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What she didn’t know was that I had no choice but to leave it on. Underneath was a kitschy T-shirt from Niagara Falls with little rainbows all over it and I FELL FOR THE FALLS written in blue. I’d picked it up during an early travel reporting gig. It made the rhinestones look like haute couture.
“What would you like?” she asked, above the noise.
I took a quick glance at the menu—trying not to remember that I’d had a full dinner a few hours before.
“I’ll take a double order of the rosemary fried potatoes,” I said. “And whatever you’d recommend to drink. Your call.”
“I make a good basil martini,” she said.
I smiled. “Anything but that,” I said. “And maybe add some bourbon and extra salt?”
She smiled back. “Coming right up,” she said.
The older couple had left a copy of the Guardian on the bar, and, as I waited for my drink, I started reading, not noticing that someone was standing over the empty seat. The older woman’s.
“You probably should’ve gone for the basil martini,” he said, his accent undeniably American.
It was so loud in there—bass music blasting, people shouting to hear each other—that for a second I thought that it was Nick. Nick, whom I had picked up the phone to call a half-dozen times, each time changing my mind before all the numbers were entered. Each time feeling like his answering wasn’t going to give me the answer I was looking for. The battle between Nick and Griffin, Griffin and Nick, feeling like something else. Something that had more to do with something in me. And still, my heart picked up at the thought that Nick was standing there, which I could have taken as some sort of message from the universe, from the masters of fate. (Forgetting the fact that I helped them out by moving myself directly to the most popular pub in his neighborhood.)
But fate was offering me something else entirely.
I looked up to see the man was carrying a full basil martini in one hand—and a briefcase and another copy of the Guardian in the other. He couldn’t have been more than thirty, despite his attire—a suit and tie that would probably cost me a month’s salary, newly shined shoes. Wire-rim glasses that looked eerily similar to Nick’s. And there was no denying he was handsome—in a movie-star way—tall, with a strong smile, a matching strong chin.
And from the way he threw his briefcase on the bar and sat right down next to me—sans the courtesy ask—I was guessing there was no denying that to himself either.
“I’m sure I’ll be good with whatever t
hey’re bringing me,” I said. “But thank you.”
Just then the barkeep came back carrying a martini glass full of bright orange liquid, an even brighter yellow umbrella sticking out the side. I looked back toward Mr. Suit, who was casually moving his martini my way, and motioning to the barkeep for a new one.
“Just go for it,” the man said. “I haven’t even had a sip yet. It can be my rental cost.”
“Rental cost?”
“For the seat.”
I gave him a smile and took the martini, just as a second one was getting delivered to him.
“Thank you, that’s very nice of you,” I said.
He clinked his martini glass to mine. “Enjoy, then,” he said. “Cheers.”
He looked down at his newspaper, which I thought meant we were done with the niceties, and that I could return to mine. But then, eyes still on his paper, he started talking again.
“How long have you been an expat?” he asked.
“Not long,” I said.
“How not long?”
I looked over at him, trying to decide how much I didn’t feel like answering. Whether it involved my moving seats or just giving a clipped response. What about my sequins suggested I wanted company?
“A little less than a month,” I said.
“What brought you here?”
Now he was looking back up, right at me. I took a sip of my drink, tried to shake myself into it. Friendliness. Reminding myself that I lived here now.
