“So let’s do it,” he says. “Come on, Gretchen. Don’t you want to live dangerously?”
I laugh. “I mean, it is kind of my style now.”
“I really don’t think this is necessary,” Ethan says outside the restaurant. The rain has stopped, and it’s actually half pleasant to be outside on this quiet, swanky corner off the harbor. “You look like you’re trying to escape the paparazzi.”
I adjust the aviators and ball cap we found in his car before riding over, then sigh like a beleaguered celebrity. “I just want a normal life!”
“God, you’re weird,” he says, grinning as he opens the door for me. When we step inside, the muffled nightclub beat kicks up a notch, just barely tolerable. I think the lighting must already be dim in here, because I can’t see well through the shades.
“You’re seriously being absurd,” says Ethan, right before I trip, not noticing the extra step up to the hostess stand. But he catches me in time. “I told you, the coast is clear. This whole backstory is completely unnecessary.”
“I got my eyes dilated,” I say tersely. “Optometrist’s orders. It’ll make me feel better if you somehow missed him on your recon mission.”
“I didn’t miss him,” says Ethan, sounding annoyed now. “Didn’t you notice how long I left you standing out there? If you took off the sunglasses, you’d be able to see that it’s an open-air kitchen. Meaning there’s nowhere to hide.” Through the shades, I actually can make out some of the interior—the custom woodwork and funky chandeliers. There’s a sushi bar, a bar-bar, and one of those bathroom setups where the sinks are outside and everyone washes their hands together, which I guess makes it fancier. “I’m just saying, you can relax. Haru clearly isn’t working tonight.”
“Shhhhh, don’t say his name,” I hiss, spotting Natalie’s big party in back. As we weave through solo diners and couples on dates, I keep hold of Ethan’s arm, not that it stops me from tripping again. Twice, actually—the second time resulting in a woman’s nigiri flopping straight back down onto her plate. “So sorry,” Ethan says to her, before guiding me away with a whisper: “This is ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” I say, “but why not err on the side of caution?”
“At least lose the hat,” says Ethan. “It doesn’t fit with the optometrist story. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear a hat. That doesn’t strike you as suspicious?”
“Maybe I just really like the Red Sox. Go Sox, kid!” I say in a Boston accent.
“Name one player.”
“Okay, I’ll lose the hat.” I toss it into my bag as we come upon the rustic wooden table, its gnarled, winding surface like one long slice of a tree. Most of the guests already seem to be here, sitting shoulder to shoulder along bench seats, around candles in mason jars, dried wildflowers in vases, and place settings marked by chopsticks resting on blocks. Down at the other end, I recognize a couple kids from the film club, along with a few of Natalie’s BSU friends and some other seniors I don’t really know. I’m sure I’ll make an extremely normal impression on all these people tonight between my paranoid glances and celebrity disguise.
Sasha and Lexi are here, too, chatting excitedly from their seats across from Natalie, who is standing up, talking to a fortysomething couple I realize must be her parents. I can see where she gets her sense of style—her dad in a tailored blue sport coat and nice watch; her mom in a chic black romper, tight curls swept back on one side.
Natalie spots us then and comes over, looking like the belle of the ball in her cream sweater dress and expensive-looking riding boots. I’d probably feel too sloppy for this night if it weren’t for Pilsner and Grody over on this end—both of them in schlubby athletic wear, their heads bowed over a shared screen playing some kind of sports highlight.
“Happy birthday!” I say when Natalie reaches us. She smiles, a bit puzzled, and I blurt out, “Eye doctor.”
“Ah,” she says, apparently satisfied by this explanation as she looks past me. “Oh, hi, Sam.”
I stay where I am, suddenly stiff.
“Hi,” I hear at my back. There’s a sweetness to his voice that I forget is there sometimes—less obvious when coupled with his striking good looks and cool-guy hallway saunter. When I finally turn to face him, I can see he’s carrying a gift bag. “It’s just a little thing,” he says, handing it to Natalie.
Pausing warily, she pushes the tissue paper aside and bursts out laughing. “Oh my God, a narwhal!” She hugs the stuffed animal to her chest, then explains, “Sam didn’t know they were real. We had a whole debate one day.” She looks at him. “Thank you.” He shrugs, a bit bashful, before flashing me an odd glance. At first, I think it’s because of our fight—and the fact that we haven’t spoken since. Then I remember the shades.
“Eye doctor,” I say.
“Huh,” he says. “Didn’t you just go this summer?”
Crap. I did not expect him to remember that. “No . . . ?”
“Yeah, you did. I came over after your appointment and you made me hang out in the dark.”
I smile faintly—that was actually kind of a funny day. “Well, I . . . went again. Eyes are . . . so important.” Beside me, I can feel Ethan holding back a laugh. It’s enough to make me do one last sweep for Haru, then give in. “I think I’m good now actually. The allotted time has, uh . . . passed.”
I pull off the aviators, the world going brighter, and Ethan touches my arm. “Should we sit?”
“Yes,” I say gratefully. We walk around to the open spots on the end across from Pilsner and Grody, who both reach over the table to dap up Ethan.
As we settle in, Grody tips an invisible hat my way. “Gretchen.”
“We meet again,” I say, deadpan as I can manage.
“I will try to keep this bitter rivalry under control,” says Pilsner with a playful glower.
“You sure you’re okay over there?” I hear Natalie say. She’s wandered back to this side, talking to her parents again. She waves to Sam as she talks, pointing to the one space left, right between her and me.
“I think we’ll be just fine at the bar,” says her dad, glancing happily at his wife.
“Yeah, you guys do your thing,” says her mom, smiling fondly at Sam as he stiffly lowers himself into the seat next to me. From his friendly, almost-deferential nod up at her, I get the sense he wants to maintain her good opinion of him. “Though we do have to embarrass you a little,” Natalie’s mom continues, lifting her wineglass to address the table, her voice now competing with the din. “Hey, everyone! We just wanted to thank you for helping us celebrate our baby’s big night.” She smiles down at her daughter. “I’m Ayanna, by the way,” she adds, waving to some of us.
“And I’m Daniel,” says Natalie’s dad.
Grody looks up at them from his seat on the end. “This was so nice of you guys. Seriously, thank you so much for having me.” I nod my agreement, surprised to be taking my politeness cues from a football bro.
“Oh, you’re very welcome,” says Natalie’s dad, appearing charmed. He raises his voice to call down the table again: “And so you all know, we already have food coming, but feel free to add what you like to the order. Really. Don’t be shy.”
A waitress appears behind him—a tatted-up girl in a black canvas apron, a pen tucked into her pixie cut. “Hey, Chef.”
“Oh good,” he says. “You want to get them drinks?” He turns back to us, giving the whole table Robert De Niro eyes. “Mocktails only, okay?”
“Dad!” says Natalie, sounding more kiddish than I’ve heard her before. “Okay, you two can go back to the bar now.” Her mom chuckles, dragging her husband away, as Natalie looks up at the waitress. “You know, I will do a virgin cocktail. Surprise me, Yumi. Something girly.”
“Oooh, I want that,” says Grody, looking up hopefully. “And could it possibly be pink?”
The waitress laughs. “I’ll pass that on to our mixologist.”
The chatter starts up again once the drinks have been p
ut in, everyone pausing briefly when Natalie does that thing where the hostess asks if we’ve all officially met, and we’re forced to clumsily announce our names over the music. Even after introductions, though, with Sam at my side, it’s like half the table has been walled off. We both seem to be making it our mission not to acknowledge the other. He’s deep in conversation with Natalie now, and every time he brushes against me by mistake, I scoot a little closer to Ethan.
It’s getting a bit silly, actually. I’m so tightly pressed up against him, I can feel the warmth of his skin through his jeans and plaid shirt. He glances at our touching sides. “Sorry,” I whisper. “Is this weird? It’s just . . .” I tilt my head in Sam’s direction.
“Nah, I don’t think it’s that weird,” he whispers back.
“Oh hell yes,” says Pilsner, rubbing his hands together as the small plates start to arrive—a mouthwatering parade of miso scallops and pork buns and blistered green peppers dusted in limey salt.
No one really speaks for a few minutes, except to say things like “Wow.” The sushi comes next, laid out in pretty arrangements of pearly white and pink and red. We try salmon, tuna, eel—all of it so fresh you barely have to chew. And then there are Natalie’s dad’s more playful creations, like the avocado rolls topped with heaps of lobster, and another kind filled with ceviche. It’s all delicious, and nothing like the grocery-store stuff Annika brings to school.
With his cheeks stuffed full, Grody extends a big thumbs-up toward the bar, prompting Natalie’s parents to grin and raise their wineglasses. “Okay, seriously, he’s like parent catnip,” says Natalie, making me laugh into my drink.
I lean forward, looking right past Sam to talk to her. “This food is amazing. Do you get to eat like this at home?”
She shrugs. “My dad is usually so tired of food when he isn’t working that he’ll just make, like, sticky rice, or a scrambled egg. But if I give him the puppy dog eyes, yes. He can pretty much whip up whatever I’m craving.”
“That is the frickin’ dream,” says Pilsner, shaking his head wistfully.
I startle as Ethan leans into me, speaking low in my ear. “Okay, so . . . don’t freak out, but we have a problem. . . .” I follow his eyes across the room and flinch.
Haru has walked in, plain-clothed, with a messenger bag. He’s chatting with the hostess now.
“Shit,” I say under my breath. “Oh my God. What do I do?”
“Stay calm . . . maybe he’s only passing through.”
I watch Haru laugh with the woman for another minute before she hands him an envelope, and I sigh with relief. “I bet he’s just picking up a check.”
As if sensing eyes on him, he looks this way—right this way. And without another thought, I’m going down, my body slinking toward the floor like an invertebrate species as I scrape against the bench. From under the table, I take a moment to stare at Ethan’s flat sneakers next to me. And then I look down at the long line of other feet.
Uh-oh.
I did not think this through.
“Gretchen?” Ethan’s face pops into view. “What uh . . . Whatcha doin’ there?”
I cringe up at him. “Any chance that looked super normal?”
“Sorry,” he says. “But if it’s any consolation, I don’t think Haru saw you. He just left.”
“Cool,” I say, frowning.
Sam’s head pops under now. “Okay, what the hell is going on, Gretch?”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “I just . . . I, uh . . .”
“She dropped something,” says Ethan, turning to him at an odd angle.
“Yes,” I say. “I did drop something.”
Grody’s head pops under too now. “What are we doin’ down here, guys?” he says, smiling around at us. “You okay, Gretchen?”
“Fine,” I say, laughing despite myself.
When they all disappear from view, I hear Ethan announce, “She’s fine!”
Slowly, I climb back up, and a couple people from the other end of the table look on curiously.
“Whoops!” I call over the music. “I, uh . . . I dropped my earr—” Nope, not wearing earrings. “Hair tie!” I hold my wrist up triumphantly. “I’m always losing these things! It’s one of life’s great mysteries, isn’t it? Like, where do all the hair ties go?” Sam’s just frowning strangely at me, while Ethan works to keep a straight face. I stare down the long table, feeling myself start to crumple.
Natalie flashes me an odd look, but she laughs. “I know, right?” She starts pointing around at all the empty plates. “Okay, help me stack these up, everybody. Who wants dessert?”
Fifteen
Comic Relief | The fun stuff between swoons and kisses. Quite possibly the best part.
“I feel like every girl group needs a listener,” I tell the audience Wednesday night. “I’ve been thinking about this with my sister and cousin. The three of us are really close, but there’s a major imbalance there. When we get together, I mean, they just—” I move my hand like a talking puppet. “No matter what’s going on with me. I feel like my hair could be on fire, and they’d be like, ‘Okay, we’ll get to that, but first, let’s talk about my thing.’”
I shrug as people chuckle. “More of that third-child plight, I guess . . . Also, now, even a dog is surpassing me in the family hierarchy.” I quickly catch the room up on Nacho’s upcoming Gatsby party—which, yes, is actually happening. And I can tell from the reactions that these people love my mom.
“Do any of you have that person in your life?” I say. “Who just . . . takes dog parenthood so extremely seriously? I’m pretty sure she wants to start an Instagram for him, which might have factored into this party idea. The woman loves a photo op, and Nacho always rises to the occasion. He literally perks up whenever he sees her phone. And the weird thing is, the photos come out flattering. I’m telling you. That dog really knows his angles.”
It feels like my time should be up by now, but the light isn’t blinking. And tonight’s easy-to-please audience has me feeling like a kid desperate for five more minutes.
“Anyway,” I say through a sigh, grinning out at them. “The other day I caught her taking a personality quiz for him. He’s ENFP.”
After my set, I tiptoe over to Isaiah and Paula in back, exchanging exaggerated high fives before pulling up a chair. Jeremy is helping Ted out with some grunt work behind the bar, but he catches my eye across the room, his grin like a salute.
I did good. We both know it. And that fact may honestly be more thrilling than the memory of our kiss over the weekend—which is saying something.
It’s sort of unbelievable, but I missed his set again tonight, while trapped in the world’s slowest bathroom line. I snuck out for a pee break while Lakshmi was talking about family planning (“I used to very calmly explain to pregnant women that they were going to be just fine. Now I’m looking back over my textbooks, like, Wait, I’m supposed to do what now?”) The crowd was still laughing along when I stepped in and sighed—six girls crowded around tiny sinks. By the time I got out, Jeremy was already waving good night to the audience.
The weird part was, I felt relieved about it. Maybe because I wanted us to stay on equal footing a little longer.
I don’t think I’m quite ready for him to be better than me.
The moment the lights come up after the last act, Paula and Isaiah start begging to be invited to Nacho’s birthday party.
“Please?” says Paula. “You got us so invested.”
“I have to see Nacho in a flapper dress,” says Isaiah.
“Well, Nacho is no stranger to sequins and feathers,” I say. “My mother makes sure of that.”
The three of us share a smile, and for a second, I really wish they could come meet Nacho, and the rest of my family. I’m not sure what to say, actually, but I’m saved by Isaiah’s ringtone.
“I should take this,” he says, pushing back in his chair.
“Actually, I need to catch Amber before she goes,” says Paula, getti
ng up, too. “She’s doing my chart. But I’ll be right back!”
I look around vaguely for Jeremy, but he must be off helping Dolores with the ballots now. Is it weird that I feel so relaxed about our kiss? I suppose neither of us is planning the wedding or anything.
But this could be fun, casual.
I guess I do fun and casual—between stand-up sets.
This is my life now, apparently.
Across the room, I see Paula wave goodbye to Amber before she and Isaiah converge. Now they’re talking. Isaiah is smiling. Paula is squealing and Dolores is rushing over to them. Everyone is hugging now, and suddenly they’re all headed this way.
“You’ll never believe it!” Dolores calls out to me.
“Isaiah booked a national commercial,” says Paula, dropping into her chair.
“First one of my life,” says Isaiah, lowering down too with a dazed look on his face. “Oh wow . . . I’m going to get my SAG card! I have this long list of goals for this year. That was a big one.”
“This is so awesome!” I say. “What’s the commercial for? Wait, let me guess. You’re the face of a new body spray. Spritz it under your pits and you’ll have fifteen girlfriends.”
Grinning, he shakes his head no. “You’re . . .” I think. “One of those smug, contented drivers in a car commercial?” He laughs and I pound on the table, losing my patience. “Tell me, Isaiah!”
“Two words for you,” he says, lips twitching with a smile. “Light. Beer.”
“Not just any light beer,” Dolores calls, walking off again.
“Budweiser,” says Paula. “Aka the mother lode.”
Jeremy comes up to our table now. “What’s going on?”
“He got the commercial,” says Paula, reaching out to tap Isaiah’s arm excitedly.
Jeremy sits, clearly stunned. “Hey, man, congrats. That’s huge.”
“Thanks,” says Isaiah.
“Is it going to be in the Super Bowl?” I say. “Are you going to make a million dollars?”
“I don’t know about that,” he says, laughing. “But it’ll certainly help finance some of my plans. I came up here from DC to go to college, then stayed for the cheaper rent. I’ve been driving down to Boston and New York for auditions, but it’s probably time to try LA soon. I really want a manager next. Or an agent. If I get to open for Marnie James, that could probably lead to something good.”
The Girl Least Likely Page 16