by Amanda Aksel
“Nicole,” I call. “One other thing. I need you to make a twelve thirty reservation for three at Il Vezzo. Tell them whatever you need to. Tell them you’re Todd Fairbanks’s assistant if you have to.”
“You got it, boss.”
Boss, huh? No one’s ever called me that. Bossy, yes. But never boss.
I like it.
I pass Nicole’s desk as she’s confirming my reservation. Best assistant ever.
She clicks the button on her headset. “You’re all set. Oh, and here’s your keycard so you don’t have to deal with security. Have a nice lunch, Mr. Allen.”
I take the plastic keycard. “Thanks! And you can call me Richard.”
“As long as I don’t have to call you Dick.” Nicole’s attention returns to her screen and I chuckle. She’s my kind of girl.
In the elevators, I start to get another biological alarm, but the fix isn’t fun like Il Vezzo. In fact, it’s terrifying. Too bad I can’t ignore it. The doors open and I step out into the busy foyer, glancing around for the restroom signs, which seem to be invisible. Eric passes by, his eyes fixated on his phone, tapping his thumbs against the screen. My hunger pangs transform into knots at the sight of him.
“Hey, Eric,” I call out, rushing to his side. “Is there a bathroom on this floor?”
“Yeah.” He offers a polite smile and points over my left shoulder. Instead of looking, my eyes lock on him and I can’t help but turn my mouth up and give him a look that says, You’re my favorite person in the world.
Why is he so cute?
He cocks his head and zeroes in on my briefcase. “Is that Gucci?”
His question knocks the goofy look off my face. I think I did a better job hiding my crush when I was Delia. “Uh, yeah. You know your designers.” I’ve never known Eric to be a labels guy.
He gives me a funny look. “That’s so weird, my friend Delia has the exact same one.”
My cheeks warm and my jaw goes slack. Is he talking about me? To me? If only I could tell him that this is Delia’s Gucci. Then again, I could use his ignorance to my advantage. Would it be wrong to inquire about this Delia, uncensored?
With wobbly knees and a mouth as dry as a glass of sauvignon blanc, I’m ready to add this to the growing list of shit I’d never do B.D. (before dick). “Delia, is that your girlfriend?”
“No,” Eric replies, shaking his head slightly with a hint of a smile.
Hmm, that wasn’t as telling as I hoped. Let’s see, he didn’t scoff or grimace, so he’s not repulsed by the idea. No blushing, just a small smile. Is he simply content with our relationship status? You’d think having a dick would make it easier to interpret men’s mannerisms, but I’m none the wiser. And maybe it’s for the best.
“Well, she’s got great taste,” I say. “Gotta go. Thanks for your help.” I pat his shoulder and head off toward the bathroom.
The restroom signs come into view and I push my way through the door. It’s empty so I snag the first stall, which is my preference. I once read that people commonly overlook the first stall and choose succeeding stalls instead. If that’s true, then the first has had fewer strange booties on the seat. My pulse quickens as I undo my belt. Every time I unleash this beast, something crazy happens. Crazy to me anyway.
I pull down my borrowed striped underwear, half expecting the troublemaker to pop out and say, “Hey now!” But instead it’s cuddled up to my fuzzy thigh, fast asleep. Not quite as climactic as I made it out to be. I examine the extremity for a moment. Despite my morning shower, I hardly know my own penis. I probably wouldn’t even recognize it in a lineup. It wakes up a little and I drop it before it decides it wants to play.
Maybe later, Little Dickie.
I take a seat, pointing the thing into the bowl. A sigh escapes my lips as I let it flow. Peeing with a penis isn’t that much different from peeing without one. A urethra’s a urethra, I suppose. I pull a piece of paper from the roll and gently dab around the tip before tucking it away again. Snug as a bug in a rug. I think I’m getting the hang of this having-a-penis thing.
As I pull up my trousers, two others enter the bathroom chatting up a gripefest.
Two other women.
Oh, no.
I’m in the women’s bathroom. I didn’t even think about it.
Shit.
I peek through the cracks of the stall doors.
“I should just tell them, you know?” one of them says in a thick Long Island accent, applying her lipstick in the mirror. “I’m a human being, not a fucking workhorse.”
The other woman scoffs, whipping out her mascara wand. “I know, it’s, like, when did the sixty-plus-hour workweek become the norm?”
Stay calm, Delia. They’ll leave eventually. I look down and gasp. If they see the size of my feet and style of shoes they might assume the worst.
“Oh my god!” I mouth to myself. This could be bad. Very bad.
What am I going to do? For a moment I consider an attempt to stand on the toilet to hide my feet. Then again, I don’t need to risk any commotion. I hold my breath, staying completely still. Finally, the women close themselves in the other stalls and the coast is clear. I skip the sink and make my way out unnoticed.
Whew!
My pulse begins to slow. I raise my dick-holding hands like a surgeon waiting for their digits to be dressed in latex gloves. Only mine are in need of a scrub-down. Another suit guy pushes his way out of the men’s room at the other end of the hall.
He takes a second to adjust his crotch and sends me a curious chin nod. “Hey, how’s it goin’?”
“Good,” I say, my hands still playing doctor.
Should I just whip out the hand sani and head to lunch or be brave and wash my hands in the big boys’ room? Ugh. These are my options? I check around for a gender-neutral bathroom, to no avail.
C’mon, Monty Fuhrmann, get with the program already!
For now, I guess I’ll bite the bullet. I walk down the hall, glancing left then right, then push my way through the door with my shoulder. It doesn’t look that much different from the ladies’ room—except for the row of urinals.
And that smell. What is that?
I head over to the sink, past the urinals, and—
“Oh, hey again,” Eric calls, standing in front of the porcelain-lined wall.
“Uh.” I stop short, blinking, blushing, and barely breathing. The sound of his stream fills the space between us. I shield my view with my hand, sneaking a few little peeks. “Hey.”
“Didn’t you say you needed the bathroom?” he asks, gesturing to the urinal next to him.
“Oh, no. I’m good. Just need to wash my hands.” I scurry over to the sink, my fingers shaking as I reach for the faucet. A thunderous flush bounces off the tiled walls.
Oh my god! Eric just peed in front of me. Talk about intimacy.
I pump some soap and start to lather up while Eric takes the sink next to me, keeping his eyes lowered. Good, because I can’t possibly look him in the face right now. My cheeks must be pinker than my pocket square.
“Hey,” he starts, “since you seem to be so in tune with what’s happening at the New York office, would you happen to know if there are any spots coming available on our team?”
“I’m not really sure, why?”
“A friend of mine’s looking for a new job. I think she’d be good for this place.” He has to be asking for me. Aw, that’s so sweet! He must really want me to stay. “Plus, it’d be great to have at least one woman on the team.”
He’s not wrong about that. “I’ll look into it and get back to you.”
“That’d be great, thanks.” Eric flicks the water with his fingers and snatches a paper towel from the machine before heading out.
The moment the door closes, I let out a giant exhale, taking shallow breaths over the sink. I think ou
r relationship status just updated from “Crush” to “It’s Complicated.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I hail a cab to West Third and Sullivan. My phone provides a nice distraction. I bypass the missed birthday texts from my family—no way I can deal with them right now—and scroll through my email. Let’s see—Daily Digest from Dealbreaker.com, upcoming shows at the Village Room, and a reminder about my yearly pap smear. Bummer. I was really looking forward to those cervical clamps.
I click through every new message in my in-box. Still nothing from Monty Fuhrmann about my interview yesterday. I guess it’s for the best since Delia-me can’t exactly accept a new position at the moment. But an offer would be nice.
Finally, I arrive at Il Vezzo. Inside the restaurant, crisp white linens drape square tables and sterling utensils shine atop black napkins. Elegantly framed black-and-white photographs adorn the walls, telling stories of an Italian family’s history. Fresh pasta delights my nose, and I smile with an easy sigh. This is the sort of lunch I’ve only dreamed about lately.
“Do you have a reservation?” the waify blond hostess asks.
“Yes, table for three under . . . Richard Allen.”
She flashes a smile and runs her finger down a list. My eyes fall to the barely there gold necklace with a tiny E initial pendant. It’s so cute. I’ve been wanting to get something like that. Maybe even an E for Eric. How cheesy is that?
The hostess clears her throat, jolting me out of my jewelry trance. She points to her face with a tight-lipped smile as if to say, My eyes are up here.
I shake my head. “Sorry, I was just admiring your necklace.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“No, really, I’ve been looking—”
“You’re the first of your party to arrive. Would you like to be seated?”
“No, thank you. I’ll wait,” I say. “Again. Sorry.”
She motions me to take a seat and directs the group behind me to their table. Note to self—don’t look below the chin. That’s usually how Eric is. I’ve never caught him admiring my necklaces or anything else. Any chance I mistook his gesture of respect for a lack of interest?
Regina and Frankie pass through the front door. She’s beaming at me like she’s been looking forward to this moment all day. He’s . . . not.
“You recognized me?” I ask.
“No one can miss that pink shirt,” Regina says.
Agreed. I look to Frankie. “You all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m just worried about you.” Frankie pats my lapel with care.
I lay my hand over my heart. “Aw, you’re worried about me?”
He wrinkles his brow. “Not you, the suit.”
“MK is doing just fine,” I say.
“MK? Uh-uh, you are not on a nickname basis with my suit.”
Regina leans in. “I think he’s still upset about your effortless six-pack.”
Frankie clicks his tongue. “I heard that.”
The hostess, who’s essentially a floating head to me now, shoots me a look before leading us to a table near the window. I nudge Regina. “Whatever you do, don’t stare at her necklace.”
“Well, now I have to look.”
The three of us take our seats and she hands each of us a thick linen menu. Regina smiles as she takes hers. “Beautiful necklace.”
The hostess smiles and runs her finger along the shiny chain. “Thank you.”
Regina flicks her brows at me, and I roll my eyes before checking out the entrée selections. Scaloppine Capriccio, Pollo alla Parmigiana, Tortellini alla Panna. Is there any beef on this menu? Feels like a meaty kind of day.
There! Filetto di Manzo alla Fiorentina.
I glance up. Regina’s and Frankie’s eyes are glued to my every move like I’m some kind of animal, caged for observation.
I sip my water. “What? Am I changing back?” I set the glass down and hover my hands over the table, checking for feminine, hairless knuckles.
“No. Do you think you will change back?” Regina asks.
“How am I supposed to know?”
“I don’t know.” She waves a defensive hand. “I thought you might feel it coming on.”
“What? Like my period?” No more tampons? Now there’s the silver lining.
Regina shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. Frankie, did you look into any of this?”
I wait for his signature scoff, but instead he shifts his gaze left then right and leans closer. “Yes, and I read an incredible article about a rare condition occurring in young girls in South America and Papua New Guinea. When they hit puberty, they grow penises. They call it machihembras—first a woman, then a man.”
I put my hand over my chest. “Oh my god. Is that what I have? Machi, machihe . . .”
“Machihembras,” Frankie pronounces perfectly. “No. For them, it’s more like delayed development. Plus, it’s really just their genitals that change. You chiseled a new jawline and washboard abs overnight while growing half a foot taller. Those twelve-year-old machihembras would be so lucky.” He points an erect finger in the air. “Anyway, I also learned that there are some species of fish that change sex based on mating necessities. But it doesn’t happen overnight.”
“So you think I might be some kind of evolved human?” And am I evolved enough to spontaneously change back?
Frankie deadpans, “No, I’m saying I don’t have a fucking clue what happened to you.”
“Well, that makes three of us.” Regina rolls out her black cloth napkin.
“Thanks for looking into it,” I say.
“I’ll keep searching but you might have better luck praying to Jesus.” He raises a hallelujah hand.
“You think this could all be a crazy dream?” It’s certainly unbelievable enough to be one.
Regina shakes her head. “Nope. I saw a guy urinating on the street this morning, right on cue. Definitely not a dream.”
Our waiter arrives sporting a skinny black tie and a white button-up that stretches around his toned biceps. He introduces himself as Martino and proceeds with the specials. Listening to his genuine accent totally confirms my choice to come here and blow some of the little money I have left.
Regina flutters her lashes as she places her order with perfect Italian pronunciation.
“Ah, your accent isa very good. You speak italiano?” he asks.
“Sì.” She’s almost fluent thanks to her maternal grandparents. Martino begins a conversation with her in Italian. By the way she tilts her head and toys with a piece of her hair, I know she wants the tall, dark, handsome foreigner for dessert. But watching her flirt with a handsome hunk only reminds me of one gorgeous guy . . .
“Hey, Del!” Regina snaps her fingers in front of my face and I flinch. “Your order?”
I shake my head. “Oh, yes, I’ll have the Filetto di Manzo alla Fiorentina.” I say the words slowly as if it’s some new magical incantation I’m practicing. My Italian accent isa not very good.
“And how would you like that prepared, sir?” Martino asks.
Just as I’m about to respond with the usual medium well, I remember this date I went on a while back. The guy ordered his steak medium rare, and as he bit into the flesh, a drip of blood trickled from the side of his mouth. Something about it turned me on, like I knew he could throw down in the bedroom, which he did later. Since then, I’ve associated bloody meat with manly. And when in Rome.
“Medium rare,” I say and my friends tilt their heads.
“Very good, sir,” Martino says with a tone of respect. Sir, huh? He collects the stiff menus and Regina ogles him all the way to the kitchen.
I wave my hand in front of her face. “Yo, Gina!”
“He’s so sexy.” Her grin stretches from ear to ear.
“Yes, he is.” Frankie nods, watching him disappear behind the swinging do
or.
“So I guess Martino’s the man of the hour,” I say.
Regina raises her brow. “Please, you’re the man of the day, Delia.”
I let out a slight chuckle. “Tell me about it. But I gotta say, this man stuff is tricky.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like this morning, I ran into Shannon on the subway.”
The two lean in with wide eyes. “You did? What happened?” Regina asks.
“I said hi because I wasn’t thinking and now she thinks I’m a Wall Street dick she went to college with.”
“So you didn’t give yourself away?” Regina seems to be wrapping her head around it, just as I was on the subway.
“I came close, but no.”
“You poor thing. That must’ve been so weird.”
“Trust me. My day got a lot weirder.”
Martino returns to our table with the antipasti and places the platter in the center.
“Thank you, Martino,” Regina and Frankie say in unison with matching coy smiles.
These two.
“Martino,” I start, “can you bring us a bottle of Sassicaia?”
He nods. “Excellent choice, sir.”
“That sounds fancy. Sassy Kaya,” Frankie says.
“It is.”
Sassicaia was the wine my dad would bring home to share with my mom every time he closed a big deal. When my brothers and I were older, he’d let us enjoy a glass too. It’s like Tuscany in a bottle. Going from drinking a five-dollar bottle of wine to a two-hundred-dollar bottle feels like a victory in itself.
“Does expensive-ass wine mean we’re celebrating your birthday?” Regina says.
“Yes, among other things.”
“Such as . . .” Frankie gestures for more information.
I take in a deep breath. This is the first time I’m saying this aloud. “I sorta became the head managing director of the Ezeus deal at Monty Fuhrmann.”
Frankie laughs, popping a slice of prosciutto in his mouth. “No, you didn’t.”
“Yeah, I really did.”
Frankie’s bottom lip practically falls on the table; he’s apparently too stunned to speak. Regina, on the other hand, is never at a loss for words, and lets her Brooklyn accent dance freely. “How in the hell did you manage that, Mr. Managing Director?”