High Hopes

by Jaclyn Jhin

I smiled. “I should let you go. I have a big day tomorrow.” I glanced at my planner and saw the word “Ian” circled in red. Somehow, Melissa had sneakily drawn a heart around his name.

  “Ah, yes, school soon.”

  “Yeah, I gotta go. I have to start studying already,” I lied. I had a feeling tomorrow’s “date’” would be enough of an educational experience.

  “Okay, love you. Bye bye.” She finally faced the camera so I could see her brown eyes.

  “Bye, Halmuni.” I waved, trying to smile.

  Maybe if I smiled big enough I could convince my brain I didn’t want to return home.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I craned my neck to take in all of the massive building. Judging by the logo, a couple of crossed spoons, and its title Merci, Amour, I realized this was not, in fact, a billion-dollar hotel; this was where we were eating dinner. I watched as Ian shook hands with the valet, and then his action-movie car zoomed away. Why did Ian have to look like he just stepped out of a Tommy Hilfiger ad? He wore a plain black jacket, a blue polo, and dark denim jeans. His dark hair looked naturally ruffled. The shirt perfectly drew out his blue eyes—or maybe it was the other way around?

  He smiled as he joined me, and I instinctively tugged at my skirt. Melissa had spent more than an hour helping me pick out what to wear. When she finally had me try on her A-line purple dress paired with my one and only black cardigan, I told her what I had on was fine and if she kept making me try on other dresses, I would be late.

  She reluctantly let me go and said, “Have fun and I want to hear every little detail when you get back!”

  I held tightly to the clutch I also had borrowed from Melissa, hoping it would steady my nerve, as we ventured toward the entrance with its huge, double glass doors. Ian opened them, and I hurried inside, reminding myself he must have done this exact same thing many times before with other girls. I wasn’t special.

  “You’ll really love this place—it has two Michelin stars. And they have the best foie gras.”

  I didn’t know what either of those things meant but decided to keep that info to myself. Entering, I felt like I had stepped inside a crystal ball. I have never been to a restaurant so beautifully decorated. One-way mirrors made up the walls, and sky-high cellars of wine seemed to float on the ceiling. Hundreds of bottles from the bar reflected off the tinted glass counters, making everything appear bathed in gold. The tables curved in different shapes, each one with a burning white candle. Menus consisted of a single page without any listed prices. Waiters in suits with pristine aprons danced past the tables, jazz music playing in the background.

  Where was I? For a moment, I thought of Sophia. What would she make of this very posh eatery? Where we worked was nice, but this place blew Poseidon out of the water. No comparison.

  We sat down at a plush crescent-shaped leather booth. Before I had time to say anything, a heavy-set man dressed in a tuxedo approached Ian. “Monsieur Anderson! Comment allez vous? We haven’t seen you here in a while.” He turned to me with outstretched arms. “I’m so glad to see you have brought a beautiful young lady with you.” He kissed me on both sides of my cheeks. I tried to pretend this was a normal occurrence.

  “Je vais bien, merci.” Ian smiled. “This is Kelly. She’s new to New York, so I thought it’d be great to bring her to the best French restaurant on the island.”

  The maître d’ bowed so deeply his bald head nearly touched the table. “Bien entendu. We will ensure your meal is absolutely magnifique! If you don’t mind, why don’t I pick the best chef’s recommendation for you and your Kelly?”

  “That would be great, thank you. And is the rooftop still available?”

  “We knew you were coming, didn’t we?” He smiled. “This way.”

  He led us through various tables all the way past the kitchen before stopping beside an elevator. An elevator in a restaurant?

  “Please.” He motioned to me as the doors opened.

  I stepped in, and Ian stood against the wall. I caught him sneak a glance at me. No way had I mastered hiding my awestruck expression. A little smirk passed across his face.

  “And how is Miss Beverly?” the maître d’ asked.

  I cringed, conjuring a Beverly in my head. Beautiful. Thin. Blonde. White.

  Ian took the question in stride. “She’s doing well, thank you.”

  “Giving you enough space?”

  Embarrassed, I dropped my eyes. It was one thing to assume Ian took his models here. It was another to have it thrown in my face.

  “Well ... you know how mothers can be.” Ian and the man shared a chuckle. The doors opened, and I breathed relief. Of course. He meant his mom.

  We stepped out onto a cozy cobblestone rooftop. A ring of heating lamps exhaled warm air into the autumn cold. Blue candles glowed atop the glass tables. Couples held hands, talking over glasses of wine and plates of food I couldn’t even pronounce. As I glanced over the edge at the city, I felt suspended in the night sky itself and had to pinch myself this was real. I had only been in New York for less than a week and somehow landed here.

  We only passed two tables before someone recognized Ian. Middle-aged with long bangs that fell past his brow, the man looked like he was deciding between embracing silver-fox status and giving up his youthful, surfer days.

  “Ian, how are you?” he asked through porcelain veneer teeth. “I saw your mother at the Met. You should’ve been there. You would’ve loved La Traviata.”

  “Mark, hi. Yes, I’m sorry. Had to study. I’ve seen La Traviata many times with my mother. It’s one of her favorites.” He turned to me and said, “May I introduce you to Kelly?”

  I shook hands with Mark as Ian continued talking. “Did Myles’ fencing team make the semi-finals?”

  Mark’s face lit up. “We’re heading to Boston next week for the tournament.”

  “Oh, that’s great. And Angela’s rock climbing now, right?”

  “Taking classes over on 4th. You should join sometime. She even got me to try it.”

  Ian shot me a small smile, almost like he was trying to telepathically tell me something. I smiled back, hoping it also relayed my dislike toward small talk.

  “I’ll see you at the N.Y. Nonprofits Gala, right?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Ian applied the lightest of touch to my arm for a second before swiftly guiding us through the crowd. I actually wished it lasted longer.

  At each table we passed, Ian seemed to know someone. Whenever they stood to greet him, he would politely ask them to sit down as he introduced me. By the time we reached our corner spot offering a breathtaking view of the skyline, I felt dizzy.

  The maître d’ bowed to us again as he pulled back my seat.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He replied something pleasant in French before disappearing into the inky darkness. When he was gone, Ian turned to me. “Sorry.”

  I sipped my water. “For what?”

  He tilted his head toward Mark and all the people he’d spoken to. “Hope it didn’t sound like I was putting on an act back there.”

  I shook my head.

  “Just something I’ve learned. Memorize a couple names and facts, people think you know their whole life.”

  “So it’s all fake?”

  “Not at all. My dad insisted I learn the art of conversation. He used to tell me networking is one of the keys to success.”

  He looked so serious I felt like I had to lighten the mood. “Should I be worried if you start asking me about people I know?”

  “Well, you don’t have any kids, do you?”

  I almost snorted out my water. “Definitely not.”

  “Then, you’re good,” Ian said with a smile. He unfolded his napkin in his lap before lining up his silverware. “I really don’t know that many people. These are all my parents’ friends. They have a place on Central Park East, so we come here on weekends. My mom would drag me to the Met at least once a month. Have you seen La
Traviata?”

  “I’ve never seen an opera. I’ve always wanted to, but the tickets were always so expensive.”

  “La Traviata is a beautiful love story.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Basically, it’s about a young aristocrat, Alfredo, who falls in love with Violetta, who is a beautiful courtesan in Paris. Alfredo’s dad threatens Violetta, demanding that she leave Alfredo. So Violetta returns to her life as a courtesan without telling Alfredo why. Eventually, Alfredo finds out the truth. He goes to be with her, but it is too late, because she dies from T.B.”

  “That sounds so sad. Why did Alfredo’s dad tell her to leave his son?”

  “Because her previous life as a courtesan was an embarrassment to their family. But I don’t want to tell you more or it will spoil it for you when I take you to see it.” He leaned over the table to get closer to me and said, “I want to know more about you. You said you’re from LA. You miss it?”

  I was still processing what he just said about taking me to see La Traviata that I couldn’t think straight.

  “Kelly?”

  “...Huh?”

  “Do you miss L.A?”

  I suddenly pictured Halmuni’s disapproving face. “Sometimes.”

  “I’ve been a couple times. My mom loves Beverly Hills and West Hollywood. Great restaurants. But my father never liked LA. He hates driving, especially the freeways. Can’t understand why everyone always says, ‘the’ before them, like the 405.”

  “Or the 5.”

  “Right.”

  “So, besides the freeways, did you like what you saw?”

  “Yeah. Once I ditched my folks and went surfing in Malibu.”

  We both laughed. I noticed his eyes never seemed to leave mine.

  “What part of L.A. are you from?”

  “Koreatown.”

  “That’s so cool.”

  Really?

  “Do you miss it?”

  “What?”

  “Koreatown. Do you miss it?”

  “Yeah. So, where—?”

  “So that’s where your family lives?”

  “My grandma.”

  “Oh, nice. Are you close?”

  “Really close.” I fiddled with my cardigan.

  “Sorry. Don’t mean to interrogate you,” he laughed.

  I smoothed out my dress under the table. “Not at all.”

  A server brought several small, beautifully presented bite size starters the waiter called amuse-bouche and then a scallop salad, which he described as “pan-seared scallop with black truffle and crispy pumpkin seeds on a bed of arugula and kale.” I’d never tasted anything like this before, so I ate slowly, letting the flavors linger on my tongue.

  The food gave me a reason to focus on something other than Ian. I had been staring at him too long and needed an excuse to not talk. In between bites, I looked out beyond the edge of the rooftop. The buildings looked like a twinkly circuit board. Halmuni would love this place. If she got over the fact Ian is white.

  Ian must have sensed my embarrassment because he said, “It’s so nice to see a woman enjoying her food. Usually the girls I know have a few bites and stop because they don’t want to gain any weight.”

  “Yeah, my grandma would make fun of girls like that, saying that ‘what is life if you can’t enjoy your food?’”

  “I like the way your grandmother thinks. It would be nice to meet her someday.” Would he ever meet her? Would Halmuni even want to meet him?

  After we finished our salads, the next plates instantly replaced them, this time with what appeared to a greyish mound atop a brioche.

  “Have you ever had foie gras before?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s delicious. Seriously. Try it.”

  I picked it up cautiously, taking a small bite and expecting the worst. Instead, I couldn’t believe how the dish melted in my mouth. Silky and tender, it was so good I immediately went back for more. As I chewed, it occurred to me I had barely asked Ian any questions. I didn’t want him to think I was uninterested—or rude. “My roommate told me your dad is on Forbes Wealthiest 100 list.”

  Ian’s face changed. Crap, why did I ask that? He must’ve thought that’s the only reason I agreed to go out with him.

  “Was.” Ian wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to—”

  “That’s okay. I’ve gotten better about talking about it.”

  “Talking about it?”

  “The crash.” Ian’s jaw tightened. It looked like he was having trouble speaking. “He, uh, died in a helicopter accident last year.”

  Floored, I looked back at him until he averted his gaze. I remembered how many people told me sorry when my parents died. I never knew how to reply when they said that. What do you say? ‘Oh. That’s okay.’

  “You must have had to grow up fast,” I said.

  He sat back in his seat, dropping his perfect posture. For the first time tonight, I felt less distanced from him. Like I could tell him more about my life back home. But something inside told me not to mention my parents. It felt like if I did I’d be playing a who-has-it-worse-game. I stayed quiet for a long moment. So did he.

  “That’s kind of a second-date-after-drinks-story, though.” He broke into his handsome grin again. I couldn’t help but hope for that second date. “Anyway, if you’re going to be hanging around here, I should probably teach you a few French words.”

  I used my water glass to cover my smile. “I’m going to be hanging around here again?”

  “Oui. Now how about some more vocabulary lessons. “S’il vous plait—that’s ‘please.’”

  I was still thinking about what he just said, so my ‘please’ didn’t come out very polished.

  “And ‘merci’ is thank you.”

  “Merci.” I tried to roll my R, but it sounded like I had a wad of food in my mouth.

  Ian laughed. “We’ll keep practicing.” He grabbed a bottle of red wine from the other end of the table. “Un verre de vin?”

  “Oh, I’m only 20.”

  “It’s okay, no one’s going to card you.”

  I raised my glass slowly. “Then ... s’il vous plait.”

  “So, if you’re 20, did you take a break before coming here?” he asked as he poured me wine.

  “I took two years off to make some money for college.” The dark liquid touched my lips, stinging my nostrils and leaving a bitter taste on my tongue. I tried not to make a face.

  “I worked before going to law school, too—just wanted to make sure it was actually something I wanted to do. Worked for my dad. Decided I definitely wanted to be a lawyer, instead of a hedge fund manager.”

  I nodded, thinking how he would have checked off all of Halmuni’s boxes. Maybe it was the splash of wine going straight to my head, but I suddenly wanted to tell her all about Ian: how he knew everybody and never made me feel left out of conversations, how he introduced me to new foods, how he teased me in a fun, sweet way. But I knew what her first question would be.

  “You finished that fast.” He nodded to my wine.

  I looked at the empty glass with a ribbon of red at the bottom. “I’ve never really drank before.”

  “Just let me know when you start to feel it.”

  I didn’t have to tell him. After polishing off our pepper steaks and deliciously salty caviar, it became clear I found him very, very funny.

  “... And that’s when I realized I should stop playing pranks on study groups. They just don’t appreciate it.”

  I tilted my head, and the rooftop became slightly diagonal. I didn’t even care about the size of my smile. “That’s a good story.”

  Ian paid the check with his credit card, and we stood up. I shivered, not from nerves, but from a gust of wind. He took off his jacket and put it around my cardigan.

  “You’re very nice.” I giggled.

  “And you’re tipsy.” He put his hand on my upper back, guiding me through the restaurant. I
realized I was smiling and nodding at everyone who made eye contact with us, not like before when I kept my eyes glued to the ground. He waved to people at tables and said thank you again to the maître d’ before walking out to grab his car from the valet.

  “Thank you for dinner,” I said.

  “Of course.”

  I tensed up as I thought about the fact our date was ending and the end of a date usually meant a kiss, or more. But I wasn’t sure if I actually wanted him to kiss me. The shivers returned, even in his warm jacket.

  When we got back in his car, he instantly veered in and out of lanes like he was playing the expert-level of a video game. The car was so low to the ground I felt like I could reach my arm out and touch the gravel of the speeding pavement. As we weaved in and out of traffic, we passed blocks of construction workers and metal poles rising up to be future buildings. I felt like I was in a submarine in some undiscovered part of an ocean, a witness inside a claustrophobic hull.

  I smiled as we drove past the crosswalk of our first meeting. He must’ve noticed, too, since he slowed down.

  “Not going to take anyone out today?” I giggled again.

  “I don’t see any pretty girls on bikes.”

  “Ha.”

  Suddenly, a speeding taxi veered in front of us. Ian slammed on the brakes, barely missing the guy’s bumper. I lurched forward in my seatbelt, gasping. He honked, making a couple people on the sidewalk look over.

  “Really, asshole?” Ian yelled, pounding both hands on the steering wheel. He sped around the vehicle and flipped the driver off, raising his finger next to my face so the driver could see through my window. I flinched. He slowly decelerated, moving over to avoid a parked car, then returned to his lane.

  “Sorry. That really pisses me off.”

  His knuckles were still white, gripping the wheel. I glanced in the rearview mirror, making sure no other taxis were about to speed around us.

  “Maybe he was late to a meeting,” I said half-jokingly, hoping to defuse the situation.

  He didn’t respond. He just kept driving.

  A moment later, he looked over at me, as if realizing I was still in the car. “Sorry. Sometimes I can’t help losing my temper.”