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37
Six Weeks Later
ELLIOT
“I
can’t believe you won’t let me take you anywhere more exotic than this.” I pull open the door to Walker and Emily’s craft brew pub on the Lower East Side.
“I’ve never wanted my birthday to be a thing,” Charlotte says, giving me a quick peck on the cheek before walking inside. “After Mom left, I made sure our limited birthday resources were focused on Dan and Brody.”
“All the more reason for me to make yours a thing,” I say for the bajillionth time since discovering today is her birthday when I saw a card from her dad on her dresser just three days ago.
Not that either of us spends much time at her place these days. We certainly never spend a night together in her twin bed. Though it’s not a stranger to a make-out session.
We quickly fell into a routine of spending the weekends and one weeknight at my penthouse. The rest of the time Charlotte stays at her place.
I’d move in with her yesterday, but she wants us to be sure we don’t take things too fast. If I was forced to find an upside to the nights I don’t spend with her, it’s that they make me look forward to the ones I do even more than I ever thought possible.
I’ve offered to get her a bigger apartment where she can’t make her own breakfast without getting out of bed, but she won’t hear of it. Independent, self-reliant, and resourceful to the end, she wants to live in a place she pays for with her own money.
And I’ve asked her to move in with me. Several times. Yes, it might be fast. But I’m sure. So very, definitely sure. And it’s not like we don’t know each other. But she says she’s still figuring out her new role at work, and she’s not ready to figure out a new role at home at the same time.
While totally respecting both those things, I do hope she doesn’t want to live in that little place forever.
When it came to her birthday celebrations, I’d raced to book a surprise trip to Paris before it occurred to me I should see if Charlotte’s passport is up to date—and that she actually has one. But when I asked, she launched into a thing about how birthdays make her feel self-conscious and uncomfortable and she hates a fuss that’s all about her and would I please, please promise not to take her to Paris or organize anything lavish because she’d rather just go for a walk in the park, have a quiet lunch, and then curl up on the sofa with a movie.
She was so insistent that I realized planning anything more would actually make her unhappy rather than happy. So I cancelled the flights, the hotel, and the restaurant.
We’ve just had a fabulous two-hour stroll in Central Park and hopped on the subway to Walker and Emily’s pub. I wanted to at least take her somewhere a bit romantic for lunch, but she insisted buzzy and friendly was what she wanted, so here we are.
It’s an unseasonably chilly October day, and the warmth of the pub is welcome.
“Well, hello, birthday girl,” Emily says, appearing out of nowhere and gathering Charlotte into a hug.
“Yup, just three hundred and sixty-four more days in my twenties left,” Charlotte says.
“Glad you gave me a heads-up,” Emily says as she hugs me too. “I had them keep a corner table for you.” She turns to the hostess—“I’ll take care of these two”—and grabs two menus from the stand. “Follow me, folks.”
After settling us at our table, Emily returns with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “On the house,” she says, popping the cork.
Charlotte blushes. “Oh, thank you. But I didn’t want any fuss. My birthdays were never a big deal in my family.”
“Well, good luck telling that to the Dashwoods,” Emily says. “I assume you haven’t told your mom yet, Elliot, or you’d be there right now at a table laden with food, Jim plying you with his elderflower wine.”
Charlotte lets out a phew like she dodged a bullet.
“Enjoy,” Emily says. “I’ll send a server over, and if you need me for anything, I’ll be in the office. Walker’s up at the brewery in the Bronx doing something technical and brewy. He won’t be back till later.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Charlotte picks up her glass. “She seems nice.”
“Yeah. Thank God she and Walker finally got their acts together. They were always made for each other.”
“Do you think anyone says the same about us?” Charlotte offers up her glass for me to clink.
“Couldn’t give a shit what anyone says about us,” I tell her. “I love you, and that’s all that matters.” I tap my glass against hers. “Happy first birthday I’ll spend with you.”
