Our appetizers arrive just as we’re looking down over Times Square. The bright lights make it seem like the ground is glowing from up here. Lights dance and flash all around us. I think I can appreciate Times Square more from up here; down below it’s full of people and taxis with constantly honking horns. I like being encapsulated up here much better.
Even with the slow movement of the floor, the time seems to fly. Before I know it, the waiter brings our bill just as we’ve made a full three sixty view of the city. Jay drops a card on the check, clearly saying without words that he’s paying. I go to protest but then figure, What’s the point? He’s won every time today.
I look a little closer at Jay’s credit card and see that there’s aCin front of his name. C. Jay Sanders. Jay has a first name that I don’t even know about. It actually makes me smile. For all I know about him, there’s still so much I don’t know. I can only hope that this isn’t the end for Jay and me. I want to keep him in my life, even if it’s from across the country.
“So,” Jay says, looking at me as if he was just thinking the same thing—that he doesn’t want this to be the end. Of course, I could be reading him totally wrong, but my hormones are really pushing that narrative.
“So,” I echo him.
“What do you think of my—well, Google’s—therapy?” he asks, a small smile on his lips. They really are nice lips. Makes me wish we hadn’t been interrupted on that rooftop garden.
“I think it might have worked,” I say with a little shrug of my shoulders.
“Why do you think it worked?” Jay asks, his face not looking convinced.
“Jay,” I say, putting my hands on the table we’re sitting at, “I’m forty-eight floors above the ground, sitting at a table by the window, and I haven’t felt one ounce of panic.” I give him one of my biggest smiles.
“Except for the elevator ride up here,” he says.
“Except for that,” I agree.
“Well, then I think we have only one more stop,” he says.
“No, Jay.” I shake my head. “You’ve been great. This whole day”—I gesture around the room with my hands—“has been great.”
“Just one more stop,” he says.
“Aren’t you tired? Don’t you need to get some rest before you travel tomorrow?” I ask. I’m not sure why I’m protesting. Wasn’t I just wishing this day wouldn’t end? And here he’s offering me more time.
“I’m not tired, and who needs rest? I can sleep on the plane,” he says. “Come on, Liza. One more stop.”
I look to the side as if contemplating, but who am I kidding? “Okay.”
He stands up from the table, offering me a hand. “Then let’s go.”
