He sets down his bottle. “What happens at midnight? Do you turn into a pumpkin?”
I said midnight because I want there to be an end time. A finish line. And once we’re across, we’re done. But instead I say, “The carriage turns into a pumpkin. Cinderella just turns back into herself.”
“Oh, yeah? So when the clock strikes twelve you’ll still be you?” He leans across the table to look me over. “I guess I can work with that.”
I try not to smile, but I can’t help it. “Shut up.” He’s too handsome. He didn’t fit in at Verre Plein, not even with the too-small jacket and the fake Rolex. But he belongs here. In a worn old coat and jeans, his fingers as rough and calloused as I remember them. His eyes are green and there’s a fine white scar on the bridge of his nose, another at the edge of his eyebrow. He needs a haircut, but I don’t imagine he cares.
The server returns with plates of tacos and a trio of salsa, and I squeeze lime over everything and take a bite. The stranger does the same, watching me as he chews.
“So,” he says. “Tell me about yourself.”
“I thought this meal was just about sustenance.”
“I lied,” he replies. “Now you know something about me.”
“What’s your name?” I want to take back the question as soon as I ask it. I don’t want to know his name. Correction: I don’t want to want to know his name. But it’s too late.
“Chris,” he says. “’Bout time you asked.”
“I told you I didn’t want to see you again,” I remind him. “Your name wasn’t important.” But it feels important. It feels just as wrong as it does right. I should leave. Stand up and put money on the table and walk out of another date. But I don’t move.
“I know what you said.” He licks a piece of cilantro off his thumb. “What else do you want to know?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Not a single thing.”
He laughs. He’s supposed to be taking this seriously. He’s supposed to be getting the point. He’s not supposed to be normal.
“I’m serious,” I say seriously.
He studies the selection of salsas and chooses the green one. “I know.”
I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. We eat in silence, and when I finish my meal he still has two tacos left.
“Want one?” he asks, nodding at the food.
I don’t want to want anything, but I do.
Wordlessly I hold out my plate. He arches a brow at my abhorrent manners but gives me a taco.
Growing up, we’d had a British nanny, the quintessential older lady who insisted on wearing a uniform every day, though my father told her she didn’t have to. She’d given me that same disapproving look a hundred times. A thousand. Scolding me was ineffective. Ten minutes in the time-out chair didn’t faze me. But lock me in my room and leave me alone with just my own miserable company? Devastating every time.
Still is.
“All right,” Chris says when the food’s gone. He fishes out two frail paper napkins from the dispenser and wipes his hands. “You hungry? Want anything else? Another drink?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Okay.” He finishes his beer, watching me. Then he sets down the bottle, gently knocking it against mine, like he’s making a toast. Or a promise. “Let’s go,” he says.
5
HIS APARTMENT IS FOUR blocks east of Verre Plein. My home—my real one—is three blocks west. It’s a ten-minute walk door-to-door. We’re neighbors.
I drive after him into the underground parkade of his building and down to the second level, where he parks in a reserved space near the elevator and I find a visitor slot along the wall. I climb out and dodge an oily puddle, glistening pink and purple in the fluorescent lights.
The buildings in this area range from very nice to extravagant, and this one is on the nicer end of a very nice scale. Some might call it fancy. A mirrored elevator whisks us up to the ninth floor, making one stop at the lobby, where an older gentleman gets on. He greets Chris politely, then gives me a terse nod as he takes in my hoodie and torn jeans. Once upon a time, I could have bought and sold this whole place.
We exit on nine, and I peer around before following Chris down the carpeted hall. It’s quiet and warm and smells like fresh paint. Toward the end of the corridor I notice a missing patch of drywall near the baseboard, pipes visible behind it.
“From the flood,” Chris says, gesturing absently as he passes. “They fixed it up pretty quick. And we got some new carpet out of the deal.”
“Exciting.”
He glances at me over his shoulder, his expression hard to read, then tugs keys from his pocket and stops in front of his door. “Home sweet home.” He twists the key in the lock and lets me enter first, reaching past me to flip the light switch.
It’s a nice apartment, sparsely furnished, as expected. Since starting my dating game I’ve been in my fair share of strange apartments, ranging from sketchy to passable to unbelievable. This place falls squarely in the middle. It’s spacious, if only because there’s not a lot of clutter. The apartment opens into the living room, with an enormous television mounted on the wall a few feet away, a large black leather sectional and matching ottoman positioned carefully in front. Near the far wall of windows there’s a dining table that doubles as a desk, a laptop and piles of paperwork covering the surface.
I can make out the shape of a kitchen in the left corner and the shadow of a hallway next to it.
“Can I get you anything?” Chris asks. He crouches to unlace his boots, peeking up at me through his lashes. He’s... polite. Normally in this instance the guy offers me a glass of wine, I decline, he gives me what he considers a seductive look, and we get started. No formalities. No pretense.
“No,” I say.
“Let me take your coat.”
The apartment feels lived in. There’s a coffee mug on the end table, a newspaper on the ottoman, a baseball hat hooked on the corner of a dining chair. Potted plants sit in a row in front of the windows and, when he flips on another light, I see an unwashed plate on the kitchen counter next to an open bag of chips.
He’s so normal. If he had a dog it would be a golden lab named Buddy.
“Denise?” he prompts. “You want to keep your coat on?”
I tell myself to focus. We’ve already done it once with our clothes on. I suppose this time should be different. I unzip my coat and shrug out, watching him walk to the table and drape both jackets over a chair. He’s wearing a green flannel shirt buttoned over a white T-shirt and faded jeans. I don’t think I’ve ever been with a guy who wore flannel.
“You sure you don’t want a drink?” he asks, rubbing his hands together like he’s cold. “I’m having one.”
I hesitate. I don’t want a beverage. Technically I’m only halfway to my two-drink maximum, but I didn’t come here to socialize.
“I don’t want a drink, Chris.”
He pauses with the fridge door open, turning slowly with a beer in his hand. “Right,” he says carefully. “You want...”