Wanderlove - Rachel Blaufeld

by Rachel Blaufeld

  Rather than answer, I pulled back and bent down to grab him a beer. After popping the cap off on the back edge of the bar, I handed him the ice-cold bottle and wiped my hands down the front of my apron.

  “A little different from Smithy’s Seafood?”

  He remembered what I’d said. Interesting.

  “Little bit, but I can hack it.” I held my chin high.

  “This your main gig then? Bartending-slash-counseling the masses?”

  “I waitress too. Over in Jamaica. It pays the bills.”

  “I know all about that. Paying the bills. That’s what I did before I went back to school.”

  He took a long pull of his beer. I became mesmerized with his mouth and the small shadow of scruff surrounding it, the swallow of beer sliding down his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  “Listen, I didn’t mean to make assumptions. I’m just a small-town girl living in a big-city world.” I swallowed whatever pride I had left. After all, I’d already told this guy about my dad and Robby.

  “S’okay. You got a name, small-town girl?”

  “Emerson.”

  “Em,” he said quietly just for him and me, reaching out to run a finger down my cheek. “I’d like to utilize your counseling skills on a night when you’re not here . . . overtime, if you will. There’s dinner and dessert involved. What night are you free?”

  “Hey, if you’re not gonna order anything, can I get two IPAs?” Some ass wormed his way up next to Price and shouted to him and me.

  “I gotta work,” I told Price.

  “Which night are you free?”

  He’s determined. I’ll give him that. Let’s face it, I wanted to go.

  “Monday?” I asked.

  “Give me your phone,” he said before turning to the asshat scowling. “And for your patience, your drinks are on me.”

  “Thanks, buddy. After monopolizing the help, it’s the least you can do.”

  “At least she’ll get a bigger tip out of me.”

  Price grabbed my phone and entered his number before calling himself. “See you on Monday, Em.”

  How did I have a nickname already?

  Sunday dragged by without a word from farm boy Price. Monday arrived with more dreaded silence.

  Oh well, I told myself.

  Except, I really wanted to cry or some other girlie stuff. Eat ice cream. More crying. Doodling our names together on a notepad. Then more crying. Who was I to know what sad girls usually did? My father certainly never taught me.

  Instead, I slept in until the sun was high in the sky. After all, I’d had yet another sleepless night. With only one eye open, I made coffee next to the toilet, spent some time on the internet researching my mom, and then slung Bangladeshi food for six hours.

  Sometime in the middle of my shift, I took a fifteen-minute break to pee and have a plate of chicken curry, and I finally saw a text.

  Sorry for the delay. Phone crashed & I had to spend all yesterday in the dreaded Apple store. Let’s plan for 7 tonight? I’ll Uber to you. What’s your address?

  Like he thought I was going to give him my address. Please—I wasn’t that young and stupid.

  Will meet you at the restaurant. Where do you suggest? Somewhere with an early bird? Is 7 too late?

  They were stupid, overused quips and lines, but even over text, this guy scrambled my brain.

  You like Italian? I asked around & there’s a good place in Astoria. It’s Monday, so prob no wait. Trattoria V.

  He didn’t even acknowledge my snark.

  And he’d asked around? What the heck did that mean?

  I had no witty comeback, plus I needed to get back to my tables. I’d need the tip money for an overpriced Italian joint. I assumed we’d go Dutch . . . that’s what I’d always done with Robby.

  Sounds good. See you then.

  That was all I could come up with.

  Oh yeah. You will. ;)

  Oh boy. One winky face later, my stomach was doing jumping jacks and my heart was sprinting down the street.

  I needed a reality check, and lucky for me, I walked right out of the break room and into a coworker carrying a tray of curried rice. Covered in spices and tiny sticky grains of rice was enough to make me stop and smell the coffee, or the harsh reality.

  I was so fucking far out of my comfort zone, I didn’t even know the name of the game I was playing.

  Price

  I could have called Johnny, but judging by Emerson’s early impressions of me and her quick assumptions, taking my personal driver wasn’t a good look.

  I’d Uber to Astoria, and hopefully, she’d let me Uber her home. After that, anything else was wishful thinking.

  Yesterday was a real clusterfuck when my freaking phone died. Thank some fucking deity that I added that whole cloud backup shit for school, and I was able to get my contacts back. Standing in the Apple store, I was sadly turning into one of those needy, whiny, self-serving New Yorkers.

  “Sir, I need my phone. I need a phone. I need all my stuff on my phone. How much longer do I need to wait? I really need my phone.”

  Need, need, needing all the time.

  At home, we all had a phone. We texted, called the farm supply store, or sometimes googled shit—mostly porn as teenagers.

  Now I needed my fucking phone like I needed oxygen.

  One of these days, I was going to hate myself. Probably tomorrow, at the rate I was going.

  This morning, I asked one of the richie women in my finance class about restaurants in Astoria.

  “Oh, definitely Trattoria V. Ah-mazing!” The girl’s strawberry-red hair had flown all around her face as her eyes widened, her eyelashes fluttering. “But you need a reservation. It’s always mobbed. You need to call a few weeks in advance.”

  And there I went with needing all over again.

  How the hell did I need a reservation to an Italian restaurant? They were a dime a dozen in this city. A joint, no less, that I wouldn’t have even dreamed of being caught dead in six months ago—let alone being able to afford?

  Fucking Christ.

  I imagined my mom crossing herself as I took the Lord’s name in vain.

  Fuck it. I didn’t have time to worry about my mom.

  I explained to Strawberry Shortcake that it was for tonight, and I didn’t have weeks to call in advance.

  “Today’s Monday.” The girl had turned her nose up. “Who goes out on a Monday? You’ll be fine. Just go there.” Then she’d huffed her way over to her seat, in a tiff over something—maybe me not asking her to the Italian place? Come on . . .

  Now I sat in an Uber, my palms sweaty for the first time since I felt up Sharon McKinley behind the barn. It had been smooth sailing for me back home. Couple of pull-ups on the bar across the stable doorway, toss a few barrels of hay for the obliques, add in football and track, and bam—get any girl you want.

  Not so much here in the Rotten Apple. Here, you needed to work at it, make money, work out, make reservations. Though, I didn’t think Em was like that—she was something else altogether.

  The car came to a stop in front of a corner restaurant, complete with a black awning with the name of the restaurant in white lettering, brick-lined steps to the door, and a valet. Money and garlic wafted from the doorway of Trattoria V, and I’d never felt lesser.

  After tossing a ten to the Uber driver, even though you weren’t supposed to tip, I slammed the car door. The guy probably had a family of four and moonlighted as an Uber driver while I was playing Richie Rich on Central Park South.

  At least I’d been wise enough to wear dark jeans, no rips, and a button-down. The boots couldn’t be helped. It was either boots or Adidas—which were new for me. I’d adopted the sneakers after being transplanted to this strange city. No matter what, I wasn’t ever going to be a loafers guy.

  I turned to look down the street as a lone figure made her way up the sidewalk, wearing tight-ass jeans, ankle boots, a flowy-type shirt baring one shoulder, and her long dark
hair a wild mess from the windy night.

  “Hey there, old fogie,” Emerson said, greeting me with a smile.

  “You take the subway?” I couldn’t help the indignation in my voice, but there was no way I’d ever want my date to take the subway alone at night, even in the summertime when it was still light outside.

  “Yep. Not all of us can Uber around to fancy dinners on a Monday.”

  “Yeah, this place isn’t really my speed. I asked a girl in one of my classes. I should’ve known better, but I wanted to impress you,” I said, adding a wink.

  “Oh yeah?” Emerson’s eyebrow raised, and I noticed a small scar above her eye. I wanted to run my finger along it and ask her how she got it.

  “Let’s try it, though. I got all dressed up,” I said, trying to lighten the mood—hers and mine. “When in Rome . . . or whatever they say. I’ve never been to Europe.”

  She ran her fingers through her wind-blown hair, looking at anything but me.

  I tried to picture what we looked like. Two complete strangers on a street corner, indecisive and hesitant, attempting to make a plan.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Um, this place. It’s sort of out of my comfort zone, let alone my budget.”

  This made me laugh. “A, this place is so far out of my comfort zone, you have no idea. And, B, I don’t know what it’s like in . . .” I snapped my fingers, trying to remember where the hell she was from. “. . . Sea Isle City, but where I come from, the guy always pays on dates.”

  “Oh,” was all she responded, and I couldn’t hold back my surprise.

  “Wow, just oh, nothing else? No sarcastic wit?”

  “I’m going to have a moment of clarity right now, and since you already know my most embarrassing story, I’m not going to get upset over this. But here’s the thing. That’s the first time anyone—man, guy, or girl, for that matter—has ever said anything like that to me.”

  It couldn’t be helped. I ran my hand down her arm, the soft fabric not catching on my now smooth hands. I tucked the memory back in the recesses of my brain.

  “Well, there’s always a first, and I’m happy to be it. Now, let’s go eat at this place that’s supposedly so good, and hope we’re not hungry when we leave.”

  Her gaze met mine, all her fears, insecurities, and emotions swimming in those green seas. “Can you afford it?”

  I laughed again. “Yeah, sadly I can. Tell you more in there.” I jerked my head toward the awning, took her hand, and led her to the restaurant.

  Inside, I told the hostess, “Two. I called earlier. Barnes.” Pathetic, but I did call.

  The hostess busied herself, tapping away at an iPad.

  “I didn’t know your last name,” Emerson said.

  “Now you do. And yours?”

  “Bender.”

  “Right this way,” the hostess said.

  “They’re both Irish,” I said as we sat down.

  “Yeah, I guess so. My dad’s Irish. Yours? Lay it on me.” Emerson rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward, her eyes open and welcoming.

  Shit. I shook my head, clearing it of my crazy touchy-feely thoughts.

  “What?” Her green eyes looking almost blue today, encouraging me to bare my soul to her.

  “Do you ever let a person breathe?” I took a sip of the water and almost spit the shit out. “What the . . .”

  “It’s sparkling.” She laughed at me, or with me, while patting my forearm. She quickly removed her hand, but not without staring for a second at her fingers, as if she were surprised at their forthrightness. “So, tell me.”

  We were interrupted again by the server, asking for drink orders. I ordered a beer and Emerson a diet pop. Excuse me. Soda. When the server left, I paused for a second, choosing my words.

  “Here’s the short version. My mom met my dad when he was doing some kind of internship in Philadelphia. He’d come to Hershey to meet with some smaller companies. She was a young, easily impressionable, blue-collar girl, smitten with the handsome guy from out of town. Of course, he took advantage, and she became his main squeeze while he was in the States. Then he went back to where he came from, but not before knocking her up. Apparently, he was the son of an Irish guy and an Arabic woman. A forbidden tale of its own . . . I don’t even know it or care. My mom knew way back when and told me some of it, but I never really paid attention. Anyway, she kept me, and he stayed out of the picture until recently.”

  Emerson sat quietly, her gaze intent on me throughout my whole monologue. When I finished, I took a gulp of my hideous sparkling water, wetting my tongue and cooling my emotions. I’d never laid it on the line like that before.

  The server brought our drinks (thank God), along with a basket of bread and a bowl of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. I waved him off.

  “My dad kept me,” Emerson said quietly. “Even though my mom didn’t want me.”

  “I’m sure he’s a good man like my mom.”

  She shrugged. “A bit overprotective.”

  “Already told you, I’d tend to agree with him.”

  “So, what happened? Is he back? Your dad?”

  “Nice way to deflect. And, yeah, he drove down our driveway one day in his limo, waving money and promises of a free education, demanding that I be more than an ordinary farm boy. Apparently, he’d kept up with me, knew all about me. My mom had stayed in touch with him, never expecting anything in return. All I wanted was to run the farm with my stepdad, Bruce, but here I am in the Big Apple, set up in some posh apartment with a healthy allowance.”

  “I’d say it all sounds pretty nice.” Emerson looked up, an eyebrow raised, one side of her red lips upturned. “Independence, freedom, bills all paid.”

  “Eh, it kind of sucks. Well, up until now.”

  “Oh, really? I can’t be that much of a salve.”

  “We’ll see about that, Bender.”

  This got me a full smile, her white teeth on full display.

  “Wow. Who knew that calling a little lady by her last name would get such a reaction?”

  Her smile dulled a bit, and she stared at the white tablecloth and rows of silverware. “Back home, my dad’s friends call him Bend. I know I’ve pissed him off, and I feel bad about it. He was strangling the life out of me . . . but he also gave life to me. Lord knows, my mom didn’t. So I’m torn. And my old boyfriend, he apparently is an ass, and now he’s moving here. It’s everything I originally wanted, but now I’m not sure.”

  “Sounds like you need a bartender.”

  “Sorry.” She swirled the straw in her soda. “I tend to ramble when I’m upset.”

  “That’s what I’m here for. The rambling.” I reached out and stilled her hand with mine.

  We were quiet for a few beats, and it was calming in a way I hadn’t known since coming to this city. Her without a mom, me without a dad, both searching for a slice of the elusive happiness pie.

  “Hey,” I said, “want to blow off this joint and grab some pizza?”

  If I’d thought her smile was big before, this time it was epic.

  “Yes!”

  “Done.” I tossed a twenty on the table and said, “Something came up,” to the server, and we were out of there.

  On the street corner, I asked Emerson if she knew of a place. She didn’t, but she pulled out her phone, quickly finding somewhere on Google.

  We walked side by side to a dingy pizza place, where we demolished a large pie. I ate of most of it, but she didn’t act like one of those high-society New York chicks who only drank sparkling water and ate lettuce.

  We laughed about Trattoria V, and how we wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that back home. I told her about the farm, milking the cows and picking apples. She listened wide-eyed.

  “I’d love to see that one day. Sounds so cool,” she said, and it seemed genuine.

  She told me about the beach in the winter, when it was quiet and desolate, almost lonely. Like mine, her high school only had about a
hundred students in four grades.

  “Then summertime comes, and the place is swarming with people. Restaurants are packed, garbage cans overflowing, and lots of money to be made,” she said. “It’s cool because you get to meet lots of different people from all over, I guess . . . that’s what my dad always said.”

  We wiped our greasy fingers on paper napkins and guzzled down syrupy fountain sodas until it was way later than we realized.

  “Shit, it’s almost eleven,” she said, glancing at her phone. “I have to work a double tomorrow, daylight at the restaurant and nighttime at the bar.”

  “I’d like to Uber you home. No expectations. Just want to make sure you’re safe. Is that okay?”

  “Sure you do.” She sort of laughed, but I wasn’t sure she was joking.

  “Scout’s honor.” I put my right hand up in the air, and she narrowed her eyes at me.

  “You’re not walking me up to the door. Just the car ride, and off you go.”

  I nodded in agreement, but I was lying. I was kissing her good night at the door. Or maybe in the car.

  Emerson

  I couldn’t help it. I woke up the next morning running a finger across my lips like a lovesick fool in a romantic dramedy. Oh, wait, that’s exactly who I was.

  Price had stayed true to his word, remaining in the Uber, but he paid the driver to keep the meter running and he kissed me. Right in the back seat of some stranger’s car . . . close mouthed, but not one bit tentative. No tongue, yet more sensual than I’d ever been kissed before.

  Maybe I was naive, but his kiss had felt full of promise and emotion. A promise I didn’t have to return, yet I gifted myself a few more seconds of reminiscing about his lips on mine.

  And then it was over, and I was full speed ahead, starting my day. Coffee, shower, then wait tables.

  When I finally finished with the lunch rush, I saw I’d missed a call from Bev.