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And it’ll be even colder in the city.
The BART was only a few blocks away. I felt ridiculous as I tottered in my heels through the neighborhood. Cars sped past me with their bass raised to ridiculous levels, pounding up my legs and into my heart. I followed the distant scream of the metro and again I wondered what he would be like—and why he was so secretive.
What if he wants to kiss me?
I kept myself calm by imagining a two thousand dollar check written to me.
It’ll be fine. It might even be fun!
When it was over I could write an article about what it was like being a sugarbaby for a billionaire. God, I hated that word.
The doors to the BART hissed open and a slew of tired-looking businessmen and women commuting from the city spilled out of the train.
I sat down with a painful grimace on the stained seat cushions, trying not to imagine how stupid I would feel next to such a well-bred man who was probably born into money, raised by a series of nannies and teachers at his overseas boarding school.
Shut up and relax.
But I couldn’t help obsess over the fact that these shoes hurt my feet and he’d notice that I couldn’t walk gracefully in them. I was always fumbling my way through life as if I had a permanent blindfold.
Oh, shut up.
I kept opening my phone during the BART trip, half-hoping that I would receive an email from the billionaire canceling the meeting. Just relax, I kept telling myself. I wobbled on my heels as the train stopped on Montgomery and left the heated train, my legs freezing as I ascended the escalator into the night.
The streets flooded with people who just left work. Even during the weekdays, San Francisco nightlife thrived, and those who were rich enough to afford to live in the city would hit the city’s many restaurants and lounges with their coworkers. I used to walk past them all the time during my internship. Jealousy burned in my stomach when my coworkers would go out together and leave me behind, knowing I always took the BART home. The eight-dollar cocktail drinks and tapas plates were too big of an expense for someone on a zero-dollar per hour wage, so I skipped hanging out.
I walked to the MUNI bus around the corner and dumped quarters into the machine. Then I glanced at my phone and felt my heartbeat in my throat. Six-thirty p.m.
No turning back now.
The MUNI shuddered and banged up the steep streets, and I wanted to throw up as the bus stopped on the street I was supposed to get off. What the hell was I thinking? Why did I agree to do this?
You agreed out of desperation.
Wrapping my coat tight around myself, I descended the steps. The sea air whipped down the streets from the Marina and tossed my hair around my head. I raced across the street toward A16, a small restaurant tucked into the wall teeming with people behind its softly lit windows. The tiny, square sign glowed in the misty air. I stopped for a moment to calm myself. I checked my phone one last time to find a text from Natalie:
Good luck
Closing my eyes, I said a silent thank you to her for the confidence boost needed to grasp the dark door’s brass handle. The smell of baking crust and tomatoes blasted into my face, making my mouth water. It was funny how I rarely realized how starving I was until the smell of something appetizing floated across my nose.
The interior of the restaurant was dark and intimate. Like most places in San Francisco, the space was small. The bar and kitchen stretched on the right side of the restaurant, and a row of tables draped with linen on the left. The back of the restaurant had a long table enclosed in a glass room, slightly separated from the rest of the restaurant.
I squeezed past the people waiting for a table on the sides and approached the hostess.
Well, now what? What do I tell her? I don’t even know his name.
“Ma’am, would you like us to take your coat?”
An employee swooped in from nowhere and held out his hand.
“Oh!” I was clutching my coat as if I depended on it for survival. “Yes, please.”
I slipped the fake wool coat from my shoulders, feeling naked without it. My black purse dangled from my shoulder.
The hostess gave me a dubious smile as if she could see through the carefully constructed wardrobe and deduced that I had nowhere near the amount of money to afford this place. “Welcome to A16! Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes.” My high-pitched laugh made me cringe. “It’s for seven o’clock. I’m supposed to meet someone. My name’s Jessica.”
Her eyes widened with renewed interest. “Ah, yes. Mr. Pardini has been waiting. Please follow me.”
