I give myself a hard look in the mirror. My hair is frizzing out from the humidity. Why can’t my hair just be normal like all the other polished women I see on the street? Better yet, why can’t my hair be straight? Straightening wavy hair with various tools and products is not the same thing. Girls with straight hair are always saying how they wish they had my hair. They ooh and aah over the volume, the texture, the waves. But I am so over trying to tame my hair. Especially considering that I have to leave in ten minutes or I’ll be late and I’m nowhere near ready. D cannot see me with frizzy hair.
I wipe specks of mascara from under my eye, trying not to worry about the time. Between racing against the clock, the relentless humidity despite the old air conditioner chugging away at full speed, and my dumbass upstairs neighbors, I’m a hot mess. Sweaty pits plus frizzy hair does not equal a sexy date. Seriously, what are they doing up there? Throwing each other off the couch? Every boom of the ceiling makes the walls shake and my adrenaline soar.
Boom boom boom BOOM.
Enough.
I dash to the front closet for the broom. As much as I’d like to stomp to the front closet, I reel in my frustration. Irritating my downstairs neighbors the way the elephants upstairs have irritated me would not be good karma. I’m about to attempt something I’ve never done before that I’m not sure will work. There’s a chance it will provoke one of the elephants to pound on my door, further sabotaging my date with D. I should have left five minutes ago. But this needs to be done. If I don’t take a stand, who will?
I stand on the couch, clutching the broom with the top of the broomstick close to the ceiling. When a surge of pounding erupts above me, I pound on the ceiling with the broom.
The elephants are startled into silence.
At this point I am so late that checking the time would be scarier than getting caught outside at dusk in I Am Legend. I can’t look. All I can do is run and hope that D won’t be waiting too long.
Waiting for the subway makes me even more rattled. Of course I just missed the train. The next one’s not coming for seven minutes. I do not have seven minutes. Seven minutes from now I will be a sweaty, frizzy mess unsuitable for public display. I take a few deep breaths. Or what barely passes for a few deep breaths in this sweltering subway station.
When I emerge from the subway at 42nd Street a thousand years later, I blink in the bright lights of Times Square. This is my first venture into the frenetic tourist land that is Times Square. Sadie said that tourists are the only ones who really come here. D said he never comes up here, but promised that dinner at Butter would be worth it.
I plow my way through the throngs of tourists. Could tourists walk any slower? I know they’re taking in the sights and snapping photos and stuff, but do they really have to take up the whole sidewalk? Not that I haven’t been just as oblivious. New York moves way faster than I anticipated. I’m surprised at how quickly I’m adjusting to the rapid pace. On the other hand, I’ve always known I was meant to live here. When you end up where you’re meant to be, everything falls into place.
Two wrong turns and a near collision with someone in a Cookie Monster costume later, I see Butter across the street. I flap my arms in a desperate attempt to air out my pits. A bike messenger zipping by at an alarming speed almost slices my arm off. Darcy warned me to stay clear of bike lanes. Too bad Sadie didn’t warn me about people on the sidewalk dressed as characters for tourists to take pictures with.
When I envisioned this night, I appeared calm, cool, and collected as I breezed through the door of Butter on the dot of eight. D would turn to me from the bar and smile at how put together I looked. We would then glide to our table, turning the heads of older people who remember what it was like to be young and in love.
Here’s what really happens.
I show up twenty-five minutes late. D is waiting for me outside. He probably witnessed my embarrassing arm-flapping, bike-messenger spaz attack. But he doesn’t look as mad or repulsed as I expected.
“You made it,” he says.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry I’m late. This is unacceptable.”
“No worries. These things happen.”
“First my upstairs neighbors were pounding louder than ever. I actually banged a broom against the ceiling, I was so desperate. Then I just missed the subway. Then I went down the wrong street and almost ran over Cookie Monster and—”
“Rosanna.” D hugs me even though I am a sweaty mess. “It’s okay. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”
I pull away from him before he realizes the full scope of how disgusting I am. “Thanks for understanding.”
“But you really should think about getting a cell phone.”
“You’re right.” There’s no way I’m about to admit that I can’t afford a cell phone. D wouldn’t even know how to process that information.
Butter is even more over-the-top than the Waverly Inn. I remember a scene at Butter from Gossip Girl. Gossip Girl is one of my few guilty pleasures, the kind of show obsessed with materialistic greed I’m not supposed to like but secretly do. I never imagined I’d be at one of the locations from Rich Girl World in real life. Is it wrong to be basking in the decadence?
“I’m taking you to Minetta Tavern next,” D says after dinner outside Butter. “It used to be an old-school Italian joint you’d go to in the dead of winter when you craved pasta with fresh San Marzano tomato sauce. Then it changed owners. Now it’s an upscale version of what it used to be. Packed with celebs. There’s even a bouncer outside.”
I don’t reveal that I have no clue what San Marzano tomatoes are.
“Yeah . . . I just realized how obnoxious I sound,” D says. “But it really is one of the best restaurants in New York. That’s why I want to take you there. I want to take you to all of my favorite places. You deserve to be treated like a princess.”
A fire engine goes by, its siren wailing over princess. A woman passing by in gym clothes puts her fingers over her ears.
I smile at D. Could this man be any sweeter?
“So . . . ,” he says. “Should we go back to my place?”
This is it. The moment when everything changes. The moment when we go from dating to something heavier.
“Sure,” I say, trying for my best nonchalant tone and failing epically. “I can’t wait to see your renovations.”
Tribeca is beautiful. The West Village is also beautiful, but it’s more historical. Where the West Village has protected brownstones and cobblestone streets and quaint courtyards you can peek in at between strands of ivy growing on their gates, Tribeca is newer construction and wider sidewalks and lots of lofts. D said he’d always wanted to own a Tribeca loft. Back in the day, Tribeca’s lofts were filled with artists who preferred working in the large spaces with natural light. Now Tribeca is so expensive no one can afford to live there except Wall Street guys, doctors, lawyers, and celebs. And let’s not forget the trust-fund kids like D. Thinking about the artists who were forced out makes me sad. Sadie said they all live in Brooklyn now.
D’s building is unreal. The exterior looks brand-new. It has a clean, simple design. Even the street number on the awning is gorgeous, etched in a round font illuminated with a blue-purple hue.
The doorman sees us coming. He swiftly opens the door for us. “Welcome home, Mr. Clark,” he says. He’s wearing a fancy uniform with a hat and everything. I give him a shy smile and say thank you as I step into the expansive marble lobby. After trekking about a mile, we reach the elevators. Of course there’s music in the elevator. Not tacky elevator music. The rich sounds of chamber music reminiscent of exclusive dinner parties I’ve never attended. Maybe I’ll have the chance to attend one with D.
The elevator stops on the eleventh floor. The doors glide open smoothly. I am so nervous my body parts insist on sweating again, despite the perfectly regulated microclimate.
We walk down the pristine hallway. There’s not one flaw on the textured wallpaper, not one bit of dust on the
floor. The building’s staff must vacuum constantly. Why am I thinking about vacuuming when I should be thinking about how to handle this situation? I feel like Darcy, going with the flow instead of making a rational decision. Yeah, it’s fun, but am I ready for this? I don’t even know what this is. What’s going to happen when we go inside?
“After you,” D says, holding his front door open for me.
When I step into his loft, I cannot believe what I’m seeing. I cannot believe I know someone who lives here. There are no words to describe this man’s apartment. It could be featured in Architectural Digest’s urban living issue. My whole apartment could fit in his grand foyer. A large open area to the right is the kitchen. The living room is a wide-open space to the left. He has an enormous sectional sofa with one of those big coffee tables fancy people put vases of flowers and stacks of art books on. One whole wall of his living room is floor-to-ceiling windows. The city shimmers as far as I can see.
“Is it cold enough for you?” D says.
I nod. The air-conditioning feels nice coming in from the hot night. “How is it already cool in here?”
“My thermostat is programmed to turn the air conditioner on about fifteen minutes before I get home.”
Of course it is.
“What can I get you to drink?” he asks. He’s standing so close to me I can feel the summer night heat radiating from his body.
If I didn’t know myself better, I’d think I was about to do something I’ll regret for the rest of my life.
“Um,” I stammer. “Just water, please.”
As D opens his massive refrigerator to get our drinks together, I try not to gawk at his kitchen. Black wood cabinets run along the entire length of the longest wall with lighting underneath. The appliances are all stainless steel. There’s a huge sink on the main counter and another sink on the kitchen island. Lots of counter space and drawers. He even has a dishwasher, something Sadie says is rare in Manhattan.
D hands me a glass of cold water with little ice cubes in it. “Ready for the grand tour?”
I nod. There are no words to describe the magnificence of this apartment.
After he shows me what his architect and designer did in the living room and kitchen, I notice a hallway leading back to more rooms. This is in addition to the guest room and bathroom off the living room.
“It goes all the way back?” I gasp.
“Not that far back. Just to the master bedroom and bathroom and my home office.” D shows me his perfect home office. Then he steps into the bathroom from the hall and turns the light on. The bathroom is done in the same black as the kitchen with shiny silver fixtures. Starting every day in this shower must be freaking awesome. It’s in a corner with glass on the side near the sink. The fourth side of the shower is open. You can walk right in. The far wall has a window to allow for convenient viewing of the city as you take your shower. It’s one of those overhead rain showers you see in pictorials of famous people’s homes. I’ve always wondered if it really feels like you’re in the rain when you take a shower in one of these. Will I eventually find out? Will I be taking showers here at some point? My face gets hot just thinking about it.
D goes over to a computer screen in the shower that’s flush with the wall. “You can program your settings here. Computerized shower experience, anyone?”
Was that an invitation? My face gets even hotter.
We’re done with the bathroom. That leaves only one more room.
“This is my bedroom.” D walks in. I tentatively follow him. The bedroom windows run along the same wall as the windows in the living room. They have that same incredible view. You could fit my room plus Sadie’s and Darcy’s rooms in here and still have space left over. D’s bedroom is so lavish I don’t even know how to act. Like all of his other furniture, the furniture in here is clearly expensive. Naturally he has a king bed with night tables on either side. Each night table has a lamp perfectly positioned on it. There’s one of those plush benches I always thought would be decadent to have at the foot of the bed. His white comforter is as puffy as a cloud. D’s bedroom is basically a Crate & Barrel ad. I can’t believe how grown-up he is. He must have a cleaning lady. His entire apartment is immaculate. Everything is so beautiful and clean and shiny. It’s like he’s living in a real home with real things. Not the temporary discount stuff we have at our place. Not the kind of ratty secondhand thrift-store junk I grew up with.
“What do you think?” D asks.
“Your whole apartment is gorgeous.”
“Wait until you see the best part.” D touches my lower back, gently guiding me out to the living room. When I saw the living room before, I thought it only had huge windows. I didn’t notice the balcony stretching along the entire length of them. Now I see the door leading out to the balcony.
“Whoa,” I say. “You even have a balcony?”
“Not just any balcony.” D opens the door for me. I step out and he follows me. “The balcony.”
The view takes my breath away. I know people are usually exaggerating when they say something took their breath away. But I’m serious. The view actually makes me stop breathing. This is sort of like how the view at Press Lounge took my breath away, only more magnified. Everything that’s been building up to this moment, all of my wishing and hoping and dreaming about New York, all of it comes rushing in right here and now. D’s view is familiar to me in a completely illogical way. I’ve never been here before. This is my first time on any balcony in New York. But in my heart, I already know this view. I am connected to this exact place in a profound way. It feels like I was meant to be here. Not only here in New York. Here with Donovan Clark.
He’s right about this being the balcony. It runs along the entire outside of the living room windows and wraps around to the other side. “This is . . . it’s so beautiful.” I tear my eyes away from the view to look at D. He’s leaning against the balcony railing, staring at me. Something tells me he looks exactly the way I looked while I was overwhelmed by the view.
D moves closer to me. I recognize the intensity in his eyes. It’s the same intensity I saw last night right before he took me aside in the park and kissed me.
He’s going to kiss me again.
Of course I want him to. But if we start kissing, I’m afraid I won’t want to stop. Or I’ll freak out. I haven’t had the chance to think this through. Do I even know what I really want? I don’t know if I’m ready for this. Am I ready to be with a man? For real? This isn’t high school. Donovan is twenty-one. And we’re at his apartment. He’s probably expecting more than just making out. I don’t know how much more I can offer.
There’s what I want to do. There’s what I should do. And then there’s what I’m afraid might happen if I let a man touch me that way. D can’t know about my fear. He can’t know what happened to me.
We’re standing so close I can smell the hazelnut on D’s breath from the drink he had with dessert. His breath catches in his throat as he leans in closer, almost touching his lips to mine.
“I should go,” I say.
He pulls away. “Already? You just got here.”
“I know, but . . . I can’t . . . I’m sorry.”
“Did I do something?”
“No! You’re amazing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then what’s going on?”
It would be a weight off my shoulders to tell him the truth. Tell him about what happened. Let him into my life in a real way. But I can’t. I’m not ready to face it and I don’t know if I ever will be. “Can we talk about it another time?”
“Whatever you want.” D gives me a sad smile. “I don’t want you to go.”
“Can I come back soon?”
“My door is always open. I mean, not literally. You have to use a key to get in, but—what am I even saying? See how corny I get when you’re leaving?”
We go back inside. Now that I’ve decided I have to go, I really don’t want to. But
I already said I should.
“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” D says.
“Are you flattering me so I won’t leave?”
“Yes, but also because it’s true.” D slides his hand down my hair. And just like that, we’re back here again. The way we were out on the balcony with the heat.
I’m trying to pretend I’m not noticing the way he’s looking at me. Trying to pretend I’m not forcing the same look off my face. I turn to the windows, looking out at the sparkly city, lost in a trance again.
D is behind me. I watch his reflection in the window, countless illuminated windows beyond his image, each one hiding its own secrets behind the glass. For a second I think he’s going to try to kiss me again. But he stays behind me, his hands sliding down my arms. His sweet breath on the back of my neck.
How is this happening? When I was saying that I should leave a few minutes ago?
He slowly begins to unzip my dress.
“I can’t do this.” I pull away. “I have to go.”
This time I force myself to leave. Leaving takes way more effort than it should.
TWENTY-EIGHT
SADIE
IF AUSTIN AND I WORKED on the same floor, I would be getting zero work done. Concentrating is hard enough just knowing he’s two floors up. Even though I don’t see him at internship most days, I love knowing that he’s here in the same building. Austin is good at finding excuses to come down and see me. And we stayed late last Friday so I could go up and see his cubicle. We wanted to make out there, but Parker kept lurking.
Tonight is different. Tonight belongs to us.
After the last intern leaves, I take a folder off my desk. I do a loop around the cubicles to make sure everyone’s gone. Then I head for the copy room. My heart races with anticipation. I’m as nervous and jittery as I was on our first date.
City Love Page 18
