I need alcohol to enjoy each other’s company. As if he needs alcohol to find me attractive.
Beer goggles in the middle of the day, Nan? Please.
“Make bad decisions!” She tosses a wave over her shoulder, not glancing back once.
“Did she just say make good decisions, or did she say…” He scratches the top of his head, confused.
I sip my wine. “Oh you heard her correctly. She most definitely told us to make bad decisions.”
Typical.
“Was she always like this?”
“Pretty much—as far back as I can remember, she’s been outrageous as far as grandmothers go. It used to drive my mom crazy.”
“She’s your dad’s mom?”
“Yup.” I guzzle another mouthful, the crisp wine going down sweet and smooth. “My mom resented her when I was growing up because Nan was always too involved in our raising. But who could blame Nan? My mother worked a ton and wasn’t around much, so someone had to do it.”
My parents met in college, and to prove she wasn’t just after his family’s money, my mother insisted on holding a job the entire time they were married, working long hours and climbing the corporate ladder in an entirely different industry.
It escaped no one’s notice that Mom retained the Margolis last name long after their divorce—even keeping it through her second marriage.
The marriage? Lasted until I was in my teens, but by that point, Nan had completely inserted herself as a nurturing, parental constant in my life.
Dad is a workaholic.
Mom is a workaholic.
Grandpa is a workaholic.
My brother and I had Nan to keep things normal. The Margolis version of normal, that is.
“She looks super conservative in those suits of hers.”
“It’s a lie,” I pointedly tell him as I select a piece of bread from the basket, pull it into pieces, and drag one through olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette.
“I can see that now.”
“It’s all a front so she can be inappropriate and obnoxious and no one suspects her of any wrongdoing.” Except maybe my grandfather, who loves every bit of her nonsense.
Which is the way it should be when you love someone unconditionally, like they do.
Ride or die, till death do they part.
Nan will go down kicking and screaming in her bouclé suits and silver jewelry specifically chosen to match her hair.
“You look just like her. It’s kind of freaky-deaky.”
This gives me pause. No one has ever told me that before. “Really?”
“If she wasn’t so much older, I’d think she was your mom. Except for the hair.”
I swirl my bread in oil, toying with it. “I actually have naturally blonde hair. Had. Have—whatever, I dye it.”
Brooks is shocked by this revelation. “Why?”
I shrug but don’t bite the bread in my hands. “To set myself apart. To be taken more seriously at work?”
There. I said it.
Confessions of a trust fund baby: to be taken more seriously in the workplace, change your physical appearance to appear less airheaded. Platinum blonde beauties garner way too much attention of the wrong variety.
“I want people to hear me, not just see me. So, when I first got the job out of college, I dyed my hair this color, and I’ve kept it this way since.”
A rich brown, darker at the top than at the ends, the ombre phase I went through still going strong. I love my hair.
“So you dye your eyebrows, too?”
I nod. “Yup.”
Brooks’ eyes betray him, almost straying to my lap.
I know what he’s wondering: he wants to know if the curtains match the drapes, but he’s too much of a gentleman to ask, despite the curiosity.
The answer is: they do not.
And yes, I have hair down there, because I’m not dating anyone, and really, who cares. I’m not torturing myself by waxing that shit off.
I giggle, holding a few fingers to my laughing lips. “This alcohol is going to my head.”
“Eat something. The food should be here soon, but have some more bread.” He gives the basket a nudge in my direction, handsome in his blue shirt that matches mine.
I almost sigh out loud.
“For what it’s worth, you’re a knockout as a brunette.” He winks.
A knockout.
Not a single soul has called me that. No one would ever dare tell Abbott Margolis she was anything but stunning or pretty, or—choose any highbrow word you can think of other than knockout or hot.
That word is reserved for sexy women. It’s something I’ve never considered myself to be.
Plain. Serious. Cute.
Adorable.
Those are the words I’d assign myself—never a knockout. Never sexy.
I’m classy.
Safe.
Ugh, I want to shove this entire loaf of bread in my mouth and swallow my feelings.
He called you a knockout—stop overthinking it and nod your head, sheesh.
I do jam bread in my mouth, craning my neck toward the kitchen, eyes assessing every tray being carried out, shoulders slouching when not a one is ours.
When the food does appear, two sets arrive, not the three that were ordered when my grandmother was here.
Nan, you devious fiend…
How can I be mad about it, though, when the company sitting across from me at the table is handsome and funny, hanging on my every word. Asking me questions and being attentive, refilling my water glass from the sleek carafe. Standing when I have to use the bathroom. Perhaps the atmosphere of this old establishment is making him feel like a gentleman? Because he’s definitely acting like one.
It’s a nice change from the casual Brooks I’ve gotten to know at home. The change of scene, stepping out of the familiar same ol’ same ol’ of our confined apartment complex.
We’ve eaten and are outside on the curb, glancing up and down the busy intersection, Brooks in the direction of his office, me in the direction of mine.
I teeter a bit on my black heels, and Brooks notices.
My spine stiffens as I give the illusion of complete and utter sobriety.
That doesn’t escape his notice, either, and he side-eyes me. “Do you think our nan was trying to get us drunk?”
“It’s definitely possible.” She’s shady as fuck, now that we’re discussing it. “I hate to be the one to point this out, but that all seemed very methodical and planned out.”
“You think?”
I cringe. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“No, I’m being serious. You know her better than I do.”
“Yes, that was a well-thought-out plot to get us alone, in a romantic setting.”
“Dinner would have been better. It’s too bright out here.”
We squint up at the sun in tandem. “Ugh.” I push at it with my hands, shielding my precious retinas from the blinding rays. “Gross, it’s like a lunar eclipse.”
&nb
sp; “Stop staring directly at it!” Brooks chastises, pushing at my hands so I’ll drop them and stop glaring at the offensive orb in the sky.
“I can’t now that you mentioned it being bright outside, guh!”
“Wow, you really are drunk.”
So is he, and if he’s not, he has an amazing tolerance for early-afternoon alcohol.
“And on a Wednesday. How embarrassing.”
“Do you never cut loose and get drunk in the middle of the week?”
“Sure,” he replies. “Back when I was in college, maybe, but we’re adults and it’s the middle of the work day.”
I’m holding my phone, ready to order a car to ferry me back to the office.
“You going back to work now?” he inquires, checking his watch and tipping slightly on the curb, courtesy of the tequila shots and all the wine we tipped back at lunch.
We are in no condition to go back to our respective offices!
Is he hinting at something? Does he want to go do something with me, or was he simply being polite by inquiring into my plans? “I was planning on it? It’s so nice out though.”
“We could play hooky. Walk around the park, or see a movie. Duck into the mall and try on cologne. I have a little leeway on my deadline, and I’m ahead, so…”
“Are you attempting to corrupt me? I have an amazing work ethic, you know. I may need more convincing to break the rules.”
“Rules. Right.”
“I’m a stickler for them when it comes to my job.”
“I can tell.”
I cross my arms. “How can you tell?”
“You have a look of determination, and you didn’t immediately fall for the bait. Someone with shitty work ethic would have agreed to go do something right away. You? You hesitated.”
I don’t point out that the reason had nothing to do with work ethic and everything to do with me feeling out if he was asking me out or not.
“I don’t do anything without thinking it through first,” I admit bashfully. “That’s just how I was raised.” To exercise caution, weigh options and consequences, measure benefits. Sounds like a fun childhood, doesn’t it?
“Live a little.”
“I will when I’m sober.”
“You’re sober enough, and so am I. What should we go do?”
I don’t know, but if we keep standing here, I’m going to get hungry again. “Skip out of work, go to the park, eat a cheap hot dog for dessert, then go back to the apartments and binge the new series they released yesterday.”
“New series? Which one?”
“Have you been living under a rock?” I put my arm out and whistle loudly, hitching a cab instead of calling an Uber. There are plenty circling the block—no need to wait five minutes for a cheaper ride. “It’s the street gang one. Looks violent but amazing.”
He perks up, interested. “Violent but amazing? Sounds like my kind of afternoon.”
A yellow taxi pulls up along the curb, and Brooks grabs the door, holding it open so I can climb in first. “East Elm Park, please,” I instruct the driver as my neighbor hops in beside me.
I open my purse, ransacking it for an elastic hair tie. If we’re going to the park, I’ll need to put my hair up. I don’t need it blowing all over the place. “I don’t think we need more alcohol today, so do not offer me any tonight. Period. I smell like a vineyard from that bottle we drank after Nan skipped out on us. Pure alcohol. The last thing I need in my life is more fermented grapes.”
“So what you’re saying is, you want a shower and a couch?” His head is resting against the headrest, tilted toward me as we chatter, block after block.
“After we bum around the park, yes. Doesn’t junk food sound like the perfect dessert?”
“No, but if that’s what you want to do…” His voice trails off and he gazes out the window, watching the world fly by as we zip down the city streets. The brakes being slammed on by the cabbie, pedestrians stepping in front of the car at crosswalks.
Typical.
We lurch forward after another red light, and I can see the park from here.
“Aww, what baby wants, baby gets?” I tease him like I would if I were his girlfriend and he were spoiling me by humoring my weird request though we’ve just had a two-hundred-dollar lunch.
“I mean, generally, that’s my rule.”
Point taken—we’re not dating, so that’s his rule with other women, just not with me.
Well, la-di-da. I can still flirt with him if I want to, big whoop. It’s a free country; I can do what I want.
“It takes more than a hot dog to turn my head, trust me.” Like two hot dogs.
“Good, ’cause we’re walking around the park, not walking in the park so I can propose marriage at the concession stand.”
My hand flies to my mouth. “We’re both drunkish. We can’t be held responsible for anything we say in this cab, or at the park. Deal?”
“Deal. But we’re not that drunk.” Brooks nudges me from his side of the back seat. “You know you want me to propose.”
I roll my eyes. “Dream on, pal.”
Except…that’s what I’ll dream about later tonight, when I’m in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Alone.
Yay me.
Fighting midday traffic, it takes us longer than usual to reach our destination, and we arrive at a somewhat deserted park, save for a few vendors at the entrance.
Churros. Popcorn. Soda pop and water. The usual street vendors, hustling for the mighty dollar.
I eyeball the hot dogs on the corner, deciding I’ll hold out to see what the next cart has to offer.
“I thought you said you wanted a dog.” Brooks stuffs his hands in his pockets, slouching as we stroll past the blue and yellow umbrella’d cart.
“Not big enough. I’ll need two stuffed into one bun.”
“You say that like you’ve done it before.”
“Oh, I’ve absolutely done it before.”
“So just get two hot dogs then stuff them in one bun.”
The last thing I need is for him to see me shoving two wieners into my face at once. “Yes, but I don’t want you watching me.”
“They’re small—it won’t be a big deal. Two is the size of one ballpark frank.”
So true. Which is why I always get two. “Fine. But you can’t make fun of me.”
“Me? Would I do that?”
“Yes.”
We double back, approaching the hot dog vendor, Brooks already reaching for his wallet and pulling out a ten-dollar bill. “Can I get two hot dogs in one bun, please?”
A set of bushy brows gets raised, but no further questions are asked as he prepares a bun, sticks two meaty franks inside, and wraps it in foil sandwich paper. “Six bucks.”
Brooks hands him the cash and the man hands him the hot dog, which he immediately hands to me.
The man laughs, and I watch to make sure spit doesn’t fly out of his mouth and onto the food because I’m strange like that. “Your girlfriend sure has an appetite.”
“This is not my girlfriend,” Brooks replies swiftly, correcting the nice man who’s just handed me my dessert.
“This is not my girlfriend,” I mimic, giving him a shove in the arm as I unwrap the dogs to squeeze condiments on them. “You don’t have to say it like that. Jeez, way to insult me.”
“You’re not.”
Yes, I know. We continue to joke and tease and argue about it, the tension building as we begin along the walking path.
Brooks likes me and I like him, except neither one of us will admit it and suddenly I feel twelve years old again, not sure how to act around a cute boy I like.
Just admit you like me! I want to shout. But instead, I take an unladylike chomp out of the double dog in my hand.
“You don’t have to keep saying it!” I nip a bite off the end, chewing.
“Once. I said it once!” he argues back, the hot dog vendor taking a step back, hands going up in a defeated salute.
“Sorry pal, didn’t mean to start a fight.”
I whip my head around. “We’re not fighting.” Force a smile, bite down on my dog, this morsel bigger, filling my mouth. “We’re being playful and flippant.”
“Flippant.” Brooks runs his large hand through his hair. “It shouldn’t turn me on when you say things like that.”
I throw out some more big words. “Capricious. Fastidious. Malaise. Perfunctory.” Take a huge bite of my snack as we stroll along down the sidewalk. It weaves over a bridge, situated over a man-made “lake,” through plants and flowers that have already gone dormant with the cool weather. In summer, the park is gorgeous. Romantic and perfect. Tons of couples flock here for engagement and wedding photos.
“Show-off.”
“Trifle. Dally. Flirt.” I pause on the bridge, halfway finished with my two hot dogs in one bun. “Delicious.”
Brooks stares.
“What?” I lick at my mouth but don’t taste anything that could possibly be stuck to the side of my lips.
“You have a little something…” He points at the corner of my mouth with the tip of his finger, wind whipping at his hair and mine.
I shiver when he touches me.
He shivers, too. “There.”
With a hot dog in one hand, I point to my face with the other. “What?”
“You have mustard on your…”
I know where he’s pointing but play dumb and point to my cheekbone. “Here?”
“No. Your mouth.”
“Oh, so here.” I stick out my tongue like a brat, knowing darn well there are bun chunks and bits of hot dog on it.
Brooks laughs, taking me by the shoulders. “Hold still.” Gets in close, swiping a thumb over my bottom lip, pressing into that little divot in the corner. The tip of my tongue sticks out. Gives his finger a playful lick.
“Delicious.”
He stares and stares, hands still braced on my shoulders, fingers pressing into the wool of my coat; I can feel his heat through the thick fabric.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Flirt with me.”
“I’m not.” I hold up the hot dog, practically holding the bun in his face. “I meant the hot dogs—they’re delicious.”
“Right,” he deadpans, knowing I’m full of shit. His finger is delicious. He is delicious. I want to lick more of him—and he wants me to.
