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"No."
He hangs up without another word. Good talking to you, too, Dad.
I have thirty days left where I can try to be normal. Thirty days where I can pretend I don't have a guillotine hanging over my head.
I need to make the most of it.
I stare at my cellphone. Nicole pops into my head. I look out of the window. It's a beautiful day. I go out of bed and pad into the kitchen on socked feet where the napkin she’s given me still sits on the counter. If I'm going to make the most of my last month, I have to start now.
I dial the number and wait for it to ring.
Nicole
"This place is really nice," I say when the seating hostess leads us to our table. Café Boulud is in the Upper East Side. It's run by a celebrity chef and classier than any place I’ve ever been before on my modest student budget. Thomas walks with the air of someone who belongs here. He’s given his reservation name with authority. He's at home in luxury, I realize.
He wears black slacks with a sharp crease down the middle of each leg, a crisp button-down shirt that looks debonair on him, and his hair is slicked back like he’s run his fingers through his wet hair and it froze in place.
I feel out of place in this upscale surrounding. I’ve put on a red, Lily Pulitzer style dress and black pumps. I feel like I'm walking on stilts. I’ve tied my hair up and put on makeup, which I don't usually do. Despite having dressed up, I still feel like I don't belong here.
The dining room is beautiful. Crisp, clean décor makes it feel open and comfortable. A red carpet stretches from wall to wall, with dark brown wood finishes on the wall and mirrors to make the space look bigger. The white table clothes on the tables bring light back into the room with dark brown chairs with red cushions.
Thomas pulls a chair out for me, and I sit down. He pushes the chair in again and sits to my right at the four-seat table, rather than opposite me.
"I’m glad you haven’t been here before," he says. "I like it when it’s a new experience."
"It’s definitely a treat," I say.
I pick up the menu and read through the options. There are interesting choices and combinations I’ve never heard of.
"You look beautiful," Thomas says. When I glance up at him, his eyes are deep enough to drown in. A blush creeps up to my cheeks, and I smile, looking back at the menu.
"Do you drink wine?" he asks.
I shake my head. "Not usually. My experience is only with box wine, and it’s not my favorite."
He snorts. "Box wine … is just a box full of headache."
I chuckle. "You’re not wrong."
"In France, wine is a culture, not just something to drink. Buying a bottle is a ceremony, and they see tasting wine as an art."
"I didn’t know that," I say. Thomas studies the wine list.
"Wines taste different due to soil types, grape types, planting and wine-making. To be French is to have the knowledge of wine."
A waiter arrives at the table. Thomas smiles at him.
"Adam," he says as if he knows the waiter. He puts the emphasis on the second a. He speaks with an accent that I haven't noticed at Starbucks. He speaks with the words in his mouth as if he savors each of them before saying them out loud. "Please, bring us a cheese platter and a bottle of your finest Chianti."
Adam, the waiter, bows from the hips and hurries away.
"You don’t mind cheese as an appetizer?" he asks, as if my opinion is an afterthought. I shake my head.
"I’m at your mercy," I say.
He grins at me–a devilish grin. "Well, now," he says. "That’s what a man wants to hear."
I blush. I'm not sure why. Something about the way he looks at me makes me clench at my core. I fiddle with the fork on the table.
