Love at First Like

by Hannah Orenstein

  With Raj trailing behind me, I see my apartment with fresh eyes. It’s a studio, so there’s nowhere to hide; everything is out in the open for judgment. The chair nearest to the door is draped with a pile of assorted sweaters and unopened mail, with a cluster of shoes scattered beneath it. The bed is unmade and rumpled. I should probably have vacuumed my rug at least one level of dust ago. It’s not that I love being a disgusting slob—it’s just that whatever energy I can devote to cleaning, I spend in the shop. A baby could lick our floors and probably crawl out healthier than ever before.

  Raj, apparently, does not seem to notice what my apartment looks like. “Dope place,” he says, crossing the room to reach the open bathroom door.

  And through his eyes, I see how it could be not so bad. I have a cool sheepskin rug that’s plush under your toes and a row of leafy green plants lined up on my windowsill (they’re fake, but at a distance, who can tell?). I finally got around to framing all my posters in matching black frames, including an original from the 1948 De Beers “A Diamond Is Forever” campaign, which cemented the modern tradition of symbolizing an engagement with a diamond ring. (Thank god.) My apartment is small and could use a good deep clean, but maybe it’s not as embarrassing as I think.

  I move a half-read book from one end of the couch and sink onto it. When I pull out my phone, I see a missed call and then a series of texts from Blake.

  “Hey! Hope you’re having a great week,” the first one reads.

  The next one is a long block of text. “Bond and Time bought a table at a charity gala this Saturday night. Would you happen to be free to join me as my date? The event is kind of a big deal for me and I’d love to have you there with me.”

  The last one is a punch to my gut. “I miss you,” Blake wrote.

  Raj emerges from my bathroom. His face lights up eagerly.

  “Hey! Your soap? It smells ridiculously good.” He holds his palms to his face and inhales deeply.

  I freeze. It’s not wrong to have Raj here. He’s a friend, isn’t he? There’s nothing illicit between us; I’m even helping him find other women to date. Technically speaking, I’m not even really sure that Blake and I are exclusive. We’re not an official couple, and we’ve never had a talk about whether or not to keep seeing other people. But with Blake’s texts burning in my hand, I suddenly feel guilty. With so much at stake, I should be spending my time and energy on Blake—not on any other guy, regardless of my intentions.

  I gulp a swallow and try to droop slightly against the couch. “Um, I’m actually not feeling super well,” I say.

  He drops his hands. “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, it, like, just came over me.”

  “I could go get you some Tylenol? Benadryl? Sudafed? Advil?”

  “Oh, no, I’m good. I think I have all that here.”

  He grins. “You want some chicken soup? I know the best place for chicken soup. It’s not far from here, I swear.”

  I’m torn. I feel even worse for lying to Raj.

  “Seriously, I’m good. But I think it might be best if you head out.”

  For a split second, his face drops.

  “Yeah, totally. You should get some rest,” he says. He pushes up the sleeves of his hoodie and runs his hands through his hair.

  He heads for the door and I meet him there. There’s a brief pause where neither of us knows what to do. He awkwardly leans in for a hug, but it’s a half-hearted one.

  “Feel better soon,” he says, turning away. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “Yeah!” I call down the stairs as he takes them quickly away from my door.

  When Raj is gone, I sprawl belly-down on my bed and answer Blake’s texts.

  “Aw, I’d love to join you this weekend. That sounds amazing. Thanks for inviting me!”

  He writes back a minute later. “Awesome. I’ll send you the details soon.”

  “Perf. What are you up to, BTW?”

  “Not much, actually . . . just Mad Men.”

  “Can I come over?”

  Before his response even hits my phone, I know what it’ll be. My heart races. I’ve got him.

  • Chapter 13 •

  The box arrives on Saturday afternoon. It’s Jess’s day off, so I’m silently watching a group of customers browse when I notice movement outside the window: a bike messenger locking up his ride onto a telephone pole. He’s wearing a yellow-and-orange reflective vest over a dingy long-sleeved T-shirt and has a blue canvas backpack slung over one shoulder. I’m surprised to see him enter the shop.

  “I have your delivery, miss,” he says, addressing me.

  “I didn’t order anything,” I explain.

  He scans the room. “This is Brooklyn Jewels?” He recites the address.

  “Yes.”

  “Then this is for you.”

  He unzips his backpack, places a slick black box the size of a book on the glass counter, and hitches his backpack over his shoulder again. He’s gone before I can open the mysterious box. The customers, three young women who sound French, swivel to look at me. If they seemed like they were seriously going to make a purchase, maybe I’d hold off on opening it. But they’ve spent the past five minutes lingering, whispering among themselves, and declining my offers for help. One is holding a McDonald’s bag dotted with grease and another is furiously texting instead of actually looking at the jewels. They won’t mind if I open it. There’s no label or note, and my curiosity gets the better of me.

  I lift the lid on the box to find a women’s watch. The band is delicate stainless steel and looks like a river of shiny silver pebbles. The face is black, elegantly oblong, and framed at the top and bottom with matching arcs of round-cut diamonds. Tiffany & Co.’s logo is etched beneath the Roman numeral for twelve. The last time I wore a watch was when my eighth-grade science teacher insisted we all have them in order to be on time for our field trip to the aquarium. It had a plastic band that made my wrist sweat. But this is different—this is like a work of art.

  There’s a note inside the box, too. A man’s spiky handwriting on a white card reads: “Wear this tonight?—B.”

  And so, of course, I do. A few hours later, Sophie comes in to take over my shift, and I scurry upstairs to shower, curl my hair into beachy waves, and slip into my dress—the same figure-hugging, emerald green gown I wore to my sister’s wedding. At the time, I had winced at the cost, even with Bloomingdale’s semiannual sale prices, but she’d begged me to buy it, insisting that I’d have plenty of opportunities to wear it again; tonight is the first time I’ve taken it out of my closet in three years.

  Blake had texted me earlier today, offering to pick me up, but it truly would make no sense for him to take a cab down the Upper East Side, across the Queensboro Bridge, through Long Island City, Greenpoint, and Williamsburg in order to pick me up . . . only to turn the car right around and head back to the Upper East Side. I didn’t blame him at all for not coming to get me. So instead, I call an Uber to take me to Gustavino’s, the charity gala venue. I’m glad I am arriving on my own. I’m more nervous than I had expected to be.

  I’ve spent three of the past five nights at Blake’s apartment: Tuesday, after our walk along the Brooklyn Bridge; Wednesday, after Raj left; and Thursday, when he sent a heart-racing text in the middle of the afternoon: “Is there any chance I could see you one more night? My bed will feel empty without you in it.” I went over after happy hour with Carmen.

  We were slowly growing more comfortable with each other: he opens the door in white T-shirts now, rather than blazers and button-downs; I dared to lie next to him in bed with three full days of leg hair stubble. There were still some occasional lulls in our conversation, the kind that made my chest tight with anticipation. But we always managed to steer past them by jumping into conversation about work or the city.

  And then, finally, Thursday night, we were lying awake in his bed, with nothing but a few lights from the apartment across the street to illuminate each other’s faces. He w
as toying with my fingers.

  “When I introduce you to people on Saturday, what should I . . . what should I call you?” he asked hesitantly.

  “What do you want to call me?” I shot back. I aimed for sassy, not desperate—I’m not sure which side I landed on.

  “I think ‘girlfriend’ has a pretty nice ring to it. What do you think?”

  And I kissed him. I said yes. Were the circumstances different, I might have asked if we could continue getting to know each other better. I don’t take the labels “boyfriend” or “girlfriend” lightly, especially not in a world where you can be sleeping with a person three times a week and they’ll still only call you a “friend.” If there was no external pressure whatsoever on our relationship, I would want to wait until my feelings for him were stronger before agreeing to an exclusive, official relationship. But if that’s what Blake wants, so be it. I don’t have time to waste. I’m grateful his feelings are progressing at a steady clip—that makes my life easier.

  So tonight will count as our public debut. I’ll meet his colleagues and the industry professionals he knows. There may be photographers. For the first time, we’ll look like a real couple. The charity gala isn’t just a fancy date night. If it goes well, it’s one more significant step toward my plan working out. If it goes poorly—I don’t want to think about it.

  The Uber rolls to a stop outside a sprawling building tucked underneath the 59th Street Bridge. The façade is decorated with soaring granite arches. Soft amber light glows through the windows. I sweep the full length of my gown carefully out of the car and take a deep breath before starting down the stately brick path that will lead me inside.

  “Walking in,” I text Blake.

  “I’ll come meet you,” he writes back.

  He pushes open the glass double doors before I can reach the building. The tux is the first thing I see, and it’s like he was born to wear it. The second thing I see is his smile—crinkly-eyed and genuine.

  “You look so beautiful,” he calls down the path.

  I can’t help but blush. His compliment gives me butterflies. My heel hits a slightly raised piece of brick and I trip, catching myself before I do anything too embarrassing.

  “Uh, hello!” I say, gesturing to his tux. “You don’t look too bad, yourself.”

  Eye contact feels too intense during my last few steps to close the gap between us, and I let my gaze drift over his shoulder into the throng of people inside. When I finally reach him, he plants his hands on my hips and draws me in close for a kiss. I try to strike the right balance between leaning into the kiss and not letting my lipstick smudge. As we part, he runs his fingers appreciatively over the watch on my wrist.

  “You wore it,” he says, clearly proud.

  “Of course, I did. Thank you so much. I was so surprised!”

  “I thought it’d be fun to surprise you at work.”

  “You like doing that, don’t you?”

  “Gotta keep a girl on her toes,” he says, taking my hand and leading me into the venue.

  If only he knew. I’m on my toes so often around him, I might as well be wearing pointe shoes.

  Gustavino’s is equally stunning on the inside. The ceiling is an undulating sea of tiled arches held up by stately pillars. Impressive white floral centerpieces top each table. The crowd is full of elegant tuxes and shimmery, silky, saturated gowns. Blake confidently leads me toward a cluster of people near the bar.

  “Mind if I introduce you to a few people?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say, hoping he can’t feel how clammy my hands have become.

  It’s been years since a guy has introduced me to anyone—so long ago, in fact, that the most memorable example that springs to mind is meeting Holden’s friends at a PBR-soaked basement apartment party back in college. A far cry from Blake’s charity gala.

  He slides easily into a circle of people; they shift to make room for us both. Each face seems expectant, like they knew I’d be coming.

  “Everyone, this is my girlfriend, Eliza,” he says, slipping my new title in so smoothly. “Eliza, this is my CFO, Dan, his wife, Arielle, Peter, who heads up biz dev, and his partner, Jeff.”

  Dan. Arielle. Peter. Jeff. I try to keep the names from swimming; I can’t tell yet if Blake considers these people simply coworkers or actual friends. I shake hands with the men and expect to shake Arielle’s, too, but she pulls me into a hug and kisses me on the cheek. She has a blond braided updo that shows off glittering earrings dangling nearly to her shoulder; they’re kitschy costume jewelry but the nicer kind that can run well into three-digit price tags. I exhale—if nothing else, we can bond over jewelry. I’m wearing Brooklyn Jewels emerald studs to match my dress tonight. I wish more of my customers would be interested in stones other than diamonds; the variety makes them more fun to sell.

  “So, we finally meet her,” Dan says, offering Blake a playful grin.

  “I promised you she was real,” he jokes.

  Am I? I feel guilty again for not being completely honest with him. I knock my knuckles against the side of my head with a solid thunk.

  “Ha. Real. I swear,” I say, trying to laugh.

  “I’m going to grab us drinks—what do you want?” Blake asks, squeezing my arm.

  He’s already trailing off to the bar.

  “Uh, whatever you’re having is fine,” I say, too flustered to make a decision.

  And then I’m alone with his crew. I’m not normally a shy person—the opposite, in fact. But I so desperately want to play this right, I feel seized by nerves. Arielle and I stare at each other for a moment of silence before we both rush to say, “I love your earrings.” The identical comments make us laugh; the tension between us softens.

  “Where are they from?” she asks.

  “Actually, they’re my own. I run a jewelry company with my sister,” I explain.

  “Oh, what’s it called?”

  “Brooklyn Jewels.”

  Arielle’s eyes narrow. I finger the back of my earring, suddenly terrified that she might recognize me.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  She pulls out her phone and begins to scroll through Instagram. My blood runs cold. I try to peer over the edge of her screen. Ten brutal seconds later, she looks up at me and shakes her head.

  “No, I thought for a sec that you might have designed my friend’s ring. But I guess that was some other company—so sorry for confusing you with someone else.”

  “No problem,” I say, pressing my lips together into a tight smile.

  Luckily, the rest of the group dives in to ask me softball questions about which bar Blake and I met at and which neighborhood I live in. I volley back questions of the same kind. Waiters flit by offering plates of hors d’oeuvres: bruschetta, croquettes, beef satay, each more colorfully garnished than the last. Before too long, Blake is back, carrying two flutes of champagne.

  I sip mine and try to relax. Blake’s hand lingers on the small of my back, keeping me close to him. He and his friends joke around easily—and the more I watch, the more I can tell that these are people he truly considers to be friends, not just coworkers. It seems as if he’s the ringleader of the group, which would make sense, given his position as founder and CEO. Everyone in the group pivots slightly toward him, and the gala sounds like his idea.

  “He never passes up an opportunity for a good tuxedo moment,” Arielle tells me quietly. “He practically upstaged Dan at our wedding.”

  We both turn and look at the guys. Dan is also wearing a tux. Let’s be honest, there is not much of a competition between who wears it better.

  Chatting with Arielle kicks off a funny realization. If Blake is my boyfriend, and these are his friends, that means they could very well become my friends, too. This is what my life could look like: dressing for black-tie galas, bonding with Arielle over jewelry, feasting on tiny bites of passed appetizers. As foreign as that feels, it also feels right. I came to New York to have a life like this one. Blake could be the fi
nal puzzle piece that clicks everything into place.

  A voice floats through the room, ushering us toward our seats. I turn to see a man on stage with a microphone. A banner above his head reads, “American Heart Association.” It clicks—of course Blake wanted to be here tonight. He must support this cause in honor of his dad. Blake leads me and his friends to a table halfway between the bar and the stage, covered in a white tablecloth with more silverware than a Crate & Barrel. I hesitate, not sure exactly where to sit, but Blake instructs me to take the spot to his right. His friends fan out to his left. A blond woman I don’t know approaches and asks if I mind if she and her fiancé nab the open seats next to me.

  I look quizzically back at Blake.

  “Oh, no, go ahead! Of course, please join us,” he says.

  The woman sweeps the skirt of her black embroidered gown to the side and sits down elegantly next to me, as if this is just another Saturday night for her. Her tuxedoed fiancé, a lanky guy glued to his phone, joins us.

  “We actually just bought half the table,” Blake admits quietly.

  “So? That’s amazing. Really amazing,” I offer.

  I hadn’t even noticed there was ambient music, but it fades to silence as everyone settles in. Chatter dies down.

  The host, a stout fifty-something man who looks like he intentionally matched his red bow tie to the association’s banner, clears his throat. He introduces himself as a member of the board and congratulates us all for choosing to support such a worthy cause. There’s a round of applause from the audience; I clap, then place a supportive hand on Blake’s knee.