She did the same. As we continued walking, I told her about all the touristy things I did during my first Christmas season in the city when I was a nineteen-year-old freshman at Columbia. “The chestnuts were my favorite,” I said.
“Better than the ice rink at Rockefeller Center?”
“Since I can’t ice skate, definitely.”
She waved her hand in the air. “It’s not that hard. I could teach you, no problem.”
Now that I’d found the loophole I needed, I hoped she was offering me another date. Or maybe it would be a first date, depending on how she viewed this evening. I didn’t push it. The night was young, the city was our oyster, and she didn’t go back to work for another two-plus weeks. No need to rush.
By the time our chestnuts had cooled enough to eat them without risking third-degree burns, we’d reached restaurant row, one of many in the city, but the one was closest to our neighborhood. I pointed out my favorite Italian place and the trendy bar with the best dark beer on tap, but she barely nodded an acknowledgment as she stared up at the crisscrossed rows of white lights suspended above the entire street and took in the clusters of bundled-up patrons huddled around outdoor tables with heat lamps beside them. She turned in the direction of music coming from a piano bar.
“This is lovely,” she said as we walked slowly down the street. “It reminds me of an Italian Alpine village I visited a few years ago.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “I’ve never been to the Italian Alps. Or to any part of the Alps.”
“Oh, you should go some time. It’s magical. Have you been to other parts of Italy?”
“Yes. Rome, Florence, Lake Como.”
She glanced up at me. “That’s very…touristy-chic.”
“Hey, we were college students. We thought we were very continental. And we had a hell of a good time.”
“Have you been to Europe any other times?”
“Yes. A handful of times for work. Another handful of times for vacation.”
“Hmm.” She glanced up at me. “So,haveyou been to Paris?”
“Once,” I answered slowly.
“What season?”
I popped a chestnut into my mouth and chewed slowly, stalling because I suspected she would give me some shit for yet another travel cliché. “April,” I finally said.
She grinned. “Ah, so you didn’t go alone. Was it with Melody?”
“Before her time.” I furrowed my brow. “Are you angling for my romantic history?”
She crunched on another chestnut, then another. When I’d given up on getting a straight answer, she said, “Have you had many serious relationships?”
That treaded close to more-than-a-fling territory. Then again, safe sex came with some requirement of disclosure. “Melody was maybe the most serious. Definitely the longest, at two years, although that’s not true once you subtract the months we were broken up. And a year-long, live-in situation in my mid-twenties. Everyone else I dated was for less than a year.” And they were way less than serious, although I wouldn’t consider a single one of them a fun, flirty fling like I craved with Kat. “Your turn. Quid pro quo.”
“Some were borderline serious, I guess. One was definitely serious. About three years ago now. It lasted a year. He was a really good guy.” She shrugged.
“And?”
“And with my work schedule and travel… It was just too complicated.”
I nodded, but I didn’t really understand it. How complicated could it be to wait at home when the woman coming back to you was someone like Kat? I shook my head. I couldn’t think that way if I planned to use that very same reason as a loophole. Fortunately, we’d reached our next destination so we could drop the topic.
“Okay,” I said, “we’ve had a snack to fortify ourselves, and you’ve had a gentle introduction back to American-style Christmas décor. Now brace yourself.” I took a deep breath as if to demonstrate. “Because next up is a spectacle.”
She nodded solemnly. “I’m ready.”
She grinned and linked her arm with mine, and I nearly tripped over my own feet. Kat didn’t notice, but my passenger did, and he let an unamused meow.
“Something wrong, Mr. Whiskerbottom Fuzzypants?” she asked.
