And now, as I finished dusting highlighter on my cheekbones—using my favorite splurgy Guerlain Météorites rather than the free highlighter stick I’d been sent by a brand hoping to partner with me—I realized I was looking forward to the date. If nothing else, I knew it wouldn’t be another boring restaurant date. Max didn’t seem the sort to parade me to a high-end restaurant in order to show off an encyclopedic knowledge of wine—Vans, hello—and when I had specifically asked if we would be going out to dinner, he said he had something else in mind. His vagueness made selecting an outfit somewhat difficult, but I had gone with my favorite black jumpsuit, a piece that could read as dressy or casual depending on the situation.
I struck a pose in my bathroom’s full-length mirror—one foot forward, hip angled, shoulders back, chin down—and took a picture. I quickly filtered it and was adding text reading First Date! when I paused. Did I really want to share this with the world? For the last several years, I had broadcast so much of my life that I no longer stopped to consider whether everything merited sharing. Maybe this was something that should remain private—if for no other reason than I had no idea how this date was going to go, and I didn’t want a flock of virtual onlookers watching and judging. I put my phone down. There would be plenty of time to recap the date tomorrow—by which time I would know how to spin it.
I returned to my laptop, open on my small desk, where I was streaming an eclectic Spotify playlist of some of my favorites from multiple genres. As I shut down the computer, my phone buzzed with a text message from Nick.
What time should I come over tonight?
I laughed. Of course Nick just assumed he was welcome whenever he wanted.
Tonight’s no good, I typed in response.
Why not? You have a date or something?
I sent him a kissy-face emoji.
Immediately, my phone rang. I rolled my eyes as I answered, “Hi, Nicky.”
“You’re kidding,” he said flatly. “You have a date?”
“It’s true. I’m being wined and dined.” I paused. “I think.”
“You think?”
“I’m not sure what our plans are yet.”
“Christ, Audrey. You can’t just go off with some stranger without knowing where you’re going, and telling someone where you’ll be. Don’t you ever watch Dateline?”
“I’m not going to get serial killed, Nick. Besides, this guy isn’t really a stranger. He’s friends with Cat.”
He laughed. “Oh. Oh. Well. I’m sure he’s a winner, then.”
“Don’t be a dick. Listen, as much as I would love to continue defending my choices with you, I’ve got to go.”
“Text me later so I know your head didn’t end up in this guy’s freezer.”
“Gross, Nick. I’m hanging up now.”
* * *
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, I was stepping out of the Lyft in front of a four-story brick building—a four-story brick mansion, more accurately. We’d passed several embassies on the ride over to the address in Kalorama Heights, and, while I didn’t see a flagpole, I couldn’t help but wonder if this, too, was some sort of cultural destination. Maybe there was an event happening?
I rang the bell, all the while checking discreetly for plaques or other signage. I saw none, but was still surprised when Max, barefoot and wearing faded denim, answered the door. I stifled a smirk. The Vans were gone, but I wasn’t sure this was an improvement.
“Audrey,” he said, smiling warmly. “You look great.”
“Thanks,” I said, stepping onto the entry’s shiny wood floor. Beyond Max, I could see a sitting room and, beyond that, what looked like a kitchen. Was this his home? Even I, who had almost zero familiarity with DC real estate, could tell this was a pricey location. Max clearly wasn’t hurting for cash—despite his embarrassing shoe choice at the Rosalind preview, he must have been a donor to be there at all, and besides, he’d mentioned going to camp with Cat, and I knew Cat’s family was loaded.
“Is this where you live?” I asked, unable to contain my awe.
“I wish,” he said, flashing his dimples at me. “It’s ours tonight, though.”
“What, did we break in or something?”
He let out a surprised laugh. “Of course not. What kind of first date would this be if we ended up spending the night in jail?”
“The kind that makes a good story,” I teased. “What doesn’t kill you makes you more interesting, you know.”
“I don’t think that’s how that saying goes,” he said, eyes twinkling. “But I was thinking something a bit more tame for the evening. Less criminal activity, more home-cooked dinner and wine.”
“Ah, well, there’s always next time,” I said, stepping farther into the home and peering into the sitting room. A midcentury-style teal couch and two wood-framed, mustard-colored armchairs sat around a low, modern coffee table. A large Rothko-style painting was on the wall. I raised my eyebrows, impressed. “So who does live here?”
“No one right now. This place is on the market. My dad’s real estate firm is handling this property, and I borrowed the space for the night.”
“It’s incredible. How much would a place like this set a girl back?”
Scratch.
Max opened his mouth to reply, but all I heard was the scratching—not unlike the noises I often heard in my alley—coming from the side window. I whipped my head in its direction, staring hard at the drawn curtains and wondering just what might be on the other side.
“What was that?”
“What?” he asked, following my eyes to the window.
“That scratching noise.”
Max shrugged. “I didn’t hear anything, but I’m sure it’s just a tree branch or something.”
I nodded even while my pulse raced. Could it really have just been a tree branch? It had sounded too deliberate, too human for my comfort.
Stop being paranoid, Audrey, I chastised myself. What do you think, that Ryan followed you all the way over here? Please. Get it together or Max is going to think you’re crazy.
“Come on,” he said. “Let me show you around.”
I cast one last glance at the windows before taking his hand and letting him lead me through the big, empty house.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
AUDREY
Seven bedrooms, nine bathrooms, and at least four fireplaces later, I had forgotten about the scratching noises outside. The house was immense and elegant, like nothing I had ever seen—and certainly like nothing I expected to find in an urban environment. As nice as some of the ritzy town houses on the Upper East Side, but more spacious, it seriously tempted me to break my self-imposed Instagram moratorium. Max concluded the tour on the master bedroom’s balcony, a space that was almost as large as my entire apartment. It was covered in potted palms, giving it a lush, tropical feel that nearly obscured the fact we were in DC—until I looked ahead.
There’s this rumor that no building in the District can be taller than the Capitol Building, and while Cat has told me that’s not strictly true, the city nonetheless lacks the vertical diversity I became accustomed to in New York—and lacks some of its views. But standing on the balcony of this gorgeous, private home atop a small hill in a quiet neighborhood, I could see the dome of the Capitol glowing like a luminary against the darkening sky and the Washington Monument shimmering white.
“Wow.”
“I thought you’d like it,” he said, smiling shyly. “Monument views like this are rare.”
“Is this some sort of guerrilla marketing attempt to sell me this home? Because, I have to tell you, it’s working.”
“Am I that obvious?” he joked. “For the low, low price of four million dollars, all this could be yours.”
“Four million, huh?” I said, surveying the private yard and swimming pool below. “That’s actually not as much as I would have guessed. I’d have to sell a hell of a lot of presets, though.”
“A lot of what?”
“Presets. They’re bas
ically filters,” I explained. “I’ve been developing a collection of them, and, once I’ve launched it, my followers will be able to essentially adjust their Instagram photos to look just like mine.”
He drew his thick brows together in confusion. “Now, admittedly, I don’t know much about Instagram because—”
“The Russian porn bots,” I supplied helpfully.
“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Those. So maybe this is a dumb question, but why would people want to make their photos look like yours?”
I smiled and shrugged. “For the same reason people buy Kylie Jenner’s lip kits and Michael Jordan’s sneakers. They don’t actually believe wearing Kylie’s branded lip color will give them a pout like hers, or that Air Jordans will enable them to dunk a basketball, but they want to believe in the dream. And the dream that I’m selling is a perfectly curated, perfectly aesthetic life.”
He tilted his head, warm brown eyes searching mine. “Is your life perfect?”
The honest answer was no. Of course it wasn’t perfect. Whose was? I was lonely and living in a basement and losing my mind over the sound of some tree branches. But that wasn’t the kind of thing I could say aloud to the adorable, thoughtful man who had presented me with a breathtaking view of the city. It wasn’t even the kind of thing I could say aloud when I was alone in my own home. Be as if.
“I don’t have too many complaints.”
He smiled crookedly, his expression telling me that he saw through my charade but was too polite to call me on it. Finally, he said, “Tell me more about these presets. How do they work?”
“It’s easier to show you,” I said, pulling my phone from my bag. I snapped a quick photo of the view, capturing the glowing obelisk of the Washington Monument on the right side and a border of the balcony’s foliage across the bottom, but otherwise taking a photo of the velvety twilight sky over the roofs of buildings. I glanced at the photo and then showed it to him.
“Very nice,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “You have an eye for composition.”
I looked at him out of the corner of my eyes to gauge the legitimacy of the compliment—that was the kind of thing Nick might have said mockingly—but he looked earnest. I smiled and quickly added my chosen edits. Instantly, the sky was an inkier blue, the plants a more vibrant green, the monument whiter. I held the phone out to Max for his inspection.
“What about now?”
“Wow,” he said, looking impressed. “It’s a subtle change, but a powerful one.”
“Thanks,” I said, uploading it to my Instagram grid before I remembered that I wasn’t sharing images from this date. I shrugged it off. At least my caption—an emoji of the smiling moon—was ambiguous.
“So here’s where I admit that the rest of the night will be far less photogenic.”
“Careful,” I teased. “I’m grading this date on its Instagramability.”
“Then I’m afraid I’ve failed,” he said, wincing comically as he led me to a small table in the corner of the balcony, almost completely surrounded by potted palms. A blue Dutch oven sat in the middle of the table, alongside a bowl heaped with brown rice.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “This tableau is lovely.”
“I made curry,” he said as he lifted the Dutch oven’s lid. “I promise it tastes good, but I’m aware it looks rather … underwhelming.” He paused, then gave me a concerned look. “I should have asked if you liked spicy food.”
“I love spicy food,” I assured him as I pulled out a chair. “I can’t believe you cooked for me.”
* * *
I COULDN’T RECALL the last time someone other than my mother had cooked for me. For that matter, I couldn’t remember the last time that I had actually cooked for me—and I certainly never made anything half as delicious as the silky lemongrass curry Max had prepared. Over glasses of dry Riesling, we talked nonstop, covering topics ranging from our undergraduate experiences (I’d attended a state school with one of the nation’s largest student populations, whereas Max had gone to the private, urban University of Chicago) to our opinions on the Washington, DC, metro system (I found it a pale imitation of the NYC subway, while Max offered, “At least it’s not on fire all the time anymore,” which sounded ominous and horrifying) and our favorite Netflix shows (I advocated for The Crown, and Max preferred Black Mirror).
“That was amazing,” I told him, setting down my fork. “If I cooked at all, I’d ask for the recipe.”
“It’s just as well, because if I gave you the recipe, I’d have to kill you.” He rose and offered his hand. “Come on, let me refresh your glass and I’ll clear the table.”
I took his hand, but he tugged slightly too hard and I stumbled on my wedges as I stood, landing against his chest and spilling the rest of my wine on his shirt.
“Sorry—” he began.
And I kissed him.
It was, hands down, the most awkward kiss I had ever experienced, including the kiss Tommy Neulander planted on me at the eighth-grade dance, when he aimed for my lips and caught my eye instead. Max was still speaking as I pushed my lips against his, his voice reverberating in my mouth. We stood like that, mashed together, for a split second before I pulled away, cheeks flaming with embarrassment.
“I need to …” I said, trailing off as I fled indoors to the nearest bathroom. I shut myself inside and stared hard in the massive, sparkling mirror, wondering what the hell had overcome me. We’d been having a lovely, nearly enchanted evening, and then I had gone and done that. I had jumped him like some sort of sex-starved teenage boy, right after falling over my own feet, no less. It wasn’t my style at all.
Get a grip, Audrey, I commanded myself.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
AUDREY
When I returned to the balcony, once again fully in possession of my cool, I discovered Max had cleared the dishes and relocated the candles from the table around the space. He had turned up the music that had been playing in the background during dinner, and I recognized the current song as “This Must Be the Place” by the Talking Heads. I smiled to myself. The song was a good omen; it had always been lucky for me. In fact, I had been listening to that song when I got the call from Ayala offering me the job. I hoped it portended good things for the rest of the evening.
“Hey,” I said, joining Max at the edge of the balcony.
“Hey,” he responded, handing me a freshly poured glass of wine.
As I sipped the wine and considered how to reenergize the lively conversation we’d been having before my graceless attempt at a kiss had destroyed the mood, I felt my phone buzz in my purse. Grateful for the distraction, I pulled it out and checked the notifications.
It was only Nick: Watch out for bags of zip ties and collections of sharp instruments.
As I read his message, my phone vibrated again, this time with Nick sending me one of my own Instagram posts for the Hirshhorn, a close-up of the final, bloody Rosalind diorama. I shuddered.
“Is everything okay?”
I glanced up at Max, who was looking at me with concern. I put my phone facedown on the balcony ledge and drove Nick—and Rosalind—from my mind.
“Better than okay,” I said. “That dinner was delicious, and this view is incredible. You know, it might be my New York bias showing, but I never thought of DC as a particularly attractive city. You’ve gone and proved me wrong.”
“It’s not as flashy as New York, that’s for sure. It has more of a quiet beauty, the kind that sneaks up on you. Someday you’ll find you’re in love with it without knowing what happened.”
“Maybe you could show me some of the best parts,” I suggested.
“I would be honored,” he said seriously.
Then, holding my gaze, he cupped my face in his warm hands and lowered his mouth over mine. The tenderness of the kiss, its sweetness, caught me off guard. It was so different from kissing Nick—Nick was a technically proficient kisser who left me panting, but he didn’t touch me lik
e this. I never felt as though Nick needed me specifically to create a knock-your-socks-off kiss; all he needed was a willing mouth. Here, though, with Max, I knew that I was a part of things—my lips, tongue, desire all integral components in this gentle but irresistible kiss.
I wrapped my arms around him, surprised to find that his body felt firm and well muscled beneath his ill-fitting, slightly rumpled shirt. As I leaned into him, my phone vibrated noisily on the ledge. Max stiffened and pulled away, looking almost accusingly at my device.
Nick, if that’s you, I’m going to put your head in a freezer, I thought viciously. I tried to ignore the phone, tried to guide Max’s soft mouth back to mine, but he wasn’t compliant.
“Do you need to get that?”
I shook my head, willing him to kiss me again. He watched me carefully and licked his lips, but that was all. We remained like that, he with his hands loosely on my hips, I with my arms draped around his torso, staring at each other, for one moment too long. I finally realized that we might be standing there like that all night, and, after my awkward, lunging kiss earlier in the evening, I was not going to be the one to make the first move. I dropped my arms and took a half step away.
“Well, I should probably get going,” I said, hoping he would ask me to stay. “But this has been lovely. Thank you so much for inviting me.”
He nodded, his expression unreadable. “Maybe I’ll see you again.”
I hope so, I thought.
* * *
I COULD STILL FEEL Max’s soft lips against mine, could still taste the cinnamon Altoid he must have popped when I went to the restroom, as I climbed into bed with my laptop. Almost as soon as I opened the lid, an iMessage appeared up on my screen: Make it home safe and sound?
I rolled my eyes. I didn’t know why my ex-boyfriend from seven years ago had suddenly decided he was my keeper, but it was no longer cute. I ignored Nick’s message and started browsing Netflix.
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