City Love(58)

Waiting for the subway makes me even more rattled. Of course I just missed the train. The next one’s not coming for seven minutes. I do not have seven minutes. Seven minutes from now I will be a sweaty, frizzy mess unsuitable for public display. I take a few deep breaths. Or what barely passes for a few deep breaths in this sweltering subway station.

When I emerge from the subway at 42nd Street a thousand years later, I blink in the bright lights of Times Square. This is my first venture into the frenetic tourist land that is Times Square. Sadie said that tourists are the only ones who really come here. D said he never comes up here, but promised that dinner at Butter would be worth it.

I plow my way through the throngs of tourists. Could tourists walk any slower? I know they’re taking in the sights and snapping photos and stuff, but do they really have to take up the whole sidewalk? Not that I haven’t been just as oblivious. New York moves way faster than I anticipated. I’m surprised at how quickly I’m adjusting to the rapid pace. On the other hand, I’ve always known I was meant to live here. When you end up where you’re meant to be, everything falls into place.

Two wrong turns and a near collision with someone in a Cookie Monster costume later, I see Butter across the street. I flap my arms in a desperate attempt to air out my pits. A bike messenger zipping by at an alarming speed almost slices my arm off. Darcy warned me to stay clear of bike lanes. Too bad Sadie didn’t warn me about people on the sidewalk dressed as characters for tourists to take pictures with.

When I envisioned this night, I appeared calm, cool, and collected as I breezed through the door of Butter on the dot of eight. D would turn to me from the bar and smile at how put together I looked. We would then glide to our table, turning the heads of older people who remember what it was like to be young and in love.

Here’s what really happens.

I show up twenty-five minutes late. D is waiting for me outside. He probably witnessed my embarrassing arm-flapping, bike-messenger spaz attack. But he doesn’t look as mad or repulsed as I expected.

“You made it,” he says.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry I’m late. This is unacceptable.”

“No worries. These things happen.”

“First my upstairs neighbors were pounding louder than ever. I actually banged a broom against the ceiling, I was so desperate. Then I just missed the subway. Then I went down the wrong street and almost ran over Cookie Monster and—”

“Rosanna.” D hugs me even though I am a sweaty mess. “It’s okay. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

I pull away from him before he realizes the full scope of how disgusting I am. “Thanks for understanding.”

“But you really should think about getting a cell phone.”

“You’re right.” There’s no way I’m about to admit that I can’t afford a cell phone. D wouldn’t even know how to process that information.

Butter is even more over-the-top than the Waverly Inn. I remember a scene at Butter from Gossip Girl. Gossip Girl is one of my few guilty pleasures, the kind of show obsessed with materialistic greed I’m not supposed to like but secretly do. I never imagined I’d be at one of the locations from Rich Girl World in real life. Is it wrong to be basking in the decadence?

“I’m taking you to Minetta Tavern next,” D says after dinner outside Butter. “It used to be an old-school Italian joint you’d go to in the dead of winter when you craved pasta with fresh San Marzano tomato sauce. Then it changed owners. Now it’s an upscale version of what it used to be. Packed with celebs. There’s even a bouncer outside.”

I don’t reveal that I have no clue what San Marzano tomatoes are.

“Yeah . . . I just realized how obnoxious I sound,” D says. “But it really is one of the best restaurants in New York. That’s why I want to take you there. I want to take you to all of my favorite places. You deserve to be treated like a princess.”

A fire engine goes by, its siren wailing over princess. A woman passing by in gym clothes puts her fingers over her ears.

I smile at D. Could this man be any sweeter?

“So . . . ,” he says. “Should we go back to my place?”

This is it. The moment when everything changes. The moment when we go from dating to something heavier.

“Sure,” I say, trying for my best nonchalant tone and failing epically. “I can’t wait to see your renovations.”

Tribeca is beautiful. The West Village is also beautiful, but it’s more historical. Where the West Village has protected brownstones and cobblestone streets and quaint courtyards you can peek in at between strands of ivy growing on their gates, Tribeca is newer construction and wider sidewalks and lots of lofts. D said he’d always wanted to own a Tribeca loft. Back in the day, Tribeca’s lofts were filled with artists who preferred working in the large spaces with natural light. Now Tribeca is so expensive no one can afford to live there except Wall Street guys, doctors, lawyers, and celebs. And let’s not forget the trust-fund kids like D. Thinking about the artists who were forced out makes me sad. Sadie said they all live in Brooklyn now.

D’s building is unreal. The exterior looks brand-new. It has a clean, simple design. Even the street number on the awning is gorgeous, etched in a round font illuminated with a blue-purple hue.

The doorman sees us coming. He swiftly opens the door for us. “Welcome home, Mr. Clark,” he says. He’s wearing a fancy uniform with a hat and everything. I give him a shy smile and say thank you as I step into the expansive marble lobby. After trekking about a mile, we reach the elevators. Of course there’s music in the elevator. Not tacky elevator music. The rich sounds of chamber music reminiscent of exclusive dinner parties I’ve never attended. Maybe I’ll have the chance to attend one with D.