City Love(19)

“Snacks are my friend,” I say. And I thought getting sloshed with punch was embarrassing. This guy saw me sneak food into my bag. What am I, some old lady on a coffee break at her macrame circle?

“You wouldn’t know it.” He looks me over appreciatively.

Really? Are lines like that really supposed to work on women?

“You wouldn’t expect a guy in a suit to show up at a dorm party,” I retaliate.

“Don’t let the suit fool you. I’ve been known to rock a dorm party up at Columbia. My little sister is the one throwing this party and I’m funding her group. I came straight from my internship at Goldman. Hence the suit and tie.” He smooths his tie down. “But enough about me. Tell me something interesting about yourself.”

“Like how I’m rocking a punch-stained ensemble this evening?”

“Keeping it classy.”

“I try.”

“Drag about your shirt.”

“Yeah.”

“I saw the whole thing. She’s nuts.”


He saw? So he saw me get sloshed and he saw me sneaking snacks into my bag? I am mortified. Why is he even talking to me? I am a freak of astronomical proportions.

“She hates me for some reason, which is weird because I have no idea who she is.”

“How do you know she hates you?”

“You saw the whole thing, remember?”

“You’ve never met her before?”

“No. She wasn’t at the Lower East camp orientation, so I’m assuming she’s a counselor at the Upper East camp. Or she could be someone’s friend.”

“My sister would know. Want me to ask her?”

“That’s okay. I don’t want to make things worse. Whatever her problem is, I’m hoping she’ll get over it.”

“Probably not. People like that don’t change.”

“Thanks for the support.”

“Sorry. You’re an optimist. That’s an admirable feature. I’ve been swimming with the Wall Street sharks too long. First, growing up with my investment banker dad, then this internship for the second year. Cynicism rubs off on investment bankers pretty quickly.”

“You want to be an investment banker?”

“I do.”

“What do investment bankers do, exactly?”

“They manage other people’s money. Help them get rich and stay rich. That’s the basic idea, anyway.”

Why would Wall Street Guy assume I need a basic explanation? I wanted to learn the details of the job description. Not hear something I’ve known since third grade.

“How exactly do they do that?” I ask.

“Oh, you wanted the long and boring story? We’ll have to save that for next time.”

“There’s another party?”

“No, I meant . . . if you wanted to see me again.”

I don’t even know Wall Street Guy’s name and he’s asking me out? How pretentious is that? Like I would ever go out with him. He could never understand my life. He’s an investment banking intern in a suit that probably cost more than my freshman year tuition and I’m a girl with punch spilled all over my only good going-out top. We are worlds apart.

“Did you want to know my name first?” I say.

He laughs. “Sorry. I told myself to be smooth when I was psyching myself up to come talk to you. But I might be coming off as less smooth, more creeper. Can we start over?”

“Totally.”

Wall Street Guy extends his hand to me. “I’m Donovan. But I go by D.”

“I’m Rosanna.”

“Nice to meet you, Rosanna.”

“Why do you go by D?”

“The name Donovan never seemed like me. Too formal or uptight or something.”

“I feel the same way about my hair. That it doesn’t seem like me.”

“Your hair is gorgeous. Long and wavy. What’s not to like?”

“Thanks, but I’ve always felt like it should be straight. Straight hair seems more like me.”

“You probably shouldn’t trust someone who’s known you for five minutes, but I disagree. You are definitely a wavy hair kind of girl. Makes you even more gorgeous.”

Again with the compliments. Women must fall for his charming ways all the time. His smile is part of the package. He’s actually a really good-looking guy. Sandy blond hair with a bit of a wave to it. Almond-shaped hazel eyes. He even has that classic handsome-man dimpled-chin thing. And I can’t help noticing that he’s taller than me. At five nine, it’s not every day I can literally look up to a guy. He’s about six three.

“Was I a creeper again?” D asks. “Sorry, I was just being honest.”

“No, that’s . . . I mean . . . thanks for the compliment,” I sputter.

D smiles at me warmly. It’s suddenly ten degrees hotter in here.

“So tell me something interesting about yourself for real,” he says.

Why can’t I think of anything? And why is he making me so flustered?

“There’s not much to tell. I just moved here from Chicago two days ago. I’m a counselor at the Lower East Side camp. Which, yeah, I already said that.”

“Have you been to New York before?”