by Parker, Ali
Nora
Thursday couldn’t come fast enough.
I spent the days leading up to my second date with Walker champing at the bit with excitement. Grace and Julie seemed equally as enthusiastic, and their unbridled anticipation had started to eat away at me, leaving me breathless and constantly feeling like I had to poop as I waited for Walker to pick me up.
A charming quality of mine that happened every time I was nervous.
When Walker pulled up outside the townhouse, I made a point to rush out of the house before he even stepped foot out of his Maserati, strictly to avoid my roommates bombarding him with questions that were sure to embarrass the hell out of me.
“Oh,” he said, surprised when I threw the passenger door open and slid in. He blinked as I buckled up before a smile washed over his handsome face. “Are we running from something?”
“My roommates.”
“Ah, yes, the supportive, clever, beautiful women with good taste in art. Why exactly are we running from my fans?”
“Just drive.”
Chuckling, Walker did as I said, and I caught Grace and Julie waving at me through the window. Unable to help myself, I lifted a hand and wiggled my fingers in farewell. The butterflies in my stomach settled to a reasonable pace of flight. Instead of swirling around like they were caught in a tornado of stomach acid, they now fluttered about as if in a summer breeze.
I could relax.
Walker adjusted the heat in the car until I was comfortable, and told me about his week and a falling out he had with one of his models—the woman he was using as a muse to paint the life-sized piece for his client in the tweed jacket. Apparently, he’d been talked into asking her out by a friend before he met me and the date went sideways. After dropping her off, she texted him and told him to find a new model. She was done.
“How are you going to finish the painting?” I asked as he pulled into a parking lot behind a burger shack.
He put the car in park and turned off the ignition. “Well, I have a fairly good blueprint in my head to draw from. Having her there just helped with angles and proportions. Luckily, all that is finished.”
“How rude of her to back out halfway through. All over a disappointing date?”
We got out of the car and walked along the side of the restaurant to the ramp that led to the front doors. I noticed how casual this place was. It was a far cry from Pitch, our last date, with the velvet curtains and sultry lighting. This place was bright blue on the outside with white-trimmed windows. Flower planters hung from the windows that I imagined would be bright with pansies or tulips come the spring and summer months.
“She put herself out there and I shot her down,” Walker said as he held the door open for me. He stepped in behind me and we revelled in the warmth of the restaurant and the aromas of frying onions, melting cheese, and sizzling beef patties. “I think her pride was hurt. It makes sense that she doesn’t want to see me again.”
Personally, I was glad to hear things had fallen apart between him and the beautiful woman from the painting. Normally, I didn’t feel things like jealousy but Walker was a man worth worrying about. Other women would be vying for him and they’d have more to offer than my short stature, messy hair, complete lack of style, and foul mouth.
A hostess dressed in primary colors saw us to a table near the window. The menus were sealed away under the glass top of the table as if part of the decor. I leaned over and peered at the list.
“This place takes their burgers very seriously,” I said.
“I used to come here all the time when I didn’t have a hundred bucks to my name. The cook—well, he’s gone now—but he used to whip me up free burgers and let me sit in the back with his son, who owns the place now. There isn’t a better burger in all of New York than Jones Burger Shack.”
I believed him. This place felt like it knew what it was doing. Laughter and orders poured out of the kitchen. Orders were hollered from waiters to line cooks and back to the front. Enthusiasm was shared between customer and employee at every table.
“I’m overwhelmed by my options,” I said as I continued staring at the menu. “A barbeque burger with flame-grilled pineapple? A chicken burger with fried onions and a sweet chipotle sauce? How am I supposed to make the right choice?”
“Lucky for you, it’s impossible to make the wrong choice here. Go with your gut.”
My gut leaned toward the chicken burger, so when a waiter appeared at our table with a smile and a notepad, that was what I ordered. Walker also ordered a pitcher of sangria, claiming it was too good to pass up.
“I’ve never met a guy who so openly loved sangria,” I said.
“What’s not to love? Wine, fruit, brandy? It’s the perfect combination.”
“You’re preaching to the choir.”
The pitcher of sangria was one to write home about. It came in a glass pitcher with a swirling handle I couldn’t begin to fathom how a person had ever made. The elixir bubbled and fizzed as carbonation fizzled to the top. Wedges of limes and oranges, along with raspberries, strawberries, and, to my surprise, cranberries filled half the pitcher.
Walker poured us each a glass. “Cheers.”
My first sip was an explosion of flavors on my tongue. “Whoa.”
“Told you.”
The first glass went down far too easily and Walker topped me off.
He sat back and got comfortable. “So, tell me about this work-related plan of yours. I’ve been impatiently waiting for days.”
I gushed all about my travel-writing plans to Walker. He listened in rapture, eyes widening when I got enthusiastic, lips curling in a smile when I told him about the sample article I’d written and used to send to several different print and online magazines, as well as travel blogs.
“I didn’t realize this kind of thing even existed,” I said. “I mean, I should have known because I’ve read dozens of these kinds of articles before, but it never occurred to me that I could actually make a living wage off this kind of work. And by a living wage, I mean decent money. Perhaps the same kind of salary I’d have in dentistry.”
“Have you heard back from any of these places?”
“Not yet, but I expect it to take some time. Who knows how many people applied and what kind of credentials they bring to the table? Serious writers might mean I get overlooked and put to the bottom of the pile.”
“Experience and travel will likely get you farther than being a walking, talking thesaurus,” Walker said. “Don’t underestimate how valuable you would be to a travel company.”
His words made me blush.
Walker seemed to pick up on how flustered I was. He topped off my sangria but cautioned me that this stuff could hit hard and I might want to take it easy until I had some food in my stomach.
Naturally, I didn’t listen.
By the time our meals arrived, hefty plates loaded down with huge burgers and a portion of fries that would put me into a coma if I ate them all, the sangria had made my thoughts a little wonky. I took a massive bite of my burger and savored it. Sauce dribbled out the other end and ran down my fingers.
Walker offered me a napkin. “You can’t eat these and not make a mess.”
“The best burgers are messy.”
He watched me eat like he was watching his favorite movie.
I couldn’t picture this date going any better. After all my nervousness, I found myself completely at ease with Walker. We laughed easily together, and after I finished eating, I didn’t feel obligated to suck in my rather extended tummy. We drank more sangria. Or rather, I drank more sangria. Walker cut himself off after two so he could drive.
Grace would be thrilled to hear about my second night out with Walker. Truth be told, I was excited to tell her. There was something different about him that had me thinking about what it might mean for me if I wanted to get a little more serious with him. Was that something I wanted? Would a serious relationship stand in the way of all the travel I still wanted to do?<
br />
Did I have to choose one or the other?
I was about to ask Walker if he had and travel planned for the future when my phone rang.
“Shoot,” I muttered as I opened my purse and rummaged through it to find my phone. “I thought I had it on silent. I’m sorry. I hate when people have their ringer on during dinner.”
“That’s it,” Walker said. “You’re paying for your own damn food.”
I giggled and found my phone. When I flipped it over, my mother’s picture was shining up at me with caller ID. “It’s my mom.”
“You should answer it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You never ignore a mother’s call,” Walker said. “That’s just asking for bad karma. Go ahead. I don’t mind.”
Wincing in apology, I answered the call and held it to my ear. “Hey, Mom.”
“Nora!” My mother’s sing-song voice filled the line. “Do you have a moment?”
“Actually, I’m out for dinner with—”
“Your father and I have some good news.”
Classic Mom move. I sighed. “Oh?”
“We’re coming to Manhattan this weekend for the dental convention. Your father registered us months ago but we didn’t think we made it in. They just called and let us know there’s room if we still wanted to go. Isn’t that great? You know how long your father has wanted to go.”
“That’s awesome, Mom.”
“I called the house first, looking for you, but Grace said you were out.” My mother paused as if waiting for me to supply who I was out with and what we were doing. I didn’t. “Grace said as long as it’s okay with you, your father and I could stay with you at the townhouse.”
Oh crap. There was no easy way to tell my mother I’d rather chew off my own fingernails than have her and my father stay with me, so I forced some enthusiasm into my voice. “I’m looking forward to it.”
My mother cooed excitedly on the other end before telling me she had to go because her Keno numbers were being called. She hung up and I slumped forward in my chair to rest my forehead on the table.
Walker snickered. He actually snickered. “One more glass of sangria before we get out of here?”
I never lifted my head from the table. “Don’t bother pouring a glass. I’ll just drink it straight out of the pitcher.”
His laugh eased the feeling of impending doom settling on my shoulders.
Chapter 18
Walker
At ten o’clock, Nora and I left the burger shack. The employees locked up behind us.
“We have a bad habit of overstaying our welcome.” Nora tucked her hands under her armpits and ducked her chin into the collar of her denim jacket.
“Is it really a bad habit if we are enjoying each other’s company so much that we lose track of time?”
As we walked to my car parked in the back parking lot beneath a flickering streetlight, Nora shot me a bemused glance out of the corner of her eyes. “I thought poets were the ones always romanticizing things.”
“Ouch.”
At the car, I opened her door for her. She slid into the passenger seat and I closed it behind her before pacing around the hood and getting behind the wheel. Raindrops began pattering on the windshield as I cranked the heat and turned on the seat warmers.
Nora held her hands in front of the vents. “I’m so ready for winter to be over.”
I couldn’t go anywhere until my foggy windshield cleared up, so I leaned back in my seat. The leather creaked beneath me. “We only have three or so months to go.”
She rolled her eyes. “Shoot me now. As soon as Christmas is over, winter should be too.”
“If only the seasons worked around our religious holidays.”
“Exactly.”
I chuckled. “I wouldn’t have taken you for someone who likes Christmas.”
“When did I say I liked Christmas?”
Nora had an uncanny ability to walk circles around me. Normally, I was the guy doing that to pretty women to get them flustered and tongue-tied. I didn’t do it to be mean but to see who they really were and bring their guard down. The more I could make a woman laugh and put her at ease, the more relaxed she would be. I was not a man to be taken all that seriously but my work and the expensive suits left a different impression.
As did my bank account, I supposed.
“So you don’t like Christmas?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I could take it or leave it. I like the lights, the food, and the winding down of the year. The rest of it? I don’t know. It’s all become so saturated and expensive.”
“Capitalism at its finest,” I said.
“And consumerism.”
“Naturally.”
“Do you like Christmas?” she asked pointedly as she turned in her seat to face me.
“Sure, why not?”
“Because of the reasons we literally just said.”
I laughed and turned the ignition. The windshield was nearly clear now save for the streaks of rain rolling toward the hood. “Even though I acknowledge Christmas isn’t what it used to be, or necessarily what it’s supposed to be, I still enjoy it. Without it, winter would be too dreary. The lights and the music and the excuse for family to gather? I don’t know. What’s not to like about that?”
Nora balked. “Family. Family is what’s not to like.”
I’d have given anything to spend another Christmas morning or evening with my family. It had been a long time since I woke up in a house shared by others—a long time since I came into a living room with an already lit tree and coffee going in the pot while breakfast, a casserole of some sort prepared the night before that made the whole house smell like bacon, onions, and cheese, turned golden brown in the oven.
We pulled out of our parking space and into the street.
“What is your favorite holiday then?” I asked. “Wait, let me guess.”
“Valentine’s Day,” Nora said.
“Really?”
She nodded earnestly.
Chuckling, I shook my head. “Bullshit. If you think Christmas is a consumerist holiday, you definitely think Valentine’s day should be burned or buried. Or both.”
She giggled. “I guess I don’t have a favorite holiday. Maybe St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Are you serious? Of all the holidays, you’re going with the day of green beer and shamrock shakes?”
Nora crossed one leg over the other as we came to a red light. “Well, yeah. Instead of having to go to a big family dinner where I pretend to like my borderline racist uncle and selfie-obsessed cousins, I get to go to a bar with friends and wear green beads around my neck while I get happy drunk.”
“Happy drunk?”
“Yeah, that warm fuzzy place right between tipsy and one drink too many.”
The light turned green and we pulled through the intersection. Brake lights glowed all the way down the street ahead of us. Car horns blared and the rain continued to patter on the windshield before it was wiped away by my wipers.
I didn’t want the night to end. We’d been having a good time and talked about anything and everything under the sun. It would be a shame to call it this early.
“The night is still young.” I rested one wrist on the steering wheel as another red light brought us to a stop. “I wouldn’t mind if it lasted a little longer.”
Nora turned away from me to look out the window. I didn’t let on, but I watched her reflection in the glass. It glowed red from the stop light. A smile curled her lips. “Is that your way of asking if I’d like to come over for another drink or a cup of coffee?”
“Yes,” I said simply.
Her smile broadened and she turned back to me with rosy cheeks. “I’d love to.”
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and texted her roommate to let her know she’d be out later, or perhaps not at all tonight. I didn’t ask. However tonight unfolded would be just fine by me.
Yes, I wanted her to stay over. And yes, I wanted t
o kiss her. Hell, I’d wanted to kiss her since the first moment I saw her. That night at the gallery simultaneously felt like it was such a long time ago and also just yesterday. Time with Nora could not be measured by normal standards. Not for me. It slipped through my fingers like tiny grains of sand never to be seen again.
The city winked all around us as I drove us to the heart of Manhattan where my seven thousand square foot apartment waited for us. When I first started looking for real estate in the city, I thought I knew what I wanted—something sleek, modern, and minimalist. My realtor showed me dozens of listings that fit those criteria but nothing grabbed me. On a whim, he booked a private viewing at the building I lived in now, which was called the Legacy Luxury Apartments. The word “legacy” had put me off because it implied the exact opposite of modern and new.
However, as soon as I stepped into the suite, I knew I was home.
We arrived at the old apartment building and plunged into the underground parking, where I reversed into my spot and didn’t make it around to Nora’s side before she stepped out.
“I’ve never seen such a clean parking garage,” she said, casting her gaze over the freshly painted lines, named spaces as per their owners, and bright lighting that looked nothing like the other garages that resembled horror-movie sets.
We strolled to the elevator where I had to use my house key to ride up to the top floor. Nora stood a foot away from me with her hands clasped in front of herself. As the elevator climbed, she admired the wood-grain walls. They were stained a deep cherry red. I remembered the first time I’d stepped into this elevator. I’d immediately felt like I’d been transported back in time forty or so years.
And I had.
“The building is early twentieth century,” I told her as she gazed up at the hand-painted elevator ceiling. An image of green pastures, willow trees, and blue skies speckled with fluffy white clouds hung above our heads. “Most of the units have been outfitted with certain updates, naturally, but the building’s integrity has never changed, aside from safety and building code upgrades. All the residents here know the value of their units and we do our best to maintain the history.”