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I drop my croissant on my plate and try to sound friendly as I ask her to repeat herself. “I’m not sure I caught what you said.”
“Oh, yeah. No worries. I was just letting you know I’m interested in Noah, and I was hoping you could, y’know…help a girl out.” Her declaration is accented by her little dancing eyebrows.
I laugh like this topic doesn’t deeply disturb me. “I’m not sure how I could help.”
She leans in like we’re in on some secret together. “You guys have worked together for years. Surely you have some good intel.”
Intel? Sure.
I have an encyclopedia’s worth of knowledge about Noah. He thinks sweaters are annoying; they make his armpits sweaty. He doesn’t love coffee, but if he has to drink it, he prefers cold brew with a splash of cream. He has a rotation of ten podcasts he’s perpetually trying to stay up to date with. He thinks Quentin Tarantino is the greatest director to ever live and Pop-Tarts should make it so the icing goes all the way to the edge.
I’ve studied my enemy carefully. I know him like the back of my hand.
I’m not about to just spill that intel to any ol’ person.
But still…I close my book and push it aside.
“So what’s your plan? I thought I heard you asking him to hang out yesterday.”
“Yeah, I did. There’s an Italian restaurant around the corner that has two Michelin stars and the food is supposed to be di-vine. It’s twelve courses and apparently it takes like four hours to get through. I have a friend of a friend who can get us reservations. Otherwise the waitlist is like four months long.”
Noah would absolutely hate that.
He’s a simple man at heart. He’s not one for pomp and circumstance. Give him a burger and fries and he’ll be happy. Also, the price tag on a meal like that would blow his mind.
$75 for a glass of wine? Does it come with the vineyard?
“But he doesn’t seem all that excited about it,” she continues. “Which is where you come in. Maybe you can give me some pointers? I mean, I’m pretty eager to go for it. Noah seems like a rare breed. I can’t believe he’s single.”
I don’t know what my face is doing, but I hope it resembles a normal expression.
“It’s slim pickings in New York. The guys are either workaholics or playboys. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been ghosted by some Brooklyn brownstone boy who’s trying to pursue his life’s calling. There was the graphic artist, the DJ, the writer. I mean, are you kidding? No, Ezra, I don’t want to read your manga a year after you stopped calling me back.”
This actually makes me chuckle, but then I glance up toward the door of the dining hall and see the bane of my existence walking in. I haven’t looked at Noah with a fresh set of eyes in years, but I try to do so now, try to see him the way Gabriella does.
I’ll give him credit where credit is due. He’s extremely handsome, yes. The hair and square jaw, full lips, and bedroom eyes are all a 10 out of 10. But also, the quality of Noah’s style cannot be overstated. He is deeply cool in a way that annoys me. Today, he’s wearing a black short-sleeved Henley shirt and gray shorts. The fit on both is impeccable, and the sneakers pull it all together.
He walks with confidence born from within. He has the ability to draw every eye in a room and look bored doing it. His appearance seems like a nuisance to him rather than a Get Out of Jail Free card.
I realize I’ve made a mistake when my stomach starts to tie itself into a knot. Becoming habituated to Noah took time and effort, and studying his features under a microscope is unwise. It’s making me feel weird and off-kilter, like I’m toeing the edge of a cliff and staring down at a hundred-foot drop. I don’t want to go splat.
He looks over at my table and sees me talking to Gabriella. His frown is visible from across the room, and though he can’t possibly know what we’re discussing over here, it still feels like he does.
“See what I mean? Like does he just look like that all the time?”
She sounds like she’s about to swoon.
STOP, I want to shout. Go away. Leave me alone with my book and my peace.
“Pizza,” I say suddenly. Then words start pouring out of me. “He likes pizza. Skip the fancy dinner and just invite him to do something easy. Grab some cheap beer and sit outside and people-watch. He’ll love that.”
The pressure eases off my chest as she pushes up to stand. “Perfect! You’re a lifesaver. You’ll definitely be invited to the wedding,” she says with a laugh and a wink.
