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I would happily take McDonald’s. “If you desire a Happy Meal, I’m good with that.”
Brooklyn smacks my arm. “I’m not buying you McDonald’s for dinner.”
“You don’t have to buy me dinner at all.”
“Nope. A bet is a bet. You found the elves.”
I probably should tell her that I learned about the elves’ visit to Macy’s online. I like to keep her guessing.
“Do you like Middle Eastern food?”
“I like food. Have you seen me?”
Brooklyn isn’t amused. “Just answer the question, Carter.”
“I do.”
“Would you be opposed to hopping across the river?”
“To Brooklyn?”
“It is where I live,” she reminds me.
“If you have someplace you’d like to go, I’m game.”
“I have some place I’d like to take you,” she says. “Maybe we could drop our bags at my apartment first.”
“Sure,” I agree. Brooklyn is pleased with my reply. I’m not sure I have the strength to deny her anything. That worries me. Actually, it worries me a lot. I’ll worry later.
***
“I thought you said your place was small?”
“It is.”
“Not for this area.” I silently wonder how Brooklyn can afford this apartment. She does fantastic work. A one-bedroom with a fireplace in Brooklyn Heights can’t be cheap. Turns out I don’t have to wonder. Brooklyn surmises my unspoken question.
“My surrogate parents own the building,” she explains.
There’s a story here.
“My best friend from college,” she explains. “Her parents own it. I think they like having someone they know in the building. I pay less than half the usual rent.”
“It’s fabulous.” It is.
“Thanks. I’d like it to be—well, more like home. I didn’t know if I’d be here for long, so I haven’t done much to make it—well, homey.”
The walls are a bit sparse, but Brooklyn’s décor is both tasteful and elegant. It’s neither modern nor traditional—contemporary. I think that’s how I would describe the setting. It’s also comfortable. The few pictures she has on the walls are campaign posters. I also notice some framed pictures on the mantle. Blue seems to be her color of choice. I guess that she’s spent some time at Ikea. “I think it’s great,” I tell her.
“Thanks. I don’t want to rush you to dinner. We could have a drink here first.”
“After I use the bathroom?”
“Oh, my God! Of course! You must be dying.”
“Or drowning.”
“It’s right there,” Brooklyn tells me. “So? A drink first?”
