Love at First Like

by Hannah Orenstein

  Raj grins. “I used to love those.”

  “I’m not artistic, not the way Sophie is,” I add. “But I loved the idea of working with jewelry and helping people find pieces that they really appreciate, the way Helen did. When she retired and closed down her shop, I was really upset. I missed it, you know? And that’s when I knew I had to have a shop of my own.”

  From there, the conversation spirals into why we’d both die before racking up student loans in grad school and what we’d do if we won the lottery. By the time the mozzarella sticks and beer are gone, it’s fully dark out—I don’t know where the time has gone. Aside from a couple that looks like they’re on an awkward first date, Raj and I are the only people left in the bar.

  I’ve never really had guy friends before. Sure, there were guys I knew in college, and we’d hang out after class and on weekends, but that’s not quite the same thing as what I have with Raj. Those were friendships of convenience. Back then, we led lives with a shared rhythm—classes, internships, parties, stumbling bleary-eyed and hungover into the library on weekend afternoons to cram. But now, there’s no real gravity holding me and Raj together, aside from the fact that he’s just genuinely cool. He’s easy to be myself around. And these days, that’s increasingly rare to come by.

  “I’m glad things are okay between us,” he says suddenly, giving me a sheepish look. “You know, after the other night.”

  “Oh my god, yeah. Yeah! I just wasn’t feeling well. Thanks for being so chill about it.”

  He reaches over the bar to give me a hug. “So, we’re cool,” he says, laughing.

  “Always, dude,” I say, clapping a hand onto his shoulder.

  When we break apart, he goes from starry-eyed to straight-faced in a split second. He coughs and looks away. His cheeks flush. I wouldn’t blush just from hugging a friend—but I’m not confident enough to call him out on it, either. I push the thought away, crumple up my napkin, and formulate an excuse for why I really need to get going.

  • Part 2 •

  September

  • Chapter 16 •

  Somehow, the calendar has slipped into September. I only realize summer is nearly gone when my phone buzzes with an alert to pay the rent. I was busier than ever at Brooklyn Jewels. A beloved reality star got engaged with one of our pieces in June, which instantly spurred a flood of orders for identical rings. Meanwhile, the shop’s Instagram following ballooned, which translated into my spending more and more hours glued to my phone, replying to comments and keeping up with the steady stream of DMs. We’re actually making real money. The influx of business makes me feel hopeful about the company’s future—but every day that goes by is another day closer to the deadline to re-sign or give up the storefront’s lease, and another day closer to a wedding that seems increasingly impossible to pull off without a cooperating groom.

  My relationship with Blake has hit milestone after milestone: we’ve met all of each other’s friends; he’s met my family; we’ve traveled together for a weekend getaway. We’re moving frighteningly fast. But the more boxes we tick, the more obvious it becomes to me that we have so many more milestones to hit before an engagement. Don’t serious couples swap keys? They definitely have spent more than forty-eight consecutive hours together. I’m still anxious about peeing too loudly in his apartment.

  There are moments when I consider telling him the full truth about our relationship. More often than I’d like to admit, I feel guarded around him, and I can’t help but believe that’s because I’m hiding a massive secret. The longer I hide it from him, the harder it is to fathom a point when I can tell him the truth. But if I never set the record straight, I fear he won’t ever understand who I really am.

  I almost came clean to him the night he met my parents. They drove down from Maine one Friday in August to pick me up the day before my uncle’s retirement party in Connecticut. I arranged for Blake to join us at dinner. He and my parents were all running late, so I sat by myself at an empty table for fifteen minutes, nervously rereading the menu and second-guessing the entire evening. I had been with Holden for more than a year by the time we were ready to meet each other’s parents. Was this new relationship strong enough, by comparison, to merit meeting after five months? I was halfway through texting Blake an excuse for why he shouldn’t show up after all when he arrived. My parents walked through the door less than a minute later. I had no choice but to introduce everyone like nothing was wrong. Blake charmed both of them within minutes, of course. My mom giggled flirtatiously when he shook her hand.

  “Oh, Eliza, he’s handsome,” she said—actually out loud—right in front of Blake.

  Between work and Blake, my free time had been whittled down to practically nil. But still, I made time for happy hours with Carmen and nights with Raj. We ventured beyond the bar now—once, we ate gelato together in Domino Park; another time, he brought me to his friend’s improv set at UCB.

  The summer’s momentum skids to a halt on a Thursday morning, the day before Blake and I are set to visit his family in Massachusetts for Labor Day weekend. Sophie heaves herself through the front door of the shop, wide-eyed and breathing hard.

  “I practically ran from the subway,” she announces, pausing in the doorframe to catch her breath. “Blake called me this morning.”

  “Blake called you?” I repeat. I have our black velvet trays spread out across the glass counter and I’m setting up the cases for the day.

  “He says—and I quote—he’s ‘ready to propose and wants to do it right.’ ”

  My heart races. I drop the edgy black diamond stacking ring I’m holding. “He said what?”

  “He wanted my advice on choosing the right ring for you. He wasn’t sure if you’d want a Brooklyn Jewels piece or not, and I was like, ‘Obviously, she has to have one to promote our brand.’ ”

  “So you turned my boyfriend asking for my hand into a marketing meeting?” I say, on the verge of laughter.

  She continues like I didn’t say anything. “And he wanted to know if there was a specific piece you had your heart set on, or if there were certain styles he should look at. It was kind of sweet, to be honest. I mean, it’s clear he really cares.”

  I start to feel light-headed, shaky. Is this real? I take a deep breath to try to steady myself. Luckily, there’s a stool behind me that I can sink onto for support.

  “So what did you say to him?!”

  She revels in a long, slow grin. “I’m a genius. I knew you’d need him to propose with the ring you already debuted on Instagram. So I told him I knew just the right piece for you, and I’d bring it to him. So!” She holds her hand out expectantly.

  I stare at her dumbly.

  “Eliza? I need the ring.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just overwhelmed. Yeah, here.”

  I gently tug the ring off my finger. This feels surreal. I know that inspiring Blake to propose quickly has been the plan all along—but now that it’s actually about to happen, I can’t quite believe it. I should be victorious right now. Instead, I’m scared. My hands shake when I hand the ring over to Sophie.

  She laughs. “You know, I never thought about this until now, but this is the last piece I’d choose for you.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s like the McMansion of engagement rings.”

  “And now it’ll be on your finger forever,” she says.

  A chill runs down my spine.

  When I meet Blake at Penn Station the next afternoon, I can’t help but glance toward his pockets. They look smooth—so if he is carrying my ring, it’s not in such an obvious place. I wonder if it’s in the monogrammed L.L.Bean duffel he has slung over his shoulder. We’re boarding a 2 p.m. Amtrak to Boston, where his mom will pick us up and take us back to their house in the suburb of Needham for the weekend.

  “You okay?” he asks, looking carefully at me.

  “Just nervous, I guess,” I say, shrugging.

  I shift the orchid I’m carrying from one hip to the other. I had bee
n so desperate to make a good impression, I purchased his mom’s favorite flower to get on her good side. It didn’t occur to me at the time how precarious schlepping such a delicate flower across several state lines would be. Blake gently takes it from me.

  “Here, I’ll hold this for now. Don’t worry, she’ll love you. Who wouldn’t love you? I mean, don’t you have, like, a million people on Instagram who adoringly watch your every move?” He laughs. “You’re good with people. I know you are.”

  I’m suddenly flooded with panic. “You’ve seen my Instagram?”

  He flaps his hand. “Nah, you know I don’t use it. But isn’t that true?”

  I try to laugh. “Yeah. So lovable. Everyone loves me,” I say in an obviously fake, singsongy tone.

  Guilt overwhelms me. The train station is grubby, grimy, and packed with New Yorkers straining to get out of town for the weekend. I have a desperate urge to jump on any one of these trains and get away from Blake: there’s the 3:15 to Washington, D.C., and the 3:21 to Albany.

  Blake clutches my hand and rubs his thumb soothingly over the inside of my palm. If only he knew why I was so nervous.

  Soon enough, it’s time to board the train. I consider telling him that I need to sit in the quiet car so I can get some work done ahead of the weekend, but the excuse feels wrong. I know he’s looking forward to spending time together; I can tell from the sweet way he keeps bringing up stories and jokes and snaking his hand around my hips to fit it into my back pocket. Quarantining myself in silence in the quiet car would only drive a wedge between us now, even if the idea of four hours of peace to think about my true intentions honestly sounds like heaven. So I follow him to sit wherever he’d like. After the conductor comes to scan our tickets, Blake pulls a screw-top bottle of white wine and two Styrofoam Dunkin’ Donuts cups out of his bag.

  “This is the best way to do the Amtrak,” he says, handing me one. “Trust me, I’ve got years of practice.”

  “Cheers,” I say, maybe a little too forcefully.

  Honestly, the wine does help calm my nerves. I try to relax and enjoy the fact that I’ve miraculously landed exactly where so many girls want to be: heading home to meet my charming, hot, successful boyfriend’s family, likely with a ring burning a hole somewhere in his luggage.

  Four hours later, we’ve drained the bottle and we’re pulling into Boston’s South Station. Blake takes my hand and weaves us through the crowd, holding the orchid aloft above our heads. He looks like he belongs here, even more so than he does in New York. He’s one of a dozen guys streaming off the train like salmon in Nantucket red shorts, clutching L.L.Bean bags and Dunkin’ Donuts cups. I flash back to visiting Holden’s family in LA. Even if he claimed he didn’t fit in there, that trip filled in all the blank details about him: I suddenly understood why he whined for tacos when he was drunk, and why he scoffed at the frigid summer ocean that kissed the Maine shoreline. I can only imagine the same will happen this weekend with Blake.

  Outside the station, his mom rises from a navy sedan dressed head to toe in plum Lululemon Lycra and gives us a big wave. Blake makes quick strides to meet her and envelops her in a hug.

  “Gosh, you brought me flowers!” his mom crows, ruffling his hair. “Oh, you shouldn’t have.”

  I stand off to the side, waiting to be introduced.

  “Mom, these are actually from Eliza. Mom, Eliza. Eliza, Mom,” he says.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Barrett,” I say, extending my hand.

  “Oh, please, call me Michelle,” she says, waving away her son and reaching out to hug me. Diamonds twinkle from her neck and her earlobes, but her left ring finger is bare. When she steps back, she smooths down her already smooth bob. “The orchid is so gorgeous, thank you.”

  Blake loads our luggage into the trunk and climbs into the front seat next to his mom. I wind up in the back. Boston’s Revolutionary War–era monuments and collegiate scenery along the Charles River feel familiar to me; growing up in Maine, Boston was the nearest real city we had. (At 65,000 people, Portland was the biggest city in our state. Boston had seemed massive back then. Now, visiting from New York, it looks almost quaint.) As we drive toward the highway, Michelle eagerly peppers me with questions, beginning with what it’s like to work with my sister.

  “It sounds like a lovely idea, but, I mean, can you imagine Blake and Reid working together? It’d be chaos,” she says. “They fought like cats and dogs as kids. You’ll meet him tonight, you know.”

  From what Blake has told me, he and his brother weren’t ever the closest growing up, but they made a particular effort to stay tight after their father died. Reid was a lacrosse star in high school, went on to play in college, and now manages a branch of a local bank near where they grew up.

  “He puts on a front like he’s this big, buff, intense guy,” Blake had told me once. “But he’s just a softie who wants his regular Friday night pizza delivered from the same place he’s been ordering it from for the past twenty years.”

  “Working with my sister can sometimes be a challenge,” I admit to Michelle. I feel as if I have to select my words carefully, like any slipup could create a bad impression. “But there’s no one else I’d trust enough to launch a business with. She’s amazing.”

  I don’t want to say anything more about work. If Michelle knows what I do for a living, it’s entirely possible that she could’ve looked me up online—and then stumbled across our Instagram.

  The drive turns suburban, and soon enough, we’re on a winding road surrounded on both sides by a tall thicket of pine trees. I can see just a sliver of Blake’s face from this angle, but he looks transfixed by the trees, like the sight relaxes him.

  “It’s good to be home,” he says to no one in particular.

  “You know, you could stay,” his mom says, giving him a pointed look.

  “Nah. I’d miss the city,” he replies. “And anyway, Eliza’s a city girl, too.”

  Michelle’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. She raises one eyebrow and turns the car onto a leafy side street. Blake’s words make my chest feel tight.

  We pull into their driveway and Blake, like the gentleman he is, opens my door for me. His childhood home is generously proportioned, with blue siding and a cranberry red front door set against a lush backdrop of pine trees. A long, green backyard seems like the perfect spot for two energetic boys to practice lacrosse shots all those years ago. Another car is parked in the driveway.

  “Reid and Lauren got here a while ago with the baby,” she explains.

  Inside the house, there’s a flurry of hugs and introductions, but somehow, it takes Michelle mere seconds to pour me a glass of white wine. Reid is exactly how I expected him—he has Blake’s sharp cheekbones and wavy brown hair, but his formerly athletic shape is going soft around the middle. His wife looks pretty but also completely exhausted; her hair is up in a ponytail, out of reach of the grasping infant on her lap. The decor is full of tasteful neutrals and sleek stainless-steel appliances, like in the kind of house you’d see on any TV show about upper-middle-class white people. Framed black-and-white family photos line the walls.

  I hang back while Blake catches up with his family, awkwardly smiling at Belle, the baby. She shoves a few fingers in her toothless mouth and begins to slobber. Soon enough, Blake makes the requisite introductions. I do my best impression of a perfect girlfriend: beaming at his family, politely asking questions to show how interested I am in their lives, standing with my best posture while also straining to look casual and relaxed. This is hard. I had figured that because I’m naturally sociable I could get by just fine—but I forgot how stressful this situation could be. I hadn’t realized until today how badly I wanted to impress Blake’s family. Even if our relationship began just for show, it’s hard to shake the desire for approval.

  Michelle tends to a few pots on the stove, then ushers us into the dining room for dinner. I hover by the oblong table, feeling too paralyzed to select a chair. I don’t wan
t to accidentally pick anyone’s favorite spot or sit at the head of the table. Finally, Blake sits down and pats the seat next to him. I take it gratefully.

  Dinner is simple but lovely—salmon, brown rice, steamed broccoli—expertly cooked and plated in the way that only a mom can. Michelle tells a story from this week’s Pilates class; Lauren talks about a new restaurant that opened up in town; Blake and Reid trade mostly good-natured barbs about the Red Sox versus the Yankees. I can’t remember the last time I had a family dinner without intense discussions about our businesses. This is a refreshing change of pace.

  “Now, how did you two say you met?” Reid asks.

  Blake squeezes my thigh under the table and smiles at me. “Well, I was at a local bar. Dorrian’s—you remember it? I’ve taken you out there before.”

  Reid cocks his head, a flash of recognition spreading across his features. “That place with the . . . ?”

  “Ha, it was right before you met Lauren. We met a few girls there, remember?” Blake says, waiting for his brother to catch on.

  Reid does. He laughs. Lauren rolls her eyes.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that story before,” she interjects.

  “So the night I met Eliza, I had had a stressful day at work and just wanted to blow off a little steam with a drink at Dorrian’s,” Blake says. It occurs to me that I’ve never heard this story from his perspective before. I had no idea that he’d had a difficult day before meeting me that night. “And Eliza here was holding some sort of . . . casting call? Audition?”

  “I needed to find a date to bring to my friend’s wedding,” I explain. “The search got a little out of hand, thanks to my best friend Carmen. She never quite does anything halfway.”

  “Sure. Audition, let’s call it,” Blake says, nodding. “We struck up a conversation at the bar, and I couldn’t make it to the wedding because I was here for the weekend.”