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I joined in. The entire musical was silly, but too much fun not to sing along with. I trailed off in bursts of laughter as Eva continued singing brightly as we found a spot to settle down. “We open in November. You guys should come. It’s going to be brilliant.”
We spread out our blankets and unloaded our food. Eva and I had planned on eating baguettes with Camembert cheese and jam and pretending we were French, but we’d also picked up some cold cuts after I invited the linebacker along. The guys also picked up two rotisserie chickens, a round cake of corn bread, and two six packs. Whatever worked. Soon enough, Nanami and Jen joined us and donated cookies and a carton of strawberries to the cause.
For the first five minutes, I watched nervously. Mixing friend groups could be a risky endeavor. What if differences insulted people, and everyone ended up on edge? But Mike and Abe were simply too laid back, and even Dylan’s sarcasm fit in well with my friends’ sense of humor. Before I knew it, the food was gone and we were all lolling about on full bellies. When Dylan responded to a text I barely even noticed, but then, half an hour later, Malcolm and Briana approached, hands swinging between them.
Bri struck up a conversation with Nanami about civil engineering, which Bri studied and Nanami worked with, while the rest of the group was sucked into a debate about the team’s chances tomorrow.
“Rachael?”
I twisted around at the hesitant voice. Laurel stood behind me, her high heels sinking only slightly into the grass. She wore her fitted coat open, and while it was warm enough to go without a scarf, she’d still draped a royal blue pashima around her neck. She smiled, her face even more perfectly balanced and poreless than usual, and held out an elegant pale lavender box, silvery curlicues and letters shining. Her eyes flicked to the guys behind me.
Ah. It clicked into place. I had been fairly closed mouthed about Ryan around the office, but Laurel was the type to read gossip blogs on the off-chance she showed up in them. I could just imagine her surprise when I showed up in one.
“Thanks.” I took the proffered box. Its silvered letters spelled out Ladurée, the name of the French macaron shop on Madison. “Oh, wow. I love these.”
And I happened to know a box of two-dozen imported cookies cost roughly seventy bucks, and the wait in line could take up to forty minutes.
My mouth watered. Macarons consisted of two delicate, slightly domed and crackly crusted cookies sandwiched together by ganache. They came delicately infused in a dozen flavors; from chocolate to pistachio, from raspberry to rose, to the only-in-New-York cannelle et raisin. I adored them. Eva called them hipster cupcakes.
I made myself put the box down, and smile up at the bringer. Laurel looked uncharacteristically nervous. “I remember you mentioned a French theme.” Her gaze swept over the baguettes and cheeses, along with the sandwich wrappers. “I thought I’d contribute.”
“They’re perfect. Yeah, we were, though when the guys came, they brought more. Probably a good thing, since they eat like horses.” I pushed myself off the ground. “Here, let me introduce you.”
Laurel looked like a doll surrounded by the football players, and yet she demanded total and complete attention. Amused, I dropped back next to Eva, stretching out on my stomach and handing her half of my cinnamon-raisin macaron.
Eva rolled over closer to me and grinned. “They’re very manly men, aren’t they?”
“I know, right?” I stared at them. “Not that I don’t love your theatre boys.”
“I know. It’s just these guys are a different breed entirely. I didn’t even know you could find them like this in Manhattan.”
“It’s ’cause they were imported from out of town. Like the cookies.”
For a moment, we gazed stupidly at the guys across the blanket. Sun spread over my back, along my hair, and I just lay there, breathing in crunchy leaves and soaking up the Indian summer sunrays.
Then Eva tensed. “Uh-oh,” she whispered. “Guy trouble at two o’clock.”
“What...?” I craned my head to the right. There, striding across the lawn, a scowl marring his golden-boy face, was Ryan Carter. Great.
“He doesn’t look very happy” Eva added.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
A boy, no more than four, ran into Ryan’s knee. My breath caught. Ryan did not look in the mood for small children. But to my surprise, he paused, unclenched his hands, and knelt down. The little boy spoke, and Ryan laughed, ruffled his hair, and then followed him over to his family’s blanket. He pumped the father’s hand, charmed the wife, and then signed the soccer ball that the child eagerly presented to him.
“Your heart’s melting right now, isn’t it?”
“Shut up,” I whispered back. “I hate him. He called me a freak.”
“Yeah, ’cause you hurt him when you called him a man-whore.”
“He was hooking up with a total stranger the night I met him.”
“But he didn’t give you any STDs.”
“He called me a freak! What if he thinks I’m awful at sex?”
Bri, to my embarrassment, dropped down so she, too, lay on her stomach—on her designer coat!—and asked, “So you finally slept with him?”
