What's Your Number

by Karyn Bosnak

  When I got back to New York, I sent Abogado an e-mail, apologizing again. In a reply he said it was no big deal, but the chilly tone of his words suggested otherwise. Michelle still keeps in touch with Dustin Hoffman, so I know that Abogado moved to New Orleans a year ago to open a cooking school. I probably could’ve gone without having Colin find him, but since Michelle’s always so secretive about him, part of me wondered if he was married. He’s not. Despite what happened, I hope Abogado’s well, I hope he’s happy, and I sure as hell hope he’s teaching people to cook something other than ham.

  crescent city cartwheels

  tuesday, april 19

  Eva and I got to New Orleans early yesterday morning and are now sitting outside Café du Monde in the French Quarter sharing beignets. I love beignets. My mom used to make them for Daisy and me when we were little girls. She’d let us help make the dough and cut it into squares, and we always used to argue over who got to sprinkle powdered sugar on top when they were done.

  Last night I walked by Abogado’s cooking school which is also in the French Quarter. It’s located on the first floor of a tiny, yellow stucco town house with black shuttered windows and a fancy wrought-iron balcony that’s covered with ferns and flowers. Peering through the windows, I could see that a class was in session and didn’t want to go inside, so I took a pamphlet that was sitting in a box near the door. I’ve decided that the best way to get to him is to take a class and pretend that it’s all one big coincidence when I see him.

  While waiting to call the school, I look around the French Quarter and smile. While it’s not quite back to the glory it once was before Hurricane Katrina, it warms my heart to see that many businesses are open and happy tourists are milling about.

  A little before noon, I take my cell phone out of my purse to call the school when it suddenly rings. Looking at the caller ID, I see that it’s Colin Brody, P.I., so I answer. He asks if I got his e-mail saying that Henry and Alex are married.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. It’s a shame. They both had so much potential. “Hey, by any chance do you know the name of the woman Alex married?” While Henry and I dated only briefly, Alex and I dated for five months. Just as things were getting serious, he broke up with me for another girl. I can’t remember her name, but I think it was—

  “Sarah,” Colin says. “I think her name is Sarah.”

  Yep, that was it. Sarah. I’ve always thought of Alex as the good one who got away. He was so sharp and mature—my mother loved him. When he broke up with me, he was honest about why he was doing so, honest about Sarah, and I always respected him for that. Oh well. I guess if a guy’s going to leave you for another woman, it’s better to have it be the woman he ends up marrying than some dime-store floozy.

  “So how’s it going?” Colin casually asks. “Have you been finding these guys all right?” Still thinking about Alex and Sarah, I answer without thinking.

  “Yeah, but they’ve all been total busts so far. You should’ve seen them, they were total idiots. So I’m in New Orleans now, hoping things’ll work—”

  I suddenly realize what I’m saying and stop talking.

  Oh my God . . . I just spilled the beans. Why did I spill the beans? How did I spill the beans? What did Colin ask to make me spill the beans? He asked if I found the guys all right.

  “You totally tricked me into saying that!” I scream into the phone.

  “Whoa, whoa, don’t bite my head off!” Colin says, letting out a chuckle. “I did no such thing. All I did was ask you a question.”

  “Yeah—a trick question,” I snap.

  “It was no trick question. It was straightforward.”

  “No it wasn’t.” Wait—Was it?

  “Yes, it was. All I did was ask if you found the guys all right, like, did the invitations get to them.”

  “If that’s what you wanted to know, then that’s what you should’ve asked. You specifically asked me if I found them, and you asked me casually, like we’d already talked about what I’m doing.”

  “And by ‘what you’re doing’ you mean tracking down old boyfriends, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  Oh-shit! I did it again!

  “Ah ha!” Colin exclaims. “Got you twice!”

  I don’t say anything. I’m too angry.

  “Oh, c’mon Del,” he continues. “Don’t be mad. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

  I’m still too angry to speak.

  “So, why are ya tracking down old boyfriends? Is it like a twelve-step thing? Are ya making peace with all your demons?”

  “No, it’s not a twelve-step thing, you moron! And it’s none of your business why I’m doing it!”

  “I s’pose you’re right,” Colin says. “But if I knew, I might be able to help you out with a little more information.”

  A little more information? My curiosity is piqued.

  “What kind of a little more information?”

  “Well, take your chef, for example,” Colin says. “In addition to being single and straight, I found out that he’s quite the catch down there in New Orleans.”

  Piqued more.

  “How so?”

  “Well, I found an interesting article about him on Nexis, an article that was written a few months ago in the New Orleans Times-Picayune, an article that you can’t find on Google.”

  “And what did it say?”

  “Hold on, let me get it.” I hear papers shuffling. “Okay, here it is. Let’s see . . . it says that Diego Soto is a natural-born chef who never took a cooking class in his life. His new cooking school, which fuses Spanish, French, and American cuisines together, is all the rage in New Orleans. Quickly becoming one of the Crescent City’s new movers and shakers, he was recently spotted eating dinner with Emeril Lagasse. Diego Soto also just purchased a million-dollar loft in New Orleans’s very trendy Warehouse District and is considered to be one of the city’s most eligible bachelors.”

  Emeril Lagasse? A million-dollar loft? A most eligible bachelor?

  Bam!!!

  I can’t believe I hooked up with a most eligible bachelor! I know the Times-Picayune isn’t exactly People, but it’s still so exciting. This is it—this is it! Abogado’s the one, I’m positive. All those others didn’t happen for a reason.

  Although I can barely contain my enthusiasm, I try to keep my cool. If Colin finds out just how keyed-up I am about all this, then it’ll mean he was right, that I should’ve told him what I was doing. With that said, after taking a deep breath, I clear my throat, and speak slowly. “It’s great to hear Diego’s doing so well.” The tone of my voice is low and serious.

  “That’s as excited as you’re gonna get?” Colin asks, obviously surprised by my demeanor.

  “Did you expect cartwheels?”

  “Are ya doing cartwheels?”

  “No,” I say calmly. But I am pacing. I need to get off the phone and sign up for one of Abogado’s classes immediately. “Colin, is there a reason that you called?” I ask impatiently.

  “A reason? Oh, yes, right.” He suddenly remembers that he called me. “I can’t find this guy Nukes, not without a proper first or last name.”

  Nukes? Who in the hell is that? Oh! Yes, right . . . Cabo San Lucas . . . Coco Locos . . . Trampoline.

  “I did a search for people whose last name begins with the letters N-u-k and then narrowed the results down three times to include only men, currently between the ages of twenty-seven and thirty-one, who lived in the state of Arizona or Arkansas or Alabama in 1997. I even looked in Alaska just for kicks. There were none.”

  Okay, so he couldn’t find him—I’m not surprised. And I really don’t care, to be honest. Not with an eligible bachelor at my fingertips. “Anything else?”

  “No. Oh wait—yes. Check your e-mail. I sent you another guy’s information. Matt King.”

  “Will do,” I quickly say. “Do I owe you anything extra for the article?”

  “Nah . . . it was my plea
sure to get you as excited as I know you are, even though you’re pretending not to be.”

  I smile. He’s good, this one.

  “Well, all right then. Thanks and have a nice day.”

  “Yes, you too, my dear. And good luck with the chef.”

  As soon as I hang up the phone, I scream. When I’m done, I look around and realize that no one sitting around me has flinched. New Orleans rocks. I love this same thing about New York. I love that after a good date or a good meeting I can walk down the street screaming with joy if I want, and no one cares. No one calls the police or grabs their kids. If anything, they smile. You see, New York is filled with crazy people, so to everyone walking by, I’m just one more crazy. It’s a very freeing feeling.

  After reading the pamphlet from Abogado’s cooking school, I dial the number on the front as quickly as I can. A woman answers the phone. When I ask her when the next available class is, she tells me it’s my lucky day. Although everything is booked solid for the next three weeks, she just got a cancellation for a pastry class that evening.

  Kick. Ass.

  I tell her I’ll take it.

  After I give her my credit card number to hold the reservation, she tells me to arrive promptly at six o’clock that evening. “It’ll be a long class,” she says enthusiastically. “You’re going to explore the exciting world of the puff pastry!”

  Since I have a few hours to kill before six, I decide to take a walk to the Warehouse District to see where Abogado lives. My guidebook says it’s considered the artsy area of New Orleans and is within walking distance from the French Quarter, so I let Eva walk there on her leash for practice. Since being in Philadelphia, she’s attempted to do so a few more times but hasn’t gotten much better. She walks in circles and backtracks well but for some reason can’t grasp the concept of going forward. However that’s all about to change today because Mommy read The Dog Whisperer last night and has a pocket full of treats. Someone’s going to get rewarded for walking forward! While gearing her up, I check my home voice mail and hear two more messages from my mother. I haven’t figured out what to tell her yet about losing my job yet, so I don’t call her back.

  Abogado’s loft is located just off St. Charles, a historic avenue in New Orleans (or so says my map), and although it takes Eva and me a little longer to get there than it would if I was the only one doing the walking, we get there and that’s what’s important. The treats do seem to be working though; she’s catching on quickly. (“Who’s Mommy’s little miss smarty pants? Whooo? You are, dat’s whooo!”)

  Although I didn’t bring my sunglasses/baseball hat disguise with me, I don’t think it’ll be a problem because it’s the middle of a workday. I doubt Abogado’s even home. After locating the correct building, I peek inside at the opulent lobby and am impressed at what I see. The old redbrick facade seems to be all that’s left of the original structure. Everything else is shiny and new. Marble floors run throughout, and a doorman stands behind a big mahogany desk—it’s fancy-schmancy. Curious as to what the lofts look like, I ask if they have any to show and am told no. After poking around a bit longer, I realize there’s not much else to see and leave.

  After walking across the street, Eva squats to go potty. She can’t go when people are looking—she gets stage fright—so I look away. While waiting for her to finish, I glance back at Abogado’s building and realize that I can see into the apartments from where I’m standing. Although I know I shouldn’t, remembering that I have my binoculars in my purse, I pull them out to take a look.

  For the middle of a workday, there seems to be a lot of people out and about. Since I don’t want anyone to think I’m a perv, I first pretend to look at the birds perched on top of Abogado’s building and then shift my gaze down to the windows when I’m sure the coast is clear. I pan across the building. Hmm . . . ceiling, ceiling, wall, chandelier, and . . . that’s it. How boring.

  As I put my binoculars down and let them hang around my neck, Eva kicks her legs back like a bull, signaling she’s done. After praising her for being such a good “pooopy pooopy poo!” I pull a tissue out of my purse for the cleanup. When I finish, I casually glance across the street to get one last look at Abogado’s building and am horrified at what I see: Abogado himself is standing outside the front entrance, looking in my direction. For a split second our eyes meet. My stomach drops. Praying he doesn’t recognize me, I quickly look away.

  A few seconds later I gather the courage to turn my head around, hoping to see that Abogado has already gone on his way. As I slowly peer over my shoulder, my stomach drops again when I see that he’s not only still standing out front looking at me, he’s now shaking his head in disgust as well.

  Fuck.

  I can’t believe it—I’ve been busted.

  I have to get out of here.

  Turning around, I attempt to run down the street away from Abogado’s building but am stopped short by Eva’s leash. When I look down to see what the problem is, I find her sprawled out on the sidewalk, refusing to move. Of all the times! When I swoop down to pick her up, I see Abogado crossing the street, heading toward me.

  Fuck. Fuck.

  I can’t believe this. I can’t believe he’s coming after me.

  With Eva safely in my arms, I turn around once again and run as fast as I can down the sidewalk. As I run and run and run, I feel like a criminal, like someone who’s just been caught shoplifting. I feel like Abogado is the fuzz, out to get me. The people I pass on the sidewalk are staring at me, and I’m positive that, at any moment, one of them is going to try and trip me so I don’t get away. Hoping to prevent this from happening, I begin smiling at everyone I pass.

  After running for what seems like one hundred blocks, I’m pretty sure I’ve lost Abogado and turn around. When I do, my heart begins beating faster. Not only is Abogado still hot on my trail looking angrier than ever, but he’s even closer to me than he was before.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I turn back around and pick up speed.

  As Eva bounces up and down in my arms, small beads of sweat begin trickling down my forehead because not only is it warm outside, but I’m nervous and out of shape. Trying my hardest to lose Abogado, I quickly take a left down the first side street I see, then another quick right, and then another quick left. I have no idea where I am or where I’m going, but I don’t care. I have to shake Abogado—I have to lose him! After one more block, I turn around again and—

  Oh. My. God.

  He’s still there.

  He’s like the Terminator.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Suddenly I hear him call out to me. “Delilah! Stop running!”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what to do! Do I stop? Do I pretend like this is all just a coincidence? Do I—

  Suddenly a taxi drives by. Yes! After whistling the loudest whistle I’ve ever whistled, it stops. I’m in the backseat within seconds.

  “The French Quarter please!” I yell up to the driver, as I crouch down on the floor. As the cab moves forward, a small sense of relief comes over me. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I got caught. Of all the guys to catch me, why did it have to be Abogado? Why couldn’t it have been someone like Wade? I know this is my fault for not wearing a disguise, but—

  Suddenly the cab comes to a stop.

  “What’s going on?” I ask the driver nervously. “Why are you stopping?”

  “Traffic.”

  “Traffic? What do you mean traffic?”

  “Traffic only means one thing.”

  Lifting my head, I look out the front window and see dozens of cars stopped in front of us. Turning around, I look out the back window and see Abogado approaching the car.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I hit the floor again.

  I can’t believe this is happening. He’s going to call the police on me. I’m going to go to jail for stalking. Suddenly I hear knocking on th
e window.

  Knock, knock, knock!

  Eva begins to bark.

  Ruff, ruff, ruff!

  Abogado begins to yell.

  “Delilah, I know you in there!”

  Knock, knock, knock!

  Ruff, ruff, ruff!

  “Delilah! I see you! Open the door!”

  Fuck to the millionth degree.

  “Hey, lady—what’s going on here?” the cab driver asks.

  “Um . . . nothing, sir,” I say from the floor. “How’s that traffic jam looking?”

  Before the cab driver has a chance to answer, I hear a click and feel a breeze. The back door right next to me has just opened. I must have forgotten to lock it. Oops.

  “Delilah, why are you following me?” Abogado asks.

  Unsure of what to do or say, I pick up a crumpled up piece of paper from the floor and hold it up. “Here it is!” I exclaim, pretending I’ve been looking for whatever it is. I flatten it out and read. “It’s my receipt from . . . Buddy’s Bait Shop . . . for . . . five hundred night crawlers and an insulated worm container!”

  Oh, Jesus.

  “Delilah, stop pretending you don’t see me,” Abogado says. Looking up, I pretend to be surprised that it’s him.

  “Aboga—I mean Diego . . . is that you?”

  “Yes, it is me, and you know it is me. Why is you run from me?”

  “Run from you? I wasn’t running from you. I was running to catch up with this taxi. I left this very important receipt in it.” I hold it up as evidence.

  “Please, do not be lying,” Abogado says. His voice is serious tone. “You spy on me, I catch you, and now you run.”

  “Spy on you?” I pretend to be insulted. “I’d never do such a thing!”

  Abogado shakes his head in disbelief. “You know, I think it be coincidental when I see your name on the list for the baking class I teach tonight, but now I see it is not.”