Had a lightning bolt idea. Would love to discuss.
Can you meet for a quick coffee tomorrow morning around 9?
* * *
—
THE INTERIOR OF BOHEMIAN GARDEN has a certain unpretentious charm. The smell of spilled beer and grilled sausage has been seeping into the dark wood paneling for fifty years. For today only, Radhya has masked it with turmeric, cardamom, coriander, and tamarind. She and Ari covered the beer promos with decorative pieces borrowed from Radhya’s cousin’s wedding: thick garlands of artificial marigolds in yellow and red, parasols hung from the ceiling, long strands of tassels and pompoms.
“Let’s review the evidence.” Gabe expertly spreads a block print tablecloth over a four-top. “You hang out. You text all day.”
“We really don’t,” Ari says, placing stainless steel spice boxes at each booth. It’s not a lie because they’ve hardly exchanged more than a handful of heys in the last week.
Conveniently, the gig economy provides evergreen excuses such as: “Can’t tonight, I’m pouring wine/serving shrimp puffs/walking five dogs/signing terrifying relationship-severing legal paperwork/writing a bar mitzvah speech.”
And it’s not avoidance if you actually answer the text.
Besides, Ari’s been going out more than ever—she’s never experienced this level of popularity on dating apps—but navigating the dynamics of dating and sex and boundaries and comfort levels with two strangers instead of just one has been exhausting. Witnessing “new to poly” couples steer themselves through the volatile waters of opening up their relationships for the first time, Ari feels a profound sense of relief that she can walk away from any of them, at any moment.
And there’s a Josh-shaped indent underneath all the new conversations.
“You spend hours on the phone at night, talking about God knows what—”
“Movies.” Ari busies herself by pouring Radhya’s spiced nuts and poppadoms into small bowls.
“I happen to know that Ari Sloane doesn’t actually watch movies.”
“I’ve been watching them,” she insists.
“You should’ve banged immediately and gotten it out of your system.” Gabe is loving this drama, practically dancing to the next table. “You let it fester—”
“Can you not use the term ‘fester’？”
“—then you bypassed the meaningless sex part and went straight for making out on a national holiday. Now he thinks you’re dating.”
“He doesn’t.” She’s pretty sure he doesn’t. “He’s a friend. We’ve been very clear about that.” Have we?
“Okay, but I bet he fucks.” Something clatters from the kitchen, as if to underline Gabe’s assertion. “From what I’ve seen, he has that ugly-hot thing happening.”
“Will you stop saying that?” Ari sets down a trio of decorative candles on the long, communal table. “It’s rude.”
Great, now all she can think about is whether she personally agrees that Josh is “ugly-hot” or just “regular-hot” and whether the distinction even matters.
“It’s a compliment!” He unfolds more brightly colored linens. “Don’t pretend you’re not into it.”
She’s spent the last couple weeks in only two alternating modes: wiping away the memory of the Ramble Incident and carefully preserving the visceral details in a mental scrapbook, decorated with bespoke lettering and Washi tape. No matter how many times she closes the book with a hard thwack and shoves it in a drawer, twenty minutes later she’ll find herself running the pad of her thumb over her lower lip. Thinking. Remembering.
Shit. Shit.
“Are you set up out there?” Radhya yells from the kitchen. “Service was supposed to start three minutes ago.”
Ari walks to the front entrance, peeking through the small window, hoping to see a mass of people outside the entrance, queued up for Radhya’s Gujarati delicacies. There isn’t a line, but there is someone in a black parka waiting just to the left of the door, looking up every so often, as if waiting for a first date to show up.
Gabe continues setting the tables. “This is the worst time of year to accidentally get involved with—”
“Oh God.” Ari takes a second peek.
“—someone. You need to deal with this today—”
Josh is dressed in various shades of black, standing outside Bohemian Garden with his arms crossed. He’s not radiating nervous energy. Not occupying himself with his phone while monitoring the passersby. More like telegraphing annoyance. Tall, imposing. In absolutely no danger of cracking a smile.