In a New York Minute(20)

He nodded in agreement, though there was a slight flush to his cheeks, and he looked away as he responded. “I think we can both agree that the girl who thought we were QTs was a total idiot.”

“Oh, completely. We are not QT material.” I leaned back in my chair and looked over to where a tween girl was modeling some sort of sundress for Pete and Jenna.

“I’m sorry you were let go from your job.” His voice was softer, almost kind. “But it’s great you’ve already started your own business.”

“Yeah, that’s me!” I said, mustering up some faux confidence. “Always on to the next risky thing. I’m excited to…go out on my own for a bit. See how it feels to work for myself.”

“So you decorate rooms, then? Buy furniture for people?”

“Not exactly,” I said, and for the first time today I could feel genuine excitement hitch in my chest. I loved talking about interior design. “That’s what everyone thinks, but it’s about more than just decorating. It’s about creating experiences. Capturing and expressing and inspiring emotions within an environment.”

He nodded. “My mom’s been trying to get me to hire someone to decorate my apartment for years now. She says it lacks personality.”

“Let me guess.” I studied him—looking at his face, his suit, the slight curl in his hair like I would a floor plan.

“Leather couch. Probably expensive. Coffee table. Modernist, sleek, black. No dresser in your bedroom. Neutral-color sheets. You keep meaning to hang art on your walls, but you haven’t yet, and—let’s be honest—you probably never will.”

He shrugged and took a sip from his mug and then raised it toward me, a toast to my skills. “You’re good,” he said. “I bet you’re already in high demand.”

I just nodded, pretending like he was right on the nose. “That’s why I do what I do, and you do…whatever it is you do.”

He cleared his throat. “Have you read any good books lately?”

I cocked my head to the side. “Why? Do you need a recommendation?”

He shrugged. “I was just curious about what you like to read.”

I thought for a moment and then perked up. “Ooooh, do you like cults?”

He appeared very confused by this question. “Why would anyone like cults?”

“Not, like, in a join ’em way,” I explained. “Reading about them.”

He shook his head, giving me another perplexed look.

“Okay, fine.” I let out a sigh, giving up on the cult-book recommendation. “What was the last thing you read?”

“A book called Getting Things Done,” he replied. “It’s about productivity. People are obsessed with it. There are all these meet-ups and classes you can go to for it. I had lunch with a client the other week who told me it changed his brain.”

“So it’s…” I motioned with my hand, trying to get him to finish my sentence, but he didn’t bite. Fine. “A cult.”

Hayes smiled at me and then shook his head, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of me. The feeling was mutual.

We sat in silence for a bit. “Is Franny short for Frances?” he asked, and I had to admit his awkwardness was kind of charming.

“No.” I scrunched my nose. “Everyone thinks it is, though. It’s Francesca.”

“Francesca,” he repeated back to me. “I like it.”

I shook my head. “I’m Franny, unless you’re my grandma, who’s dead, or my mom when she’s pissed off at me. My stepdad calls me Franny-Bananny, which I hated in high school.”

“Maybe I could call you Francesca-Bananesca,” he joked.

“Oh yeah, that has a great ring to it.” I nodded. “It would sound amazing being screamed during sex.”

Oh god. Those words had actually exited my mouth, and there was no putting them back in. I avoided his eyes, letting the horror wash over me as I forced myself to fixate on a camera in the corner, as if it were the most interesting thing I’d ever seen. It felt like an hour had passed when I turned back to face him, expecting him to be avoiding my gaze. Instead, he just smiled and stared directly at me, in a way that was so intimate I had to look away again. And of course not being able to hold his gaze only made me feel more self-conscious, and made my brain start buzzing with the urge to move my body.

I went to chug the rest of my coffee, but somehow the cup missed my lip and coffee dripped down my chin and onto my dress. Before I knew what was happening, Hayes had leaned forward with his napkin, but as he tried to hand it to me, his elbow knocked the creamer over, and it rolled into my lap and then shattered onto the floor.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he said, grabbing my napkin and wiping off the table frantically as cream dripped onto my leg.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way…” I sighed as I blotted up the coffee that had already seeped into my dress. “But this is definitely the worst first date I’ve ever been on.”

*



When it was finally over, Eliza steered me offstage and back to the greenroom. I flopped onto the couch, eager to hide. As soon as she left, I flipped a middle finger in her direction.

“Dude,” Lola said, running her hands through her yellow-white hair, “that was a small shit show.”