by Zaires, Anna
It’s a text message from an unknown number.
Hi, Emma, it reads. This is Marcus. I hope the flowers and the gift for your cats got to you safely. Are you free this Thursday evening? I’d love to take you out to dinner. We can debate Wall Street ethics if you wish.
I stare at the text, feeling like I’m hyperventilating. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise—after all, I did think, just moments ago, that Marcus might be courting me—but somehow, I still feel caught off-guard.
Dinner? On Thursday? That’s tomorrow.
Something soft taps my calf, and I glance down to see Cottonball swishing his tail back and forth as he stares up at me.
“He wants to have dinner with me tomorrow,” I tell the cat, and even to my own ears, I sound shell-shocked. “Can you believe that?”
Unlike Queen Elizabeth, Cottonball is not a female of any species, so he doesn’t care about my dating issues. He just lifts his paw and swats my calf again. Sighing, I put down my phone and pick him up, knowing he won’t leave me alone otherwise. Thankfully, he’s not as heavy as Mr. Puffs, so I can hold him with one arm, which leaves my hand free to pick up the phone again.
Chewing on my lip, I read the text again and wonder what to do. If this were any other man—Mark from the dating app, for instance—it would be easy. I’d thank him for the thoughtful gift, suggest a pizza place next to my apartment, and see how things go. But this is Marcus—he of the tailored suits and sex-dream-inducing hands. He makes me uneasy, and not just because of my physical reaction to him.
As bizarre as it is, there’s something almost… dangerous about him, something not quite civilized.
Cottonball emits a loud purr, bringing my attention back to him, and I put the phone down to stroke his soft, fluffy fur. He’s the cuddliest of my cats, demanding a thorough petting session at least once a day, and I’m normally happy to oblige him. Right now, though, I’m too overwhelmed to deal with a needy cat.
Marcus asked me out on a date, and I have no idea what to say.
12
Marcus
Why isn’t she answering?
Frustrated, I glare at the phone, where a tiny notification at the bottom informs me that my text message was received and read ten minutes ago. I know my frustration is not rational—ten minutes is not that long—but I can’t control the impatience consuming me.
Why the hell isn’t she answering?
I’m still in my office, and I have a million and one things to do before I can leave tonight, but all I can focus on is Emma and the lack of response to my text. Instead of working, I’ve spent the past ten minutes staring at my phone—ten minutes that, at my current hourly rate of earnings, equate to several thousand dollars.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, three dots appear.
Emma is typing something.
I find myself holding my breath like some teenager with a crush, so I force myself to look at my computer screen instead of at the phone. It’s useless, though. The spreadsheets dance in front of my eyes, the numbers refusing to make sense.
This is fucking insane.
Earlier today, I called Emmeline to thank her for the dinner and inquire about her flight, and I didn’t feel even a fraction of this bizarre excitement. Our conversation was calm and polite, and when I hung up the phone, I was more convinced than ever that Emmeline is exactly the kind of woman I’ve been looking for: beautiful, intelligent, steady, and well-mannered. She wouldn’t scream, curse, or throw a fit when something didn’t go her way; she wouldn’t stumble home drunk with two equally drunk assholes in tow; and she certainly wouldn’t fuck said assholes in front of her five-year-old son.
My mood darkens at that childhood recollection, and I glance back at the phone, where the three dots are still going strong. What is Emma doing for so long? Writing a text message essay?
The very fact of my impatience adds to my frustration. Over the decade and a half of running my fund, I’ve developed nerves of steel. I’ve had to—because as the fund’s assets under management have grown, so has the amount of capital we risk on each trade. Just in the past five years, our biggest positions have gone from several million dollars to just over a billion. If I hadn’t taught myself patience—if I hadn’t learned to stop watching every tick of the market and focus on what needs to be done—I would’ve stressed myself into an early heart attack.
So if I can put a billion-dollar trade out of my mind, why can’t I tear my eyes away from those three fucking dots?
Come on, I will the screen. Just spit it out already. If I could reach through the phone and shake the little redhead, I would do so, because this is ridiculous. How long does it take to type out a yes or a no? Preferably a yes, but even a rejection would be better than this endless waiting. I wouldn’t accept it, of course, but it would give me something to go on, a starting point for the rest of my slake-hunger-for-Emma campaign. I would be able to strategize and come up with the next move—
The three dots disappear and are replaced by text.
Thank you for the flowers and the food. My cats are very pleased :). How about Papa Mario’s Pizza at 7 p.m. for our ethics discussion?
My first reaction—relief—transforms into confusion as I look up the suggested restaurant. A quick search reveals a dingy website and Yelp reviews talking about a “hole in the wall with the cheapest pizza in Brooklyn.” It’s about two blocks from Emma’s apartment, but as far as I can tell, that’s the only thing the place has going for it.
Why the fuck does Emma want to go there?
I drum my fingers on the table, thinking, then text: If you’re in the mood for Italian, I know an excellent family restaurant in Bensonhurst. They have the best pizza in the five boroughs, and it’s not far from where you live. Pick you up at 6:45?
The three dots appear almost instantly this time, followed by: What is the place called?
I frown at the phone. In my experience, when I offer to take a woman out, she lets me pick the place and doesn’t question my suggestions, especially when that particular suggestion happens to be the same type of food she seems to be in the mood for.
Emma is either a control freak or really particular about her pizza.
My frown deepening, I text back the name of the place and wait.
Three minutes later, I get the response: Okay. I’ll be ready.
The surge of satisfaction is as intense as when I made my first million. Grinning savagely, I put away the phone and turn my attention back to my computer screen, where the numbers are finally making sense again.
The first big battle of the Emma campaign is won, and I can’t wait for the rest of the war.
13
Emma
When I tell Kendall about my upcoming date, she all but chokes on her coffee. “You what?”
“I’m meeting a hedge fund manager for dinner tonight,” I say, pouring a liberal amount of milk into my own cup of java. “So you see, I’m a cat lady no more.”
“Okay, whoa. Back up a step.” She leans forward, her hazel eyes gleaming with the intensity of a shark smelling blood. “When and how did this happen?”
Grinning, I tell her the whole story, beginning with the mix-up in identity. “So yeah,” I conclude, “I have a date tonight.”
“With Marcus the hedge fund manager,” she says incredulously. “Who pretty much stalked you to your apartment and sent you cat food. And gave you sex dreams.”
“Yep.” My grin widens. “The one and only.”
Kendall and I rarely get to see each other during the weekdays, but I have this Thursday off, so I decided to come up to Manhattan to grab coffee with her.
I had to see her reaction in person.
She doesn’t disappoint. “Emma!” My name comes out on a high-pitched squeal. “Holy shit, I’m so proud of you! Bagging Mr. Hedge Fund!”
The other customers in the café look our way, but I’m too excited to feel embarrassed. Ever since Marcus’s text, I’ve been trying to come off this strange hig
h, but I can’t. I’m so hyper I barely slept last night, but I don’t feel the least bit tired.
I have a date with Marcus.
“Do you know what his fund is called, or how big it is?” Kendall asks, bringing me out of a feverish day dream that involves Marcus’s hands and other body parts. “Or what his last name is? In general, have you looked him up? Do you know if he’s married, single, or divorced?”
“No and no,” I say, fighting the urge to blush at Kendall’s innocent mention of “big.” “I’ll ask all this tonight. I’m sure he’s not married, though. This Emmeline sounded like a blind date, and he wouldn’t be doing that if he already had someone.”
“Oh, please.” Kendall snorts into her coffee. “Don’t be naive. Men do all sorts of things for pussy. Besides, you’ve just met the guy. For all you know, he could be a serial adulterer.”
“True, but I don’t think so.” I could be totally off base, but Marcus didn’t come across as someone who would cheat—not once he was in a committed relationship, at least. For a moment, I wonder what happened that day with Emmeline, but then I dismiss the thought.
If he’d clicked with her, I doubt he would’ve asked me out.
“All right,” Kendall says, flicking her long dark hair back over her shoulder. “Just remember: do your due diligence, because men are dogs. Or if the feline analogy works better for you, tomcats. You’ve always dated schmucks who couldn’t get two women if they tried, so you don’t have a lot of experience with this—”
“Gee, thanks. Glad to hear you have such a high opinion of my charms.”
Kendall has the grace to look embarrassed. “Look, I’m not saying you’re not attractive—you just tend to gravitate toward guys who don’t make you feel threatened in any way.”
“What?” This conversation has definitely taken a turn for the weird.
Kendall sighs. “Emma… Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re just not a risk taker, okay? You like to play it safe, to have everything be comfortable and routine. That’s why you’re still in Brooklyn instead of sunny Florida, why you’re working at that little bookstore instead of trying for something better, and why you hide behind your cats and your ratty clothes and your books—and men who are the way you perceive yourself, instead of the way you really are.”
“Wait, what?” There’s so much bizarre psychobabble there that I don’t know what to tackle first. I can’t believe Kendall has these opinions of me. “You yourself said that I’ve turned into a cat lady, so how exactly am I misperceiving myself? And I am so a risk taker—I freelance, remember?” My voice rises with indignation. “As to why I haven’t moved to Florida with my grandparents, you know full well that the majority of the publishing industry is here, and if I want a career in it—”
“But you don’t.” Kendall gives me a steady look. “A career in publishing might’ve been your goal once, but you’ve told me yourself that the industry landscape is shifting, and the big publishers aren’t what they used to be. That’s why you’re able to get all those freelance editing jobs—which, by the way, is something you’ve been content to do halfheartedly on the side instead of trying to make a real go of it.” She crosses her arms. “Face it, Emma: You’re in Brooklyn working at your very first job because you don’t like change.”
“That’s not true—”
“Yes, it is.” She uncrosses her arms and picks up her coffee cup. “That’s why you wear your clothes until they literally fall apart on you, and why you only date guys who stand no chance with another girl as pretty as you. As to the cat lady thing, I just said that because you’ve been neglecting yourself, and I wanted you to do something about it—which you clearly did.”
She grins, obviously hoping to bring the topic back to Marcus, but I’m too upset to smile back. The worst part of Kendall’s unflattering assessment of me is that she’s right about one thing: the career I planned for might never come to pass, yet I haven’t changed course to adjust for that, choosing to hide my head in the sand instead. When I started working at Smithson Books, I was a junior in college, and I regarded the job as a temporary part-time opportunity, a way to make a little money while being loosely connected to the industry I wanted to be in. But when I couldn’t find a job with a major publishing company upon graduation because all of them were shrinking and restructuring, I stayed at the bookstore, all the while telling myself that I was just biding time until my real career began.
Weeks turned into months, then into years, and here I am, still biding time.
Self-disgust is a thick knot in my throat as I confront another unpleasant fact: Kendall is right about my freelance editing too. I have been half-assing it, treating it more like a hobby than a business. I haven’t even built a website, though I know the importance of that in a largely online book community.
No wonder I’m drowning in student loans and stressing over every meal out: I’m living in one of the most expensive cities in the world on a cashier’s salary—all so I can cling to the idea of a career that I know no longer makes sense.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” I try—and fail—not to sound bitter. Being forced to face reality is a bitch. “If you saw that I was being an idiot, why didn’t you say something before this?”
Kendall’s expression turns somber. “Because I didn’t think you were ready to hear it—and because I didn’t want you to react the way you’re reacting now. I know you have reasons for wanting the comfort of the familiar, and it’s not like you were doing anything dangerous or self-destructive. You just let yourself get into a rut, which is something I know you can fix if you set your mind to it. Besides, I selfishly want you here, not in Florida or wherever you might move to if you had a full-time editing business that you could do from anywhere.”
“Kendall…” I don’t know if I want to smack her or hug her, so I settle for doing neither. Instead, I pick up my cup of coffee and try to manage my spinning thoughts as I gulp down the hot liquid. Latching on to the one inconsistency in her spiel, I ask, “If you feel this way, why are you trying to warn me away from Marcus? Isn’t he a step in the right direction? Something different… something risky?”
“Yes, of course he is, and that’s why I’m so proud of you.” Kendall’s tense expression eases as a playful grin tugs at the corners of her lips. “You’re venturing out of your comfort zone, and I couldn’t be happier about that. I just don’t want you to rush into anything blindly and get hurt as you take your first baby steps. Not all guys are as harmless as your pet geeks, you know.”
I put down my cup. “Of course. I know that.” Harmless is definitely not how I’d describe Marcus. Forcing a smile to my lips, I say, “I’ll be careful, I promise. I’ll question him about everything and make sure there’s no wife lurking in the bushes. In fact, I’ll drill him so good he won’t know what hit him.”
Kendall looks at me, owl-eyed, and I look back at her. In the next instant, we’re both laughing uncontrollably, and the tension between us dissolves without a trace.
* * *
After I return home, I shower, shave my legs, and let my hair air dry to ensure that the curls don’t turn too frizzy. Afterward, I spend a solid hour trying on and discarding various outfits. I finally settle on a pair of jeans, my newish pair of high-heeled boots (only a couple of seasons old and still mostly in fashion), and my dressiest blouse with a sweater wrap over it. I even add a little jewelry and a full layer of makeup, including foundation—which I promptly wash off because it makes me look like a clown. I end up with a little mascara to darken my auburn lashes, a light dusting of powder to make my freckles less visible, and a simple application of lip gloss—my usual first-date look.
In fact, everything about the way I look tonight is my usual, though I’ve spent double the amount of time it took me to prepare for the date with Mark. I don’t know what I was hoping to achieve with all my primping, but after I’m done, I look the way I always do, just maybe a shade more polished. I’m not one of those girls
who has the skills to transform herself with a few strokes of a makeup brush; whenever I try, I end up with a clown look, like I did earlier. Normally, it doesn’t bother me, but tonight, I wish I knew how to shade and contour, how to make my eyes look huge and my cheekbones more prominent.
Tonight, I want to look pretty for him.
Stop being pathetic, Emma. Just stop it.
Even as I tell myself this, I know it’s useless. The jittery high that prevented me from sleeping last night is nowhere near abating, the mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation making me unable to sit still for longer than a minute. I have to proofread a short story for a client, but whenever I sit down and try to focus on it, the words dance on the page, and all I see are his cool blue eyes staring back at me.
Great, just freaking great. This is why I should’ve said no. Maybe Kendall is right, and I tend to go for safe guys, but that’s how I like it. This unsettled, insecure feeling—this desperate desire to please a man—is not something I enjoy. In college, when all my friends were going crazy for jocks and bad boys, I dated nice, quiet guys—like Jim, my last serious boyfriend. With him, I never had to worry about dressing up; he liked me as much in my dorky pajamas and house slippers as in skirts and high heels. In fact, he often couldn’t tell the difference between the two; to him, a girl was a girl, regardless of what she was wearing. We ended up breaking up because he became too clingy, demanding my time and energy to an exhausting degree, but until then, dating him had been like being with one of my friends: easy and comfortable.
Staring at myself in the mirror, I see a pink flush on my cheeks and fever-bright gleam in my gray eyes. This dinner with Marcus is not going to be easy and comfortable, I know that much.
It also won’t be cheap. The restaurant Marcus chose is at the upper limit of my budget, so I’ll be skimping on groceries for the rest of the week. I should’ve insisted on going to Papa Mario’s, but I was afraid Marcus would hate it, so I caved—something I wouldn’t have done with Jim or any other guy I’ve dated.