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“Anyway, shouldn’t you be getting ready for your date?” I ask.
“That’s not a date and you know it!” she groans, making a face at me. “He’s a seventy-year-old truffle farmer from Arkansas!”
Kate missed meeting this guy at the food and wine expo the other morning. She felt so guilty she’d been too hungover to meet him, that she’d scheduled tonight to see him, and now she was angry at herself that we weren’t spending the night together. And she is particularly peeved that I’m going out with Chris.
Kate is right; she was completely supportive when I told her about the Sugar Girl work, and slightly hurt that I didn’t feel comfortable confiding in her. But she’s deeply suspicious of Chris. Of his timing, his secrecy, all of it. I get where she’s coming from, and if my brain weren’t so completely fogged by hormones, I’d probably be as suspicious as she is.
“Kate, I’m not stupid,” I say, stopping my search for my shoes so I can look her in the eye. “I don’t know where this is going with Chris. I don’t know everything about him. But what I do know about him, makes me want to learn more. And I haven’t felt that way, well…ever.”
“Tell me more,” she says, softening, but still rolling her eyes.
“He’s kind, Kate,” I say. “You work in the service industry like me, you see how money can make people assholes, the worst versions of themselves. Chris is different. He’s respectful. He doesn’t think he’s better than everyone else. He feels safe to me. Despite his ruse with Sugar Girl, I trust him to not hurt me. And Kate,” I say, grabbing her by both shoulders, “he’s like the hottest man I have ever fucked. The. Hottest.”
That breaks her and she falls into a fit of laughter. “I have eyes,” she concedes, and now we’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch, laughing.
“Just promise me something,” she says, a serious note in her voice now. “Promise me you’ll be careful. And beyond that, please promise to confide in me. I may be in Paris and busy with the restaurant, but I am always here for you. You’re my best friend. Let me in more.”
I’m afraid the tears pricking the corners of my eyes will mess up my make-up, and I shake my head to hold them back. I had been making excuses since I got back from visiting her for all the reasons we were losing touch, but I had to admit to myself now that I’d been pulling away, feeling like Kate was too good for me. That ends now. She’s my best friend. And she probably needs me as much as I need her. I clasp her hands in mine and say, “I promise.”
My phone rings and I see it’s Chris calling.
“I gotta go,” I tell Kate, fitting the strap of my shoe over my heel and grabbing my clutch. “He must be downstairs. You and me,” I say, pointing back and forth, “tomorrow morning. Enormous greasy breakfast before I send you back to the land of café au lait and croissants. Gird your stomach for pounds of bacon.”
“My belly’s never been so prepared for anything in its life,” she says.
“How do I look?” I ask. My wardrobe is limited, so I feel a little self-conscious about my outfit. I chose a flared black skirt that falls just above my knees, and an asymmetrical sweater that droops off one shoulder. I dug through an old box of clothes to find sheer tights, and I was happy to discover an old necklace of my mother’s that she gave me for my birthday, a round coral pendant on a gold chain.
“Drop dead gorgeous. So terrific I think I’ll be taking that sweater home with me to Paris,” she says.
We kiss goodbye and I head down the hallway toward the elevator.
I’m going on a date!
Our cab slows down in front of a non-descript building downtown, just the word “Liquor” lit up above a busted-up looking door. I begged Chris to tell me where he was taking me the entire ride, but he wouldn’t give me a single clue. I’ve never been someone who’s impressed by wealth or attracted to a man for what’s in his wallet, but I did assume Chris would take me somewhere supremely fancy tonight, a place I could never afford on my own. So this place (is it a liquor store?) is surprising.
“Are you sure you have the right address?” I ask him, looking up and down the deserted street before I step out of the cab. I wouldn’t walk alone on this street at night, and I’m not even an overly cautious New Yorker.
He reaches into the cab and takes my hand, helping me to the street. Slamming the cab door behind me, he pulls me in close so that we’re nose to nose, and slyly says, “I’m sure this is the spot. And by the way, did I tell you yet how amazing you look tonight?”
