“That’s very old-fashioned of you, but I can take of myself just fine, thanks,” I replied. He’d said it like someone should take my father out back on the porch for a talking to.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said with sincerity. “I just think it’s wise.”
“It’s okay,” I relinquished, perhaps realizing I was a touch testy. If I was, it was my own insecurity talking, and I decided I’d try to cut that out and picked up the exchange. “In my house it was more the other way around, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, the house, the chores,” I expanded. “Someone had to do the cooking and cleaning or we all would have wasted away years ago. I’m actually glad he got a girlfriend. I couldn’t have left home if there wasn’t someone there to take care of him.”
“Where is your mother?’
“She died.”
“Mine, too.” he replied and from his tone I thought it may have been recent.
I looked up. “I’m sorry,” I told him. A shadow crossed his face as he glanced down in polite acknowledgement and acceptance, mutual understanding passing between us like a current. We memorialized the moment in silence. I thought he might be thinking of her, and his expression made me glad, for once, that I had nothing to remember.
Finally, he spoke. “Do you not have your own life?”
Growing accustomed to his forthrightness, I asked easily, “What do you mean?”
“You said your friends have their own lives as if you’re not part of it,” he explained.
“That’s true,” I conceded.
He hedged curiously, “Does that not defeat the purpose of friendship?”
“I don’t really think of it that way.”
“How do you think of it?”
“I guess I’m a bit of a loner,” I phrased carefully. It sounded a lot better than third wheel or wallflower.
“What about your boyfriends? I’m sure you have many.”
“No, I don’t have one.”
“I don’t think I can believe that,” he pressed gently, giving me a discerning look. That skepticism made me feel good somehow.
“Well, there’s this boy back home who likes me a lot,” I admitted, feeling bold. “He actually wants me to move back so we can get married,” I explained, thinking of the one and only actual love interest in my life, perhaps confessing too much, in fact. I felt a little guilty boasting about Zach’s intentions with me, but for whatever reason, I did not want to sound like chopped liver.
“That I believe.” His brow arched. “Why haven’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Is he good?”
“Yes, he’s really great actually, and he knows me better than anyone. And of course, everyone back home loves the idea of us being together. I know we would be happy,” I stopped short of a ‘but’, feeling myself opening up too much and mentally struggling with the image of Zach and me together. It was an image I grappled with often.
“You seem hesitant,” he observed.
Compelled to honesty, I admitted, “It’s just that I don’t really love him. At least, not in the way you should love someone who’s going to your husband,” saying aloud the thing that had always troubled me about the image of a future with Zach.
As if it were a revelation, he extracted, “You want to marry for love.”
I looked up, brows furrowed. “Why else would you get married?”
He agreed flippantly, “Of course, why else?” Refocusing, he asked, “So what about your boyfriends here?”
He was peering down at me with a penetrating open curiosity, awaiting my answer—so I came up with one. “Well, I was just dating this one guy,” I admitted, feeling bold. “He was a drummer in a band in Greenwich, and we dated for a while but it was just for kicks. Nothing serious.”
“Is that your type?” He sounded surprised—and intrigued.
“What?”
“Musicians?” asked the pianist.
“Maybe,” I answered, feeling my cheeks get warm. I flipped the channel. “So now it’s my turn to ask the questions.”
“Anything.”
“What brings you to New York?”
“I like the architecture,” he replied conversationally.
That was unexpected. “Really?”
“Yes,” he said, stopping to prove his point. “That building is Renaissance and that one is French Revival,” he gestured, sounding professorial. “This one is a classic modern design. That’s more my taste. Aside from the filth, it really is a beautiful city,” he finished with his hands joined behind his back, giving the street a reproving look. He was the most uppity street person I’d ever met, not that I’d known many.
Entertained by the irony, I joined his panel, admitting, “I don’t like that one very much,” about the flat fronted modern three-story.
“Do you know architecture?” he asked, turning to me, as though an authority on the subject.
I smiled but met his eyes. “No. But I know what I like.”
I must have surprised him. His eye sparked before he turned, indulging me, “Which of these do you like?” Despite his tone, his expression revealed unsuccessfully suppressed amusement. I was amused too, so I played along.
“I like that one,” I chose, after short deliberation.
“It’s in shambles,” he said, staring at the dilapidated building.
“But look at the carving up top and the balusters. It’s really beautiful.”
“It’s condemned.” He blinked. But I didn’t care.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said simply. “It’s got good bones. It’s worth saving.” I scanned the street line once more. It really was the most special one on the block.
He made no reply. So there we stood—two strangers staring at a relic of a mansion, me envisioning power washing the limestone, and him staring as though if he did it long enough, a better looking house would appear. It was kind of nice.
“Is that how you feel about me?” he asked, breaking the silence. I looked up and met a searching gaze, the seriousness of his face cutting a fierce profile in the night.
“No,” I replied honestly, searching back. “I think I feel differently now.”
“How?” he asked and I pondered the question.
Much of the pity had fallen away, despite his poor circumstances, which he presently seemed unbothered about. Not at like the person I’d met last night—or ever. Confidence radiated from him, but he remained cautious with me in a way. He listened as though the answers meant something. He replied as though his own opinions were common knowledge or universal truths. It was a quality that made me think if he’d been dealt a greater hand in life, he would have been a leader. People would follow this young man, I thought. But beyond those observations, I found myself intrigued with an intangible quality I couldn’t name.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. He looked down, content, but snapped back.
“Will you tell me your name?” he queried, as if just occurred to him to wonder. His politely formal way that made me think of lances and round tables—holding back too much intensity.
Hmm. “No, I don’t think I will.” I spun walking away.
He caught up in few strides. “Why?”
“Because,” I said. “What if you’re a stalker or something?”
He quipped under his breath, “You’re smart for that.” The amusement in his lip betraying the seriousness of his tone.
I fought a smile and walked quickly ahead, resisting a skip. “I’m smart for lots of things,” I assured him. “And besides if I do get a stalker, I hope I can at least be a challenge.”
He lifted a brow. “You are very sure of yourself,” he observed.
“So are you,” I replied, narrowing my gaze.
“Let’s make a deal,” he proposed. “I’ll tell mine if you tell me yours,”
“Okay, you first.” I suddenly wanted to know.
“Daniel,” he said.
�
��Daniel what?” I asked, assuming the name swap included whole names.
“Daniel Smith.”
Noticing a subtle stillness in his eyes. I stopped, peering up. “I think you’re lying.”
“Don’t change the subject,” he dismissed. “You have to tell me yours now.” He looked so intent.
On a whim, I said, “Guess,” bounding ahead, enjoying my game.
He followed. “Helena,” he guessed.
“No.”
“Athena.”
“Umm, no,” I said, confused as to why he was assigning me such names.
“I’m running out of names, mystery woman,” he said; and patience, I thought.
“One more,” I said, not wanting to end yet.
“Alexandra,” he decided finally.
I stopped, looking up. “It’s Gabrielle,” I said, deciding on the spot to skip the shortened moniker of “Bree”, perhaps wanting to be on par with his guesses tonight.
“Of course you are,” he said, and smiled becomingly. “That’s quite a namesake. I see what has invoked such confidence.”
“What?”
“Your parents saw you as a force from birth.”
I grinned, cheekily. “Is that where you got your confidence? Your parents?”
“My name was inherited. But I have no family,” he replied slowly.
How sad. “I’m sorry.”
He turned serious. “Don’t be.”
“Daniel?” I said, looking up to see him. He met my eyes, and our strides halted in unison.
“Yes, Gabrielle?”
“Do you have a home?” I asked.
“No,” he replied and glanced down the street we’d judged the houses. “But I may have found one.”
“I’m glad to hear that. But will you promise me something?” I pressed, picturing him squatting in a teardown and feeling unwell.
“Anything,” he said, returning to my eyes.
“If you’re just saying that because you’re too proud and you really need somewhere safe to stay, I want you to tell me before the night is over,” I told him, brows furrowed. “I don’t think I could live with myself if I left you again like last night. I would let you crash with me for a while until you get on your feet. It’s a tiny dorm, but my roommate is visiting family for another week. My bed is just a twin but I could sneak you in, you can have it. And I could take hers, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind,” I said, mentally preparing myself for that conversation with my moody assigned roomy.
“You’re too good,” he replied, tranquilly. “Will you promise me something in return?”
“It depends,” I hedged.
“Will you promise me that you will never again offer a strange man your bed?” His expression was earnest.
“I don’t go around offering strange men to move in with me, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I defended, narrowly avoiding a pout. “You’re definitely the first, and honestly, I can’t even believe I’m doing it.”
He glanced down. “That’s good to hear. Just make sure I’m the last.”
“Has anyone ever told you, you’re awfully bossy?” I remarked, sharing his frankness.
His lip shifted wryly. I walked on, with him in pursuit. “So Gabrielle what?” he quizzed.
“Gabrielle. Just Gabrielle.”
“Like Madonna?”
“Yes,” I said—not wanting to be a Valentine tonight. “Like Madonna.”
“Are you a singer?”
“Maybe,” I answered.
He paused, requesting, “Sing something for me.”
I looked back him, standing on the sidewalk. “I’m not in the mood,” I declined airily and walked ahead, fighting a smile.
He caught up to me, and I felt him approach me from behind,—his voice coming from right over my shoulder.
“You know,” he said, slowly. The change in his voice made me stop dead in my tracks. “I could make you sing for me if I really wanted to.”
I turned to interpret the tone and was met with an amused expression and a very intense gaze. But the expression soon gave way, morphing into something much more compelling—and troubling. An unmistakable look—capable and mischievous. Like a fox with a private table at the henhouse who regularly indulged on all five courses—on the house.
“I bet you could,” I conceded wonderingly, taking in perfect white teeth, high cheekbones, and realizing he was dangerous in a way I hadn’t imagined before.
We walked more and discussed the city, and music. He asked about something I’d said the night before, which opened a stimulating debate. We didn’t agree on our tastes completely but our disagreement was amicable. Enjoyably, even.
“This city is unique to any other,” Daniel said. “You become a part of it within minutes. Other places take time. So you see, you’re of here already.”
“For now,” I agreed. “I’m passing through. Once I get my degree, I’d like to move somewhere slower. Not home, but somewhere.”
“Where do you have in mind?”
I sucked in a breath and frowned, catching myself. “Maybe Chicago,” I answered, swallowing the Garden State, letting it shrink back where it came.
He nodded but I could tell he noticed my concealment of something and it…hurt him.
“I haven’t given it much thought,” I said. “Where did you have in mind to plant your roots, stateside?”
“I think I like here, now,” he replied.
“Not so dirty anymore?” I asked him, looking into his eyes.
“No, very clean,” he replied, looking directly back into mine. I started to feel a little tingle as we stood staring at each other, unabashed when we should have been. The tiny dust motes swirled in the air around his face where they were illuminated beneath the lamp we’d stopped beneath. Suddenly, he reached for my gloved hand and pulled it up, then rubbed it between his, not too slowly.
“You seemed cold,” he said gently. It was the hand that began to tingle. I withdrew it and fidgeted before resting it at my side.
“A little,” I stuttered. “Hungrier, maybe.”
“I have a friend who runs an establishment near here. Would you like to go?” he asked. We turned and walked, him leading now.
“What kind of food is it?” I asked, filling my head back up with thoughts I could process.
“Eclectic. It’s a bar.” he replied. And off we set.
We approached a thin wedge of an entry that blended in with the façade of the rest of the block. There was a tattered vinyl banner acting as the marquee with the words Now Open. Neon lights in the window boasting what was on tap, and an open sign hanging in the porthole window of a weather-stripped door.
“After you,” he said, magnificently.
The floor was sunken by a step, and the ceilings were low. The ceiling was cork office tiles painted black. Claustrophobia tugged me, but Daniel stood tall as if there were no roof all and I breathed easier. Framed photos of boxers, wrestlers, and other vintage sports figures were on the forest green walls. A simple bar ran lengthwise down one side. There were a smattering of round tables and a petite quarter circle stage in the back corner, lit with a tangle of the colored string lights available for dimes the day after a big holiday. After my eyes adjusted, the place became cozy and whimsical like the inside of an old man’s keepsake chest.
The bartender in a plaid shirt and fleece athletic vest and a burnt red turban on his head eyed us. He’d worn a mean mug, which concerned me until he recognized Daniel and waved us in. We made our way to the nearest barstools. A trio of men with beards chatted in a foreign tongue a few stools away. The bartender met us with a bearded smile.
“How are you, Mr. Singh?” Daniel said warmly.
“Slow,” he replied rapidly. “Customers are fatigued from New Year’s Eve parties and choosing to stay in. Naneet will be freaking out. One slow night and the sky has fallen. I told her we have to give it another year. Then she will see. I see you have brought a friend.” His eyes ran me up and down, and he stood a li
ttle taller, pushing his shoulder back and his stout chest out. He was about my height standing and a few decades older. Stern features and a jolly disposition credited the nutmeg-toned bartender.
“I have,” Daniel said. “Mr. Singh, this is Gabrielle. Gabrielle, like Madonna, the singer.”
“Like Madonna? Do you sing? My wife plays sitar. She wants an accompaniment. She thinks traditional sounds will awaken our Irish bar.” he said, affectionately skeptical.
“Very well,” Daniel replied. “She has been singing to me all night,” he said straight faced, and my eyebrows rose. It was the tone. Mr. Singh’s raised as well, then he grinned and inclined his head. “Be sure to inform your wife she is in search of a gig.” Daniel’s accent applied to his statement made me giggle. Daniel’s lips curved to a smile.
“I will, I will,” the older man said obediently, then his eyes crinkled. “You and Ahmed. If you played something other than wom—than futball. We would form a quartet. What can I get for you, good Daniel?” he finished, overly professional.
We ordered something to drink, and he pointed us to the chalkboard behind the bar for his menu. He set our waters down on the bar as well as two foaming beers.
“This is a new brand we are carrying. A gift from myself and Naneet. Whatever you like is our treat, good Daniel.”
“Thank you, but no, Mr. Singh,” Daniel replied.
“I’m okay,” I said in polite refusal, scooting the glass back.
“I cannot give it away,” he said, frustrated. “I will leave it. If it gets warm, the stray cats will drink it.”
He strutted down the bar to his other customers, who appeared to be personal friends, and then into the back, leaving us to ourselves. I drank some water and Daniel did, too.
“Is it difficult?” I asked gingerly. He looked puzzled. “Not drinking?”
He inhaled a breath sharply and exhaled. “I don’t enjoy loss of control. Usually,” he said, looking at me. “Last night, it wasn’t a loss of self-control.”
“I didn’t mean to bring it up,” I said, glancing down at my lap.
“I have drank, socially, but it does nothing for me.”
“What does it for you?” I asked. He looked at me and his became lidded, his tongue rolled onto his lip, but he maintained eye contact.
In the Land of Milk and Honey Page 46