“Because what?”
I drag a fry through the ketchup, stalling. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed to admit this. “Because I actually like the pace we’re moving at. It feels nice, you know? Getting to know him slowly, giving myself the chance to look forward to things. I haven’t been pursued like this since . . . well, ever.” I think of how to explain it. “Everything about the way I’ve handled this relationship has been different, and since it seems to be working out pretty well, I’ve decided to stay the course.”
She sits back in her chair, giving me a looong look. “I don’t believe it.”
“What?”
She points her fry at me. “You’re turning into Betty.”
“What?” I attempt a laugh, but what comes out is a noise that’s never occurred before in nature. “No, I’m not.”
“You are.” Her eyes are alight with the thrill of scientific discovery. She’s Edison, and her prototype light bulb has just blinked to life. “She’s gotten into your head. You think the tips are working, so you’re turning into that crazy Nebraska lady!”
“Okay, first of all, Nebraska lady has a name, it’s Tami. And she is not crazy, she’s sweet as cherry pie and has been very helpful to me, so I will not abide any Tami slander.” Nat rolls her eyes. “Second of all, you’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being ridiculous? Let’s consider the evidence, shall we?” She’s gesticulating so wildly with her fry that a blob of ketchup plops onto the table. “You got a subscription to Good Housekeeping. You’re watching black-and-white movies constantly. You pitched a story the other day about the comeback of pantyhose. Pantyhose!” she repeats, pounding the table for emphasis. She’s a lawyer making her case; the fry is her laser pointer. “You followed a bunch of Rock Hudson fan pages on Instagram, and you’re singing oldies in the shower. And now you’re embracing celibacy?!”
I wave off her concerns. “All of that stuff is for research and you know it.”
“Oh really? Have you even noticed what you’re wearing today?”
I glance down—a gingham midi skirt, matching boatneck tee, and ballet flats. An adorable ensemble, if I do say so myself.
“I’ve never seen you wear that color before. I’ve never seen you wear a pattern before! You look like Doris Day’s body double. And you wore this to work, so you can’t blame it on a date with Jack.”
Who is she, the fashion police?! “First of all, comparing me to Doris Day is not the insult you think it is.” I want to clarify that this particular outfit was actually inspired by Brigitte Bardot in Come Dance with Me, but I refrain. Not the time. “And I don’t know what you’re getting at with this, but since you’re clearly desperate for me to admit to something, then fine—I love my new wardrobe. There, I said it! These clothes are classy and feminine and wearing them is an instant mood booster. Happy now?” I grab my martini and start guzzling it like water.
She presses her lips together in amusement, covering my hand with hers. “I’m not giving you a hard time for the sake of giving you a hard time, okay? I’m just looking out for you. Are you doing this to fit some mold for him? Because you think that’s what he likes? I just want to make sure Jack’s getting to know the real you.”
“Oh. Of course he is,” I assure her, softening a touch at her concern. “Sure, I’ve said some silly things in service to this story, but I’ve been truthful about all the stuff that matters. My family, my job, my frustrations . . . I even unloaded on him about wanting to get married. I don’t think it gets more brutally honest than that.” A fresh wave of humiliation washes over me at the memory. I wouldn’t mind getting that one back. “This?” I motion to my clothes. “Is just window dressing. I’m still me. If anything, I think I’m just finally starting to understand what my grandmother’s been talking about all this time.”
“And what’s that?”
Before I can answer, my phone dings with a text and I glance at it.
Jack: Hey you. What are you up to?
“Is that him?” Nat asks, and I nod. “Know how I knew? You’re already smiling.”
I groan and cover my face with a hand.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Text him back!”
Me: Getting a drink with Nat. How was your day?
Jack: Confession: I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s extremely distracting, I can’t get anything done.
Me: Wow, can’t even play it cool for 5 minutes.
Jack: I thought we established that I’m a boring nerd? Playing it cool isn’t really my thing.
Me: Lucky for me And confession: I missed you today too.
Jack: I know we made plans for this weekend, but it’s too far off. How about tonight? I’ll come pick you up and take you anywhere you want.
I refuse to acknowledge Nat, who’s smirking at me over the rim of her wineglass—and I don’t even bother trying to wipe the smile off my face.
Me: I thought you had a work thing tonight?
Jack: My Cassidy thing tonight is much more pressing.
Me: I can’t be responsible for you bailing on your work obligations!
Jack: What’s the point of being the boss if you can’t bail on work? Anyway, Tom can handle it. It’s one of the perks of having a partner.
Jack: Now, is that a yes?
Me: It’s a yes, under one condition.
Jack: Name it
I bite my bottom lip, deliberating. I’m not usually so brazen, but today’s events have lit a fire under me, driven me to take the bull by the horns and step outside my comfort zone in a way I never have before. Cynthia thinks I’m a coward? I’ll show her.
Me: I want you to kiss me the second you see me.
The three typing bubbles appear for all of about one second before his reply comes across.
Jack: TEXT ME YOUR ADDRESS.
Chapter 14
The next few weeks are a blur—a blissful, romantic blur. If I’m not at work or asleep, I’m with Jack. It’s almost strange how quickly we become inseparable, how easily we fall into a shared routine, like we’ve been together years, not days. In the past I’ve resented when friends have gone radio silent the second they start seeing someone, but I find myself understanding them in a way I never have before. When you find someone who sets your world on fire, you want to be with them as much as possible. It’s as simple as that.
Jack and I see each other almost every day, sometimes for a quick lunch, more often for a lingering dinner, and I look forward to each meal like a kid counts down to recess. Our weekends are spent doing a random hodgepodge of things—brunch in Hudson Yards, an outdoor concert in Central Park, taking in a Giants game—and despite the warnings about his demanding workload, he seems to have no problem making time for me.
While his relationship with his mom may be thorny, she clearly did something right—there’s an old-school, gallant quality to Jack’s courtship style that could only be the result of a mother’s touch. He leads me through doorways with a hand to my back; helps me into my coat; walks beside or behind me, never in front; shields me from rain; refuses to let me carry （or pay for） anything. He’s affectionate and attentive, as generous with his time as he is with his money. While it’s a bit of an adjustment dating someone with an income so disparate to mine—no restaurant is too nice and no tickets too expensive, which is about as far outside of my penny-pinching, budget-controlled lifestyle as it gets—Jack is so unassuming about it all that any self-consciousness I may have felt quickly melts away.