To See You (6 page)

I hit
SEND
before I second-guessed what I was doing, smacked Lucy closed with gusto, and decided to order Chinese.

I was no longer in the mood to be good and eat a salad. Instead I was disgusted with myself for chasing after someone, for making a fool of myself with a man who shouldn’t matter, and I wanted to sulk in pan-fried noodles.

As I made my way out of my office, my stiletto boots beating quietly on the carpet, I saw a note taped on my assistant’s desk.

Charli –

I knew you were busy with Maggie and I didn’t want to interrupt, but this arrived for you at the end of the day.

—Cecilia

Next to the handwritten Post-it note was an enormous bouquet of flowers arranged in an oversized champagne flute.

A second handwritten note was stuck inside the pink-and-purple potpourri of wildflowers. Not trite roses or friendly carnations, something way better and unique. In the wild, they’d be considered weeds, but here in this elegant arrangement, they were groomed and gorgeous.

Charli-

Making sure you got my e-mail.

Apologies again.

Hope you’re popping bubbles . . . or whatever it is you do at work. Dotting i’s and crossing t’s, I guess.

—Layton

Like the flowers, I’d first dismissed their sender as a weed in the wild, but once I’d cut through the rough . . .

Ugh.

This wasn’t the time to get poetic. Or to mix metaphors.

I would have to add an ice cream on the street (
maybe eat it first?
) to my Chinese splurge.

Flowers? For me? I was the one who should be apologizing, not him.

And the champagne glass? He really seemed to know the way to my heart.

Not to mention his voice, which rang in my ear all the way home. I took the subway in an effort to drown out my imagining his sandpapery voice reading his note aloud. I stood there, clutching my floral arrangement over my bag across my chest, thinking a cab would have been better but I needed the distraction.

It didn’t work, though. In my mind, Layton’s eyes were fixed on me and really seeing me, checking my reaction. His inspection of me felt real, sending tingles over my skin and need clawing down my spine. I itched to see Layton in real life and not only in my mind, which was so strange considering I’d only met him once.

Finally, we arrived at my stop. I sent up a silent prayer of thanks as the bustle of exiting the subway station and holding on to my present was enough to put an end to my overactive imagination.

I
sat on my patio, my feet up on the table and a beer in my hand, the night quiet except for Harriette’s rustling around in the yard. I shut my eyes and breathed in the salty air.

Why did I have to go and send flowers? And I don’t mean calling up 1-800-Flowers like some dumb bachelor. No, I’d googled for the most highly recommended boutique florist in New York City and called them up myself.

“I need something special for someone . . . unique,” I’d said over the phone. “A one-off, rich in colors and, hmmm, let me think. In a champagne glass?”

The guy with an accent told me he could work with that, and set about e-mailing me a picture of an oversized champagne glass and a quote. I’d responded right away with an affirmative.

Okay, before you start handing out awards for “Dude of the Year,” I must admit, I’d seen this move in a movie. It was a romantic dramedy where the guy never seemed to get the girl he wanted until . . . he really tried.

Story of my life, really.

I’d had a ton of women. Gingers, brunettes, and even a few Asians. I liked them all. They liked me too. I was funny and I set them at ease. They weren’t perfect. Too skinny, heads covered with overly curly hair, they loved the Jedi Force or enjoyed graphic novels—those were my kind of girl. Around me, they felt good about themselves, at ease and confident. They complimented me and meant it.

I was self-made, successful, and a bit of a romantic. All those characteristics were in my favor. And my personality wasn’t so bad, I’d been told. I listened to people, really listened, and I was generous. In and out of bed.

Although I’d been told this, I’d never gotten
the girl
, the one everyone else wanted. And the minute I saw Charli walk onto the plane, I knew she was
that
kind of girl. The one everyone wanted.

Yeah, she tried to hide behind the bitchy attitude, the New York snobbery, but for a minute or five, I broke her down. I saw behind her prissy shell and couture armor, and I wanted that. All of that.

“I did, my pretty lady,” I said to my only true girl. “I saw it and broke her down.”

Actually, my one-and-only sat at my side, panting from chasing after her ball and dripping drool onto my knee. I shifted in my seat, wincing when my cargo shorts bit into my ass, and sighed at the sight of my T-shirt clinging to my stomach—a reminder of why my dog was my only girl.

On a long exhale, I told myself I should settle for one of the women who found me appealing, inside and out, rather than chase the unattainable. But I couldn’t stop my mind from conjuring up images of Charli, or running away with the idea of seeing her again.

I had a plan.

If she’d only e-mail me back.

Harriette looked at me like
What the fuck?
Her soft doggie eyes were so droopy and inviting, and even though she adored me, even she didn’t believe I had a chance.

“Here’s to hoping the flowers help. Come on, girl.” I stood, patted Harriette on the head, and went back inside the house.

“C
harli! Over here. Charli!”

Janie waved at me from a far corner of the crowded bar at Chowww. It was her birthday, and she insisted we celebrate here. The place was loud, trendy, and expensive, so it was no surprise.

“Hey, girl, happy birthday!” I squeezed her tight and kissed her cheek, wedging myself into the small space next to her and the bar.

She leaned close, raising her voice so I could hear. “Craig is going to stop by, and Haley, Shani, and Bianca are all coming.”

“Well, I get to buy you your first drink. What are you going to have?”

I motioned for the bartender, a sexy brunette with her hair slicked back in a long ponytail and thick eyeliner accentuating her eyes.

“Cucumber martini,” Janie yelled over the black lacquer bar, and I chimed in, “Prosecco.”

When we had our drinks, I clinked the rim of mine to hers. “Cheers.”

Once we’d each had a sip, I yelled over the music, “So, you ready for a great year? Last year in your twenties.”

“You know it.” She twirled around in her tight spot, her eyes taking in everything around her, but I knew what she was doing.

“Stop,” I said.

“Oh, come on. I’m just looking for a few prospects.”

“Do not include me in your list of available women.”

“Why not? You look smoking. Plus, it’s my birthday and I’ll do what I want.” To make her point, she gestured at my black blouse and skinny jeans. “I mean, really, Char. No one wears a tight blouse like that and painted-on dark jeans with stiletto ankle boots if they’re not on the prowl.”

Deflecting, I said, “Speaking of which, you look hot. Love those leather pants.” Janie was in skintight red leather pants and a white frilly blouse. “And look at those shoes!” Preening, she lifted a foot in the air and twisted her ankle from side to side, and I grinned. “They’re definitely perfectly cheetah.”

“What am I going to do with you, girl?” She pinched my cheek and winked. “Perfectly cheetah . . . ha! You’ve talked that way since I’ve known you. Probably since birth.”

We sipped at our drinks for a moment while some Euro-synthesized rap-style music blared in the background, the bass vibrating all the way through me.

“Oh, there’s Bianca,” she said. “Don’t tell her we’re going spinning on Sunday. She’ll want to go and then beg to go to a later class, and we’ll never make brunch or see
him
.”

“Janie, my love, I don’t think we have to intentionally leave her out. Not to mention, no one wants to go to spinning class before the sun is up on a Sunday.”

Proud of myself, I tried inserting a small life lesson there. Janie was my closest friend, after all, and that was like a marriage. You accepted a person in sickness and health and everything in between—bitchiness included. And she was technically older in years, which I equated with experience.

Janie was an early-to-rise freak—like five o’clock every damn morning. She did more before seven than most people did all day. I’d agreed to go to a spinning class with her on Sunday at six. Apparently the teacher was a god and she had a thing for him.

“Hey there, ladies,” Bianca crooned over the music, air kissing both of us and waving her bracelet-clad arm in the air. Her blond hair was sleek and straight, her makeup pristine complete with red lips, and she wore a wrap dress on her size 2 body.

Suddenly a herd of men surrounded us, offering to buy her a cocktail. She zeroed in on one rich-looking Wall Street type and said, “Sure, a lemon drop,” batting her fake eyelashes the whole time.

Bianca wasn’t my favorite but she was another friend of Janie’s from high school, and I didn’t see her much. She worked for her parents’ jewelry business and sold couples expensive jewels crafted from the rainbow of happiness. The one that follows getting engaged.

Janie and I met in college in upstate New York. I was a junior credits-wise but a freshman age-wise. I couldn’t go to bars or anything, so I’d been sitting in some coffee shop listening to indie rock one evening and Janie had strolled in with her posse, giggling and carefree. She gravitated toward me, probably wanting to fix me and make me happy. That’s Janie. She loves a good fixer-upper project.

We’d been friends ever since, even after I graduated and moved to Manhattan. I was so happy when she moved back after graduating. Now I was a regular fixture in her social life; pretending to love it had become my specialty.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of cocktails, sushi, birthday cake, and dancing. Bianca left with the rich dude, Janie found herself a lawyer—Jewish to boot—and I shared a cab with Shani and Haley back to the Meatpacking District.