In a New York Minute(27)

I swiped over to the Search page and typed the name Hayes Montgomery. A private account popped up. It was probably better that I couldn’t get a firsthand glimpse into his perfect, gorgeous life. It would only make me feel worse. And besides, why was I still fixating on Hot Suit, anyway? I needed to get this guy out of my brain.

My skin crawled with the temptation of insecurity, the urge to listen to that voice in my head that liked to tell me I couldn’t carve out the career I wanted, couldn’t make it in New York, could never look good in impossibly wide-brimmed hats. I knew deep down that that voice was lying—though maybe not about the hat—and that it did me no good to believe it. But sometimes self-doubt was an easier path to take than blind confidence.

As I was staring at my phone, a text from my mom popped up: Thought you might like to know that Jeremy and his wife are expecting their first baby! A girl. Saw his mom at Stop & Shop. Love Mom.

But I did not, in fact, want to know that my high school boyfriend and his wife were having a kid while I was sitting alone, unemployed, eating the only meal out that I could realistically afford. I didn’t respond.

Slices finished, root beer guzzled, Instagram accounts muted, bathroom visited, I mapped out on my phone the bar where Lola was and realized it was even closer than I’d thought. I’d walked by it a million times when I used to work in SoHo at the Anthropologie store on West Broadway, right after college. Five sweaty blocks later, and I was standing out front. No windows for me to peek through. Crap.

From the outside, it seemed like a regular old bar, but opening the door revealed it to be one of those spots tailor-made for first dates. Red velvet lined the booths and barstools. The shelves behind the dark wooden bar sparkled with bottles of liquor. It looked cozy, and romantic, and dark. There was no way you could hang out in this place without making out with someone.

I wandered up to the bar, where a tattooed woman with a short black pixie cut was slowly twisting a cork out of a bottle. Next to me, a couple leaned in close to each other, knees touching, and it took me a second to recall the last time I’d been on a date. It had been over four months ago, with a guy I met at a trivia night at a bar downtown with some work friends. We’d gotten drinks in the East Village, made out on a bench in Tompkins Square Park, and set up plans to meet for dinner the next week. He texted me three days later to cancel, because he was moving back in with his ex-girlfriend.

“Just a club soda with lime,” I said, and the bartender nodded, expressionless. I left ten dollars on the bar and scanned the booths but didn’t see Lola anywhere. The front lounge area extended back into what looked like an even more intimate space, the walls lined with flickering candles. I grabbed my drink and walked into the darkness, past the bathrooms, as Morrissey’s wail drifted from a speaker somewhere. I stood there for a second, letting my eyes adjust.

Soon, the shapes of people turned into actual humans, and I spotted her, tucked into a corner, all sparkling and blond against the bloodred velvet booth. Her hand was gently resting on the thigh of a dark-haired woman with a long ponytail, whose dimples were bright enough to spot even in the murky, low light. She was leaning into Lola, her lips dancing dangerously close to her neck, at that spot where even a breath feels like an invitation for more.

My eyes rested on them for only a few seconds, but it was long enough for an odd pang to split my chest. Their intimacy was erotic, electric, and something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Lola was in trouble all right—just not the kind that called for a best-friend intervention. I turned to walk back toward the bar, grabbing my phone out of my bag to text Cleo, but I had no signal. Stupid sexy dungeon of wine and hot people and romance.

I stepped toward the hallway, drink at my lips, the hint of melancholy toying at my stomach. And then—slam. I walked straight into the side of someone’s body, my soda splashing up onto both of us.

“Oh my god, I’m so—” I looked up to apologize, and the eyes looking back at me were familiar.

I was too surprised to make it to the word sorry. There was Hot Suit Hayes Montgomery the Third, standing right in front of me. What kind of cruel joke was the universe playing on me tonight?

He blinked once. I opened my mouth to say something—like “Hi” or “Hey” or “What the hell are you doing here?”—but instead, I just laughed.

“Hello,” he said, biting his lower lip as his eyes studied me, puzzled.

“You’re here!” I managed to squeak out, still laughing. This night. I shook my head.

“Were you waiting for me?” he asked with a smile, looking down at the huge wet spot seeping across his shirt and then back up to meet my eyes.

“Oh my god,” I said again, waving a hand at where he was now dabbing his chest with a cocktail napkin. “I’m sorry about…that. I just wasn’t expecting—”

“To ever see me again?” His gaze was hard, and the edges of his lips curled into the smallest hint of a smile, which felt more sinister than sweet.

“Well. Yeah.” I laughed as I said it, because it was true. I glanced at the spill again and noticed that this time he wasn’t buttoned up within an inch of his life in some bespoke suit. Instead, he was in a heather-gray T-shirt that was damp across his chest, in spots where my drink hadn’t splattered. “Why aren’t you in a suit?”

I could have sworn that in the darkness, he blushed. “I don’t only wear suits.”