Love at First Like

by Hannah Orenstein

  “Oh, he . . . I . . .” I falter. I give her a tight-lipped smile. “He’s a very private person. I’d prefer to keep his name out of this.”

  “That’s interesting. You don’t seem like a private person,” she observes, checking her notes, “. . . sharing your life with one hundred thousand followers on Instagram.”

  “I love connecting with Brooklyn Jewels’s customers and fans there, and sure, part of that means sharing pieces of my life,” I say as calmly as I can. “I share as much as I’m comfortable with.”

  “But why not share your fiancé’s name?” Taylor presses.

  I sip my coffee to stall. “He has his reasons to stay out of the spotlight. He may make a more public debut when he feels comfortable, in his own time.” My next move is important. I have to steer the conversation in the right way. “What matters is that I’ve met a wonderful guy, we’re very happy, and seriously, would you look at this ring? I mean, he did well. I’d love to tell you more about it. . . .”

  Taylor listens as I explain that I’m wearing a Brooklyn Jewels original that was handcrafted by Sophie using stones from an Israeli diamond dealer who comes to New York once a season with gems hidden in every pocket and strapped up both legs. I note that the ring exemplifies two of our customers’ favorite styles, the three-stone setting and the classic round-cut diamond. I add that we also stock less expensive versions of this ring for the bride on a budget. I pivot Taylor toward what I want her to write about: my work, not my life.

  When the interview is over, Taylor walks me to the lobby. I have one last card to play to ensure she writes the story I hope she’ll write. I pull a small black velvet pouch from my purse.

  “I brought a little something for you,” I say, handing it to her.

  She pulls the black cord drawstring and tips the contents into her palm. I’ve given her a dainty, gold chain bracelet with a tiny chip of opal on it.

  “Your birthstone, right?” I ask. I did my research.

  She’s touched. “Yes, this is gorgeous. Thank you so much,” she gushes.

  I help her clasp it on and we hug goodbye. From the photo shoot to the interview to the gift, I feel as if I’ve nailed today. For the first time in two hours, I exhale. I push through the revolving door of the grand lobby and exit onto bustling Eighth Avenue. I can see the expanse of Central Park two blocks to my left; the trees are newly green again. To my right, there’s a crowd of tourists streaming my way. I lean flat against the side of the building to catch up on my phone’s notifications: a busy mix of emails, Instagram likes, and texts—two from Carmen and one from Blake.

  “Hey there, stranger. Found a plus-one for your friend’s wedding?”

  I can’t help it—my lips curl into a pleased grin. Once upon a time, my impulse might have been to write back, “I did! How was your weekend? Didn’t you go on a trip? How was it? :)” But nearly a decade of dating in the city has taught me how to stretch out my interest like taffy: the less eager I appear up front, the longer I can capture a guy’s attention. I scale back my response.

  “I did.”

  “So the casting call worked?”

  “Ha. I guess so.”

  “Bummer—does that mean I can’t ask you out?”

  I love my life.

  “I never said that,” I type back.

  It’s the first day of spring that hints at the summer to come. Sun beats down in steady golden rays on my bare legs. I hit Send on my message. And I watch his response bubble up.

  • Chapter 5 •

  I can’t wait for my date with Blake this Saturday afternoon, and yet, I’m yawning. Like, massively. I’ve been up since 6 a.m., sliding jewelry on and off my fingers and wrists and ears, modeling it all for our Instagram. I shoot most of the photos and videos myself on my iPhone. I take excellent care of my hands—weekly manicures, no picking at my cuticles, no matter how stressed I get—specifically so we don’t have to hire a hand model for these shots. Through a combination of trial and error and research on our competitors, I’ve nailed what our followers want to see. So I stack three of the same ring in different carat sizes on my hand for potential customers to compare, enormous rocks for users to ooh and ahh over, and show off our signature setting, the three-stone, round-cut ring I wore in the engagement announcement. This morning, I took hundreds of photos, narrowed them down to the best couple dozen, and started the tedious process of editing each image. Over the next few weeks, I’ll add captions and hashtags and roll them out one at a time.

  I don’t usually work this early on Saturdays, but I’m feeling frantic. I got a letter from my landlord yesterday with bad news. When Brooklyn Jewels’s two-year lease expires in mid-November, our rent will go up by 20 percent. And since my apartment is in the same building, the rent on my studio will jump by 20 percent a month, too. We have until late October to decide whether or not to renew the leases. I always knew that we could’ve locked in our original rate—which is already exorbitant—for longer, but I hesitated to sign beyond a couple years. Thirty percent of small businesses fail in their first two years. I worried that if we committed ourselves to a brick-and-mortar storefront for longer than that, we’d inevitably fail.

  So that explains why Blake catches me in full yawn, mouth wide open, eyes scrunched up at the East Seventy-Ninth Street entrance of Central Park. I’m lucky I had the good sense to clap a hand over my mouth so that his first glimpse of me is not a front-row view of my molars. I’ve remembered to take off the engagement ring.

  “Sorry, am I boring you already?” he jokes.

  God, he is cute. He’s dressed more casually today, in olive green chinos and a lightweight navy knit with the sleeves pushed up just so.

  I punch him playfully on the arm. “No, I got up early. I’ve been working.”

  “I feel that,” he says, nodding. “I remember those days.”

  “You don’t need to work weekends anymore?”

  He shrugs diplomatically. “Things are more or less stable these days, though, of course, it’s never easy. But I can usually clear a Saturday afternoon if I have a good enough reason.”

  He’s flirting in a way that makes me smile. Blake invited me to join him at the park for a picnic, and I said yes despite the trek. He said he’d bring a blanket, a baguette, and some cold cuts. I instantly volunteered to bring the cheese and the wine. If we’re going to spend any amount of time together, Blake is going to learn one thing: I love my cheese.

  I lift up the Bedford Cheese Shop bag dangling from my wrist. “This is a good enough reason for you?”

  He peers into the bag to investigate.

  “There’s gouda, goat cheese, and truffled brie,” I explain.

  “Excellent,” he says.

  We traipse off into the park, following the winding pathways under shady trees.

  “So, you were out of town last weekend?” I ask.

  “Visiting my brother in Boston,” he supplies. “He and his wife had a baby in February. I went up when she was born and wanted to go back for another visit.”

  “That’s sweet,” I say. I can’t help but think of Sophie. I know her heart hurts when she hears about babies—I have something resembling sympathy pains.

  “She’s so tiny. So cute. Belle, that’s her name.”

  “Baby Belle, Babybel. Like the cheese,” I say automatically.

  The moment the words are out of my mouth, I want to die of embarrassment.

  He stops in his tracks and laughs.

  “Did you just compare my niece to a cheese?” he asks incredulously.

  “One-track mind,” I say, lifting the Bedford Cheese Shop bag again.

  We amble onto the Great Lawn, my favorite part of the park. It’s a lush oval of grass, smooth and sunny in the middle with baseball fields around the perimeter. Every few feet, there’s a cluster of people: women testing the newly warm weather in cutoffs and sandals, stretched out on towels with books; couples lounging with heads in laps; groups spread out with dogs, babies, Frisbees; a shi
rtless guy doing yoga under the shade of a tree; two Little League teams facing off in bright uniforms. Blake points to an open spot.

  “There?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  He pulls a big gingham picnic blanket out of his navy canvas backpack. We settle in: I arrange the cheese, discreetly unscrew the rosé to pour into plastic cups, and stash it back into my tote bag before the police at the edge of the park can see; he sets up a mini speaker to play a Spotify mix, tosses the packets of turkey and salami on the blanket, and starts to slice the baguette. And then . . . silence. I smile at him. He smiles at me. I hate those first dates that alternate between spurts of biographical information—where you grew up, how many siblings you have—and awkward silent lulls. I don’t want that to happen.

  He picks up the goat cheese I brought and studies the wrapper longer than he needs to. “It’s a good thing this isn’t Camembert,” he says.

  I latch on to what he said too quickly, eager for the awkward moment to pass. “What do you have against Camembert?”

  “When I studied abroad in Paris, my friend and I rented this little flat in the Sixteenth,” he says. “We bought Camembert our first day there, and before we knew it, the entire place reeked of stinky cheese. We spent the first week in our apartment with all the windows open to air it out. It was January.”

  “Ha.”

  “Where did you study abroad?” he asks.

  “I didn’t.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  Another lull.

  “I wanted to. Study abroad, that is. But the classes I wanted didn’t line up with the cities I was interested in, and so I figured it wasn’t worth it.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense.”

  Another lull. We both fidget with our food and sip our rosé.

  “You brought Solo cups, huh?” he says, lifting an eyebrow.

  I look down at my plastic cup. “Yeah?”

  “I can’t remember the last time I drank out of one of these. Spring fling, senior year, maybe?” The memory of it makes him grin.

  “Oh, come on, what else are you supposed to drink out of in the park?”

  “Clear plastic cups,” he says simply, as if it’s that obvious. “Plastic wineglasses. Not . . . Solo cups.”

  Another lull. A familiar wave of disappointment washes over me. I’ve been here before: cute guy, good on paper, flirty texts, zero chemistry in real life. I see the afternoon spinning out before me as a dull stretch of small talk ruining what should be the most glorious first weekend of spring. Without meaning to, I let out an audible sigh.

  “I’m sorry, this shouldn’t be one of those dates,” he says, wincing. His brown eyes crinkle.

  I’m embarrassed that he senses my disinterest.

  “What do you mean?” I say, faking bewilderment.

  “I mean, we don’t need to talk about dumb college stuff like semesters abroad and Solo cups. Tell me something that matters. Tell me more about what you do.”

  I admire his confidence to call out our stilted mood. The vibe lightens up. He leans back on his elbows and I relax onto my side. I tell him about how Sophie and I launched our business, and he chimes in with his own startup horror stories. He grins and compliments my ambition; he says it’s impressive. We bond over what characters the old-school Diamond District dealers are, and he makes me laugh with a surprisingly accurate, gruff impression of a guy whose family has been operating their tiny storefront on Forty-Seventh Street since they escaped Nazi Germany. He nails the hoarse accent in a way that proves he’s spent his fair share of hours negotiating with them, like I have. From there, the conversation slides smoothly out of work territory, ping-ponging from my grisly love of true crime documentaries to the elderly resident who walks a pet turtle on a leash outside his building every Friday night.

  “I don’t believe you,” I protest.

  “Then maybe we’ll have to go stake out the building together next Friday night,” he says, his hand grazing my knee.

  My heart does an anxious flip. I’m not ready to banter back and forth about a second date. I like Blake. He’s a perfectly nice guy, though I don’t feel that intangible, electric spark between us, either. But right now, I don’t need the love of my life—although I want that someday. I need a fake fiancé. Someone who looks good on paper, and maybe with a filter, too. It would be so convenient and easy if Blake could be that guy for me, though I’m not sure I feel the chemistry.

  Blake leans across the gingham picnic blanket to kiss me. I turn my head ever so slightly to offer him my cheek instead. If he’s disappointed, he doesn’t make a show of it; he pulls back and offers me a small smile.

  “Should we head out?” he asks. “It’s getting a little chilly.”

  I’m grateful for the out.

  I bring the leftover cheese to Sophie and Liv’s apartment that night. It’s a little melted from sitting in the sun all day, but it’ll do. If I need to have a tough conversation with Sophie about money, I’d rather do it with three wedges of cheese between us. I savor the walk down their tree-lined block full of brownstones. Their neighborhood looks like Nora Ephron’s version of New York: classic, gorgeous, expensive. Sophie couldn’t afford Park Slope on her own, but Liv’s lawyer salary helps. When I reach their building, I take a deep breath to collect myself before I hit the buzzer.

  My sister and I have always been close. That’s not to say we don’t get bogged down in the same occasional, passive-aggressive ruts that other pairs of siblings do—we do. But we both want to see this joint dream through so badly, we’re able to let those minor dramas slide. From the start, we’ve had a clear plan in place: we’d play to our strengths. I might weigh in on a piece of jewelry and she might offer an opinion on how we spend our budget, but she has the final say on the creative side and I have the final say on the business side. That makes what I’m about to discuss with her even worse. She’s savvy enough to weigh in on our finances, but the ultimate decision will be mine. And I need her input.

  The buzzer blares. I push open the front door and walk up a flight of stairs to their apartment on the second floor. Liv is waiting for me by the door, and I can smell Sophie’s cooking wafting into the hall—something spicy, though I can’t identify what. I hug Liv. She’s in an old, oversized T-shirt from her college marching band and clutching a plastic-covered library book (Sophie’s type: nerds).

  To borrow a phrase from every New York real estate listing ever, the apartment is “cozy.” But they’ve managed to make it homey, too. The living room walls are painted like pale sunshine and covered in custom art, mostly from their friends. An afghan made by Liv’s mom is thrown over their tweed couch, and a pair of shelves are overflowing with stacks of books organized by the colors of the rainbow.

  “I can’t remember the last time you voluntarily gave up your Saturday night to hang out at home with us,” Sophie calls from the kitchen. She’s in an apron stirring something in a wok on the stove.

  “Yeah, about that . . .” I slide onto one of the bar stools at the island that separates the cramped kitchen from the living room and plunk down the blocks of cheese. “I’m not exactly here for a fun Saturday night.”

  “Well, jeez, thanks,” Liv says, pushing up her glasses.

  “No, no, I mean, I got some not-so-fun news from Roy.” Our landlord.

  “Oh.” Sophie stops stirring. She turns away from the stove to lean her elbows on the kitchen island.

  “It’s our rent,” I say, letting the explanation tumble out in a rush: the rent hike, the October deadline to make a decision.

  My words hang in the air.

  Liv is the first to speak. I’ve come to love her over the years, but I despise when she interjects herself into our work. It’s not like I run over to her law firm and negotiate divorce settlements for her. (Of course, she’s a divorce attorney. Sophie says opposites attract.)

  “That neighborhood is absurd,” she says. “You’re paying top dollar for the privilege of living in an Urban Outfitters comme
rcial. Can’t you ditch the hipster nonsense and move the shop somewhere else?”

  “The neighborhood is part of the appeal,” I insist. “Our customers are there. We get amazing foot traffic.”

  “But we’re already stretched so thin.” Sophie groans and pushes her hair back. “We’re just barely making rent every month as it is.”

  “Our sales are on the upswing lately,” I point out.

  “Sure. This month. What about next month?”

  The answer rolls around my mouth and I’m not sure I should say it out loud.

  “What, you think your little marketing stunt is going to boost our sales permanently?” Sophie asks.

  Liv pads into the kitchen and plants herself by Sophie’s side. She purses her lips at that thought.

  “Look, maybe it’s nuts, but it’s working. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the wave of new followers and sales to new customers. And it’s only going to get better in time.”

  “Eliza . . .” Sophie looks at me with big, pleading eyes.

  “What?”

  She sighs. “I really doubt that we can afford to renew the lease at the higher rate. It’s a lot of money. It might be too much. Think practically.”

  I picture us shutting down the shop, losing the business, me living on that tweed couch. The mere thought of it makes my head feel fizzy with pressure. I pinch the bridge of my nose, waiting for the right words to come.

  “We can make it work. We’ll cut our salaries!”

  Sophie and Liv exchange heavy glances.

  “No,” Liv says simply.

  “We can’t do that,” Sophie says after a beat. Her face falls. “We really need the money.”

  “You’re doing another round of IVF,” I guess.

  Liv snakes her arm around Sophie’s waist. “We want to,” she explains. “But our insurance won’t cover another round. It’ll be fifteen thousand dollars this time, entirely out of pocket.”

  “That’s why we’re at home making our own stir-fry instead of going out,” Sophie says. Her eyes go wide. “Shit! The stir-fry.” She whirls around, turns off the burner, and uses pot holders to move the wok to the other side of the stove.