City Love(25)

The Waverly Inn is adorable from the outside. It sits nestled on a quaint West Village corner, tastefully surrounded by ivy and tiny white lights. A ripple of anxiety shoots through me. How can I even go in there? The second I open that door, I will immediately be exposed as an impostor. I can already see everyone turning to gawk at me when I walk in. They’ll be wondering why such a scruffy girl dared to venture into the Land of the Privileged.

Calm down. You can do this.

Part of me wants to stay out here a little longer until I get myself together. But it’s already eight. I take a deep breath. Then I open the door.

D is sitting at the end of the bar. He’s wearing a pale blue polo shirt and dark jeans that look brand new. His black shoes are very shiny. I wobble on my discount heels. The right one will probably fall off any second now.

D takes a sip of his drink. He’s having some tan whiskey in a short, fat glass with ice. He looks so good sitting at the bar in his fancy clothes with his fancy drink. My breath catches in my throat. He glances toward the door, smiling when he sees me. Then he gets up and comes over.

“Good to see you,” D says. He kisses me on the cheek. His hands are cool on my arms. I hope I don’t start sweating. It took all of my willpower to stay calm and collected on the walk over. Not that I’m anywhere near calm and collected.

“This place is gorgeous.” Bronze fixtures around the bar glow in the dim light. A glimpse of the main dining area reveals a boisterous cluster of tables where sophisticated couples and groups are clearly enjoying themselves. The waiters are wearing dress shirts and ties with crisp white aprons tied around their waists.

“So are you,” D says.

A wave of nausea crashes into me. How can I eat when I’m this nervous?

“Would you like a drink at the bar?” D asks. “Or should we go to our table?”

“The table is fine.” Would he think it’s lame that I don’t drink? He has to find out eventually. But he’s three years older than me. This won’t be the only time I’m not doing something he does. Alcohol isn’t something I’m dying to try again. I tried some vodka my parents’ friends brought when they came over for dinner last year. It tasted like fire. Not an experience I want to repeat. It’s not even legal for me to drink, anyway.

D approaches the hostess at her podium. She could be a supermodel. I feel even more awkward in my ramshackle outfit.

“Reservation for Clark at eight?” D says.

She checks her screen and gives D a bright smile. “Right this way, Mr. Clark.”

D steps aside so I can walk in front of him. He puts his hand on my lower back, guiding me forward. I focus on not tripping while I follow the hostess. Why oh why does my heel have to be loose the first time I’m at a fancy restaurant? I steal glimpses of people at their tables as we pass by. Most of them are impeccably dressed. Even a table of guys in fitted tees and jeans are all extremely polished. How are they pulling that off? If I showed up tonight in a tee and jeans, I’m sure the hostess would have conveniently “lost” D’s reservation.

When we get to our table and the hostess pulls out my chair, I try to play it off like chairs are pulled out for me every day. But when she drapes a heavy white napkin over my lap, I freak out inside all over again. This dinner is not just a date. It’s a test of endurance.

“Thank you,” I tell the hostess as D sits down across from me. Maybe I can hide behind my menu for a few minutes until I get my bearings. Then I notice the prices. I knew this place would be expensive. But these prices are outrageous. I didn’t even know you could charge this much for food. There’s truffle mac and cheese for ninety-five dollars. That must be a typo. How can mac and cheese be ninety-five dollars?

“Sorry, but um . . .” I lean in toward D. He leans in, too.

“Celeb sighting?” he asks.

“Actually, I was wondering how mac and cheese could be ninety-five dollars.”

He laughs. “Ridiculous, right? But wait until you taste it. You won’t know what hit you.”

“Wait, you’re ordering it?”

“Why not? It’s insanely delicious. The plate is supposed to be for a larger table, but you could always take the rest home.”

The concept of a ninety-five-dollar takeout container of mac and cheese is beyond me.

“Oprah was at the table next to mine the last time I was here. She ordered the mac and cheese for her table. If it’s good enough for Oprah, it’s good enough for us. Am I right?”

I nod in a haze. He was sitting next to Oprah? I freaking love Oprah. She is a true humanitarian. She spreads the love and the wealth and wants to educate the world. And D was sitting next to her? I am totally counting that as being one degree from Oprah.

“Are you okay?” D asks.

“Yeah, I’m just processing. I kind of love Oprah.”

“Celebs are always here. We’ll definitely see someone you know.”

We survey the other diners surreptitiously.

“See anyone famous?” I ask.

“No. You?”

“No.”

“No worries. It’s still on the early side. This was the best reservation I could get on short notice.”

Even I know that eight is prime time for dinner reservations in New York. Finding out how D got this reservation only one day in advance would probably infuriate me. Inhabitants of the Land of the Privileged are gifted with a wide array of perks. The Waverly Inn menu is a good example. Do these people realize how lucky they are to be able to have dinner here whenever they want? True, I might not be the only person being treated tonight. Other guys on dates might have saved up for a long time to be able to take their girlfriends here. But for the most part, the kind of people who eat at the Waverly Inn are the kind of people who consider dropping a few hundred dollars for dinner just another Thursday night out. The menu blows my mind. Everything is so outrageously overpriced. Thirty dollars for pasta? Really? This is how investment bankers impress the ladies? What kind of materialistic airhead would be charmed by this charade?