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By the time I’m getting into my jeans and a sweater, I’m kicking myself for recommending a restaurant. All the images from the alley last night are flooding back to me, and there’s a small panic beneath that says, what if he’s leaving New York tonight? What if I don’t have another chance to be with him? I check my phone. It’s ten minutes past the meet time. Fifteen minutes making him wait seems about right to me. But honestly, it’s me who can’t wait any longer.
I may have jogged the last two blocks to the restaurant, but as it comes into sight, I slow down to a leisurely pace, not wanting to seem eager when Chris first sees me. This meeting is about getting answers and I plan to set the agenda.
I see him sitting at a table through the window. He’s sipping a coffee and looking over his phone. At nine o’clock on a Saturday morning he stands out in the restaurant full of customers who look like they just rolled out of bed. He’s wearing what looks like a red cashmere sweater with a collared shirt underneath. He’s freshly shaved, and I imagine touching his cheek, his skin smooth under my fingertips and smelling like cedar. A waitress approaches him and she’s flirty. I know that move, sister, I think. Nothing usually amounts from flirtations with customers, but it is a fun way to pass the time. Speaking of time, what am I doing out here, my nose pressed against the glass? This was my plan, and I came seeking answers, so why am I reluctant to actually ask the questions?
I feel heart palpitations, so naturally my mind starts to worry. What if he doesn’t like me, in person, in the light of day? What if he’s into some really kinky shit and the webcam business was just a trial? What if he’s married? A criminal? An international spy or a member of a drug cartel or worse…boring? All of a sudden, this date seems foolish. A normal woman would have told him to take a hike; she would have some self-respect in the first place and not stripped on camera for strangers. What if he’s the nice the guy, and I’m actually the woman he should be avoiding?
“Weaver,” Chris says. I jump a foot in the air and make a sound that’s a cross between an injured cat and a teakettle. “Come on inside, it’s cold out here.”
I look down to see he has my hand in his, and he’s immediately leading me inside the restaurant.
It’s cozy inside, and the small restaurant is filled with the smell of bacon and coffee. It’s a lovely space, with paneled walls of reclaimed wood and enormous plants hanging from the ceiling. I realize in the past twenty-four hours, I’ve been out more than I have in the past few months. I forgot how much I love this place. Chris’s table is against the wall, and we snake through the labyrinth of other tables hand and hand. Most of the tables are occupied by couples, and I wonder if they all think Chris and I are a couple. Heck, I wonder that, too.
“Coffee?” he asks, and before I answer he pours me a cup, from a small pot on the table. “Sorry, I don’t know how you take it,” he says, pushing the cream and sugar over to me.
I pour some cream in my coffee and watch the white blossom spread through the dark liquid. I feel awkward that I haven’t said anything yet, but I’m not exactly sure where to start. I take a sip and it’s delicious; the warmth spreads through my chest and I sit back in my chair and finally look him in the eyes.
“Are you really here on business?” I ask, getting straight to the point.
“Yes, although I came in early because I wanted to see you,” he says.
He’s being honest, I feel that on a gut level, and despite his past secrets, I think he’s going to be willing to answer my questions now.
“But you always knew I was here. I didn’t make a secret of that when we met in Paris. Why now? What changed?” I ask, hoping I know what his answer will be but still afraid for the unexpected.
We’re interrupted by the waitress, who I think looks a little disappointed to see that I’ve joined Chris. I can’t help it, I feel proud.
“So are you guys interested in having breakfast?” she asks, in a voice that I imagine is a little less cheerful than before.
“I’m starving,” I say, looking over the menu. “I’ll have two eggs over easy, a side of bacon, and some sourdough toast.” I hand her back the menu, and Chris hands his over too and says, “I’ll have the same.”
