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I step into the shower, my nerves shot. I was ill prepared for that encounter. I thought I had all the addresses changed on my insurance paperwork, but there was so much at the beginning, it was completely overwhelming. I’m not shocked to learn I missed something.
I spend so much time thinking that I forget to take note of if I put conditioner in my hair. I blink back tears of frustration. Things like this used to randomly happen to me, but now they’re becoming more and more common. I can’t decide if it’s a gift or a curse that my mind is more affected than my body at this point. They each pose such different, but no less severe, issues.
I’m drying off when I hear my phone beep with a text notification. I walk out into my bedroom, half expecting my mom to still be there, but luckily, she’s gone. I pick my phone up to check.
Griff: Bring your pointe shoes, Marco knows where to take you.
Griff: 6:30 pm
What the hell is he planning? I spend the rest of the day wondering what he’s up to, even going as far as texting him for details. He just repeats the time. Friday tells me to wear my black wrap dress; when tied a certain way, it looks like a leotard and ballet skirt.
Marco drops me off at the entrance to the High Line. I look around ground level but don’t see him, so I walk up the stairs, and that’s where I find him. He’s dressed in black dress pants and a black button down shirt, rolled up to the elbow showing off his tattoos. His hair looks beautiful in the golden hour light. He’s got a camera slung around his neck.
“Hey,” he pulls me into a hug and kisses my forehead.
“Hi,” I nuzzle into him, loving the familiarity of his embrace. “Are you going to tell me what we’re doing now?”
“Yeah,” he holds me close, “I know one of your dreams was to dance on stages around the world, and while I can’t give you that, we can have our own world tour. Right here in Manhattan.”
I cling to him as my eyes water. It’s so sweet and unexpected. His thoughtfulness drives home the fact that I don’t deserve him. But, because I’m a selfish bitch, I’m going to bask in this while I have it. Until I have to break my own heart and walk away. He stands there and lets me hold him for way longer than necessary. I don’t break contact until I’ve fought back the tears.
I sit on a bench and change into my pointe shoes. When it comes time to take photos, he puts my bag on his shoulder and instructs me on where to stand but lets me dance and position myself in whatever way feels good. We walk around and take photos, holding hands in between.
We spend the next couple of hours taking photos everywhere from Chinatown, where Griff impresses street vendors with his knowledge of Mandarin. We grab dumplings from a food cart, and he takes more pictures of me. Then we go Little Italy where we take more photos on Mulberry Street and eat gelato. Not much remains of the Ukrainian Village, but we go anyway, wandering into a church to take some photos.
“This was a really amazing date,” I say once we’re back in the car with Marco driving us back toward Griff’s apartment.
“It’s not over yet,” he says with a smirk.
“What do you mean? You just took me on a world tour.”
“You’ll see.” He gives me a wink and wraps his hand around my thigh.
A few minutes later, we’re pulling up to the Museum of Modern Art. A huge smile crosses my face, I’ve always loved art and visiting museums. I turn and run my palm over the stubble on his cheek.
“This is perfect.”
He answers with a smile, pulling me out of the car after him. We walk up to the doors, and that’s when I see a sign on the door that they’re closed for a private engagement. I don’t want him to think I’m disappointed, how could I be after tonight, so I squeeze his hand reassuringly.
“It’s okay, we’ve done so much already,” I’m only a little surprised when he pulls open the door like he owns the place. This is Griffin Potter, twenty-something media mogul and billionaire. He doesn’t play by normal rules. He never has.
“Mr. Potter, Miss Volkov,” a thin and well dressed middle-aged man says as he comes toward us, “welcome. We have everything ready for your private evening.”
I turn my gaze to him, completely floored that he paid for an entire night. I don’t say anything until the gentleman finishes telling us everything we need to know and hands us a map.
“I can’t believe you did this,” I reach up and kiss him. “This has to be one of most expensive dates ever.”
“I don’t know if you know this,” he whispers in my ear, “but I’m kind of a big deal.”
“Really?” I place my hand on my chest feigning surprise. “I had no idea.”
He laughs as he leads me up a set of stairs and toward an exhibit of sculptures. We lose ourselves in taking in the beauty of all the pieces. He reminds me to put my pointe shoes on, and I dance through the museum with him following me, snapping photos and smiling at me with a look that holds so much affection and, dare I say, love.
