The Bucket List

by Georgia Clark

Would it be boring to ignore lingerie? Would it be rude to say no?

  I exhale harshly: it doesn’t matter if I’m rude, and I don’t need to be a mythical “good girl”: what matters is what I want.

  Do I want to wear the lingerie?

  Cautiously, I scoop it off my bed. The bra is my size, and the idea he was able to appraise me so accurately is equally disconcerting and erotic. It has a small gold clasp in the front between the two cups, which I’ve always thought appeals more to men than women: easy access. They’re a beautiful, well-made set, even if the color evokes a certain trashy, red-light district feel . . . which is not entirely unsexy. Imagining Elan’s own arousal in selecting them, writing the note, licking the envelope, makes everything in me thicken.

  It’s 7:40 p.m. I need to call a car if I’m going to make my carefully planned lateness of exactly ten minutes (fifteen is insolent, five is too eager). In the mirror, a girl with glossy orange lips and mussy-sexy hair stares back at me. I don’t recognize her: we are older, independent, going on a date with a famous-in-some-circles man who feels complicated and intimidating. It’s difficult to tell if this new girl I see is a me I am discovering or a me I am moving further away from, like the fairy-tale heroine unwisely venturing deeper into the shadows of a dark, enchanted forest.

  * * * *

  The restaurant is buzzy when I arrive. Every table is full of attractive, overpaid people gesticulating above plates of handcrafted pasta and grilled swordfish. I’ll be getting the famed mafaldini with pink peppercorns and parmigiana Reggiano: naturally I’d researched the restaurant the moment it was confirmed. Noemi opened seven years ago on the Upper East in the shell of an old garage; all bleached wood, white furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows. It would almost feel Brooklynesque, but for the starched tablecloths and overly rehearsed quality of the staff. The hostess—no doubt an aspiring actress with those cheekbones—checks my name on a glowing screen. I trail her through the low light of glinting chandeliers, into a smaller backroom with just a few tables. There, in the far corner, scrolling through his phone, is Elan.

  My heart doesn’t leap into my throat: it’s already there; it’s been there for hours. He’s wearing a slim-cut gray oxford, rolled at the sleeves to reveal the sort of watch that’s advertised not as a timepiece, but a family heirloom. His dark hair is in place with the right amount of product, and he’s shaved; no more stubble. He looks handsome, a word I don’t think I’ve automatically conjured for a date before. When he sees me, his eyes pulse open a tiny bit, which makes the two hours of preening entirely worth it. As he stands, his eyes travel across my collarbone.

  He can see I’m not wearing the red bra.

  His lips touch my cheek, one hand on my waist. I smell aftershave; warm leather and spice. I’d swoon if I wasn’t so tightly wound, so hyperaware of every little thing happening. “You look different,” he says, in a voice that doesn’t need to be raised to be heard. “You’re less nervous.”

  He’s wrong about that. I take a seat—very comfortable—and place the pressed white napkin on my lap. “How was Paris? Where should I go for croissants?”

  “Sucre Et Épice,” he says, in what sounds to me like a perfect French accent. “Without a doubt. It’s this little place in the Fifth. The head baker there, Christelle, makes everything according to her grandmother’s recipes. Pain au chocolat, éclair, tarte tatin—”

  “Don’t,” I groan. “You’re going to make me book a flight right now.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  I can’t afford it. I might be getting a mastectomy. I’m scared to go overseas on my own. “Nothing,” I say. “You’ve inspired me. I’m going next summer.”

  “Summer in Paris.” He leans closer, his voice a murmur. “Can I come?”

  I’m smiling. “Okay.”

  “Excellent. We’ll get a cheese plate in Le Marais—do you like cheese?”

  “It’s only my reason for existence.”

  He chuckles. “So we’ll go out for fromage, and— Oh. Hello.”

  A tall man in a very nice suit is at our table, shaking Elan’s hand. Silver hair, black-rimmed glasses, broad smile. It’s Jeff Goldblum. The actor. I saw Jurassic Park a hundred thousand times. I am starstruck.

  “. . . own a little restaurant downtown called Whitewood,” Jeff’s saying. “Just checking out the competition.” He twinkles at me. “You must try the mafaldini. It’s what angels would taste like if we were able to harvest them like farm animals. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”

  “That’s what I’m getting,” I say, mildly horrified to find myself gushing. “I’d already decided.”

  Elan gestures at me. “This is Lacey Whitman. She’s at Hoffman House.”

  “Oh.” Jeff’s eyes illuminate. “How is Patricia?”

  Of course Patricia knows Jeff. “Wonderful,” I say. “She just got back from Paris.”

  “I love Paris,” says Jeff.

  “I love Paris,” says Elan.

  “I love Paris, too,” I say, slipping a glance at Elan. “We were just planning a trip.”

  Elan smiles back at me. It’s more than merely interested. He looks utterly fascinated. I almost lose control of my bowels.

  Jeff half bows. “Lacey Whitman, an honor and a pleasure. And Mr. Behzadi”—he turns back to my date—“you have to come to the summer house again. I will beat you at table tennis.”

  Elan laughs. “No, you won’t.”

  “Yes, I will.” Jeff addresses me again. “Did you know this man is very good at table tennis?”

  “I’m not,” Elan says. “You’re just very bad at it.”

  Jeff chuckles, and I decide right then and there that this is the absolute coolest moment of my life. After he leaves, I can’t help asking Elan how he knows Jeff Goldblum.

  Elan frowns. “I think I met him at a party. Kevin Bacon’s place in Malibu. No, no, sorry. At Jess and Justin’s. The Timberlakes.”

  Jess for Jessica Biel. A nickname. Kevin Bacon’s house in Malibu? I can’t help it. I start laughing.

  He cocks his head. “What?”

  Your life is crazy! But if you act like it’s no big deal, so will I! “Nothing,” I say, and pull myself together. Remember when Jeff Goldblum was at my table? I do.

  The waiter arrives for our drink orders. I ask for a glass of white, something light and acidic. Elan orders a red. “I thought you weren’t drinking,” he says.

  I’m flattered. He remembered. “Calculated risk.”

  He nods, but my reply glances off him. I’m almost disappointed he doesn’t push it. I like the idea he’d be worried about my health. Instead, his eyes are on my shoulders. “Did you get my package?”

  A warm flush rolls over me. “I did.”

  “And?”

  I’m still conflicted. It annoys me that I can’t decipher my own desire. I don’t want to be used or taken advantage of. But I can’t deny the whole thing turns me on. Snapping open my clutch, I show him the inside. Red lace.

  A slow, curling smile. “You brought it.”

  I nod.

  His voice is a murmur. “So go change.”

  I hesitate, squirming. “I’m not sure who I’m doing it for. You or me.”

  “What if it’s for both of us?”

  “But it’s not my fantasy. I didn’t initiate it.”

  He props up the side of his face with one hand, as if he could stare at me for hours. “I think you want to. I think it excites you.”

  “It does,” I admit. “But I don’t know if I can trust you.”

  “To do or not do what?”

  I’m not sure how to put this. “Is this your signature move?”

  He furrows his brow.

  “Do you send underwear sets to all your dates?” I try to make my question light, but it sounds laden.

  “Some,” he says. “But only the ones I end up getting engaged to.”

  No . . . he didn’t just . . . say that . . .

  “I’m kidding,” he says. “That was a
joke. A bad one.” He leans toward me. His gaze is so intimate it’s as if we are already in bed. “I’m here. You’re here. I like you. You’re still doing your list, yes? I want to be on it.”

  More than one item on my bucket list could be accomplished in red lace . . . The waiter reappears with our wine. We shift apart. The tension eases without dissipating completely. Elan lifts his glass. “To new horizons.”

  I touch my glass to his. “Or, the gift to see the same ones with different eyes.”

  He inclines his head, and I wonder where the hell that came from, congratulating and questioning myself at the same time. As we order, and the talk recedes into less risqué territory, I try to untangle the twin threads of discomfort and arousal that are twisting around me.

  In order to protect myself from hurt, humiliation, or the somewhat darker possibilities of young sex, I opted out. Here in New York, I use ambition and romantic fatigue to avoid it. And even after having another girl’s tongue kiss all my lips and some gender-ambiguous role-playing with my gay ex-boyfriend, I find it so hard to honestly answer the question: What’s your fantasy?

  What do you want?

  I’ve always wanted to feel in control, but a part of me wonders if my fantasy is not being in control. The power-bitch fantasy I chose to try with Ash-the-quivering-intern passed the feminist smell test. Consciously so. It’s light-years harder for me to admit that the idea of being the one who quivers, the one taken advantage of, also appeals. The image I conjured the first afternoon I spent with Elan comes back (and has it ever left?). I’m tied up, my hands above my head, my body stretched long like a piece of tanned leather. I’m blindfolded, gagged: entirely powerless. And he’s behind me, jack hammering into me in a way I don’t usually like but I know men do, his gaze heavy with raw, open lust. It’s dark and unsoft, unromantic, and yet, it has control over me. It is addictive. The more I let it in, the hungrier I become.

  Desire floods me like a rash.

  This is why Elan sending me underwear makes my nipples hard as rock candy. And yes, this is all for my little nips. Because one day soon, they might not feel the way they feel now. I can’t sidestep this any longer.

  I push back my chair and pick up my clutch. “Excuse me,” I say. “I’m just going to slip into something less comfortable.”

  * * * *

  The white-tiled bathroom smells like gardenias and is an aggressive level of clean. I unbelt, undress, stuffing my strapless bralette and cotton underwear into my clutch. The red lace is scratchy against my skin. I try to dress calmly but my heart is pounding, sending thick waves of heat. I press my fingers between my legs and cautiously lift my fingers to my nose. I’d always accepted the idea that vaginas smell bad: not a rotten-sturgeon level of gross, just a smell you’d rather not have in a scented candle. But I like how I smell: warm and a little salty, like fresh baked bread and melting butter. I like that I’m wet. My body is a purring sports car tonight, eager to be taken for a spin.

  I slip back into my heels and take a moment to admire my curves and soft lines, skin pale against the red. The bra is a push-up. The top of my breasts have heaved up an inch, two pillows of white-peach flesh glowing in the discreet bathroom light.

  Is there cancer in them?

  As I stand here, half-naked and turned on, midway through a date with one of the city’s most eligible bachelors: Am I dying?

  23.

  * * *

  Our food has arrived. I take a seat, smiling a deliberately demure smile at the man across from me. His eyes graze my shoulders. Next to the tie-up spaghetti straps of my dress, the red straps are bold, even brazen. Not hiding them works. The intentionality is sexy.

  “How does it feel?” he murmurs. “How does the lace feel against your pussy?”

  “All right, take it down a notch, Persia.” I wave my butter knife at him. “Let’s not get creepy.”

  He grins and slices his veal. I withhold my opinion on the ethics of eating baby animals and instead fork ripple-edged pasta into my mouth, suddenly ravenous. It’s coated in butter and cheese with a sweet, spicy hit of peppercorns.

  Jeff Goldblum was right. Angels to the slaughter.

  We chew in silence, observing each other. He looks like he’d rather be eating me.

  “Ask me something,” I say, “that’s not about what I’m wearing.”

  He swallows a mouthful of meat. “How’s work?”

  I skim over a basic update. “And things are ramping up with Clean Clothes.”

  “Clean Clothes?”

  “The app I’m working on. With my friend, Vivian Chang.”

  “Ah, yes,” he says. “She was pitching it to Tom.”

  The night I ran out like a lunatic, literally fearing for my life. I keep my face even. “Vivian thinks she’s found a lead investor in China, Mr. Zhu. Which is a huge relief.”

  “Because you’ve been working on it for . . .”

  “Ten months. A long time to raise the seed . . .” I sigh, toying with my fork.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I don’t think vulnerability is a good look on a first date. But I’m surprised by how much I want to open up to him. I can’t stop myself. “Maybe I’m losing interest. I don’t know. It always felt like something I should be doing—starting a company with a smart friend. But now, I’m not so sure.” I can’t help but think about Cooper, and his post-start-up soul-searching mission. I’d never really thought about what would happen if I got what I wanted: my comfort zone is the pursuit, not the spoils. “How do you know when you really want to do something, as opposed to what you think you should be doing?”

  Elan’s eyebrows prick. Not in discomfort. In interest. “If it feels right, I suppose. In your gut and your heart.” He forks potato gratin into his mouth. “It’s a problem more specific to women than men. Women are much more concerned with appearance.”

  I temper a small flurry of rage with a large sip of wine. “Well, we live in a society that values us for the way we look,” I say. “That actively prejudices against women who don’t fit an impossible ideal. It’s no wonder it’s a point of concern.”

  He’s surprised by my response, most likely at the implicit anger lining its edge. “I just meant that generally women are more preoccupied with how their actions look to others. Like you say, they’re more concerned with behaving how others think they should behave. I think women should just do whatever they want.”

  So condescending, even though I don’t think he means it that way. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. Women are expected to be likable and kind and totally selfless. We can’t just do whatever we want: What if it’s to stop shaving our legs, or be rude, or get fat?”

  “I think that’d be great.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” I say. “You didn’t have one model over a hundred pounds in your show who wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous. The parameters of choice are different for women and men. There are different consequences for behavior. I’m not worried about how things look because I’m neurotic or vain or weak. It’s because I’m trying to survive in a patriarchal society.”

  “How was everything?” The waiter is back at our table, scooping up empty plates.

  My face is flushed. I’ve never said something like that on a date before. I don’t even feel particularly comfortable expressing myself like that on social media. It’s strictly the territory of a booze-fueled girls’ night, Steph and I one-upping each other in theatrical outrage. But I don’t feel bad about it. I’m not even embarrassed. In fact, I feel confident. The flush in my cheeks is already cooling.

  Perhaps I needed to say that. To even out the fact I’m wearing the red lace bra.

  “Dessert?” The waiter offers two small menus.

  I don’t wait for Elan. “Thank you,” I say. “I’m still a little hungry.”

  Elan’s gaze is bright, and maybe even impressed, as if I’ve just called an unexpected checkmate. “So am I.”

  * * * *

  He pays for dinner. I offer to sp
lit it, but he dismisses the thought as if it irritates him. As he extracts a black Amex (the kind used by people for whom the subway is a distant memory), I glimpse the total. Two hundred and sixteen dollars—I’m thankful he pays. While I look moneyed in my fancy dress and shiny heels, truthfully I’m broke AF. Besides, I get the impression that $216 is chump change to Elan Behzadi, a thought that is both disconcerting and strangely delicious.

  Outside, I pull my coat around myself, waiting while Elan makes a quick phone call. I’m not sure who he has to call at ten at night, but I try not to worry. I have no idea what’s next; come home with me or goodbye forever. I could be anxious, but I decide to feel liberated. There’s something exhilarating about not knowing where I’ll end up. There’s a tease of true spring in the late March air.

  He exits, trailed by two fashion-student types: lots of layers and thick-rimmed glasses, giggly drunk and wanting a selfie. He obliges, intense and unsmiling. As he nods goodbye, their gaze finds me. I draw myself taller, and yes, I can see what I want in their eyes. Not envy, although it’s certainly a secondary characteristic.

  Acceptance.

  I’m the kind of woman they expect to see Elan Behzadi walking toward. I’m not a star fucker, but I can’t deny the sweet jolt to my ego. This whole thing is so exciting and special, and maybe I think this because I’ve had three glasses of wine, or maybe I’m just soaking in the sensation of an attractive, semi-famous man putting his hand on the small of my back and politely asking me if he can give me a ride home.

  We walk down a quiet cross street, away from the bright lights of the avenue.

  “Does it bother you,” I ask, “that I’m taller than you in these heels?”

  He chuckles, and I love that I can make him smile when the fashion students could not. “No,” he says. “You look very sexy in those heels. I’m not intimidated by tall women.” He stops in front of me so quickly I almost run into him. His brows rise deliberately. “Or strong women.” He moves closer, to kiss me.

  I take half a step back.

  He tips his head, surprised.

  I’m a little surprised too. “I . . . want you. I just . . .”