Page 64 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
The restaurant name is something French that I can’t pronounce, which only makes me feel slightly stupid when we get inside and the hostess says it with ease. Mark does all the talking, saying something about a reservation he made weeks ago, which sets my face burning. How long has he been planning this date?
Once we’re seated, Mark gestures to the menu that I’m too scared to pick up because then I’ll see the prices. “I’m happy to give you some recommendations if you need.”
If I let him do that and then order something else, he’ll get offended, so I open up the menu and smile. “I’ll let you know.”
Pistachio pudding! There aren’t any prices on the menu. I was going to order the cheapest thing that looked edible, but nothing on this menu has a number next to it because the people who regularly eat here are the people who don’t bat an eye at spending a hundred dollars on a steak.
Squirming, I scan the menu for anything that looks like it has cheap ingredients, hoping that gets me a less expensive meal.
“Here is the wine list,” our waiter says, handing it to Mark. “I recommend the Cabernet Sauvignon to go with the prime rib.”
Mark looks at me. “What do you think?”
I think Mark and I probably should have gotten to know each other better before we went out on a ridiculously fancy date. This feels like the kind of place you’re expected to know your wines.
“Oh, um, I don’t drink.”
Mark’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? Why not?”
Because I’ve seen the effects alcohol can have on a person and the way they lose control of their life. My dad’s in prison because his drinking led to harder substances until he spiraled out of control, and I was always slightly terrified whenever I came home from school and he was drunk. He never showed signs of physical or verbal abuse, but Chad still never let him near me unless he was sober. I think my brother knew, even back then as a teenager, that someone under the influence had the potential of being dangerous.
I swallow. “It’s not something I’ve ever wanted to try.”
Mark orders a wine for himself and then settles against the back of his chair. He seems so comfortable here, even though he’s on a teacher’s salary. “So, Briggs, tell me about yourself.”
My fingers are still shaking slightly, so I tuck them into my lap. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Everything. What did you do before you came to Sky View?”
Right to the one topic I don’t want to discuss? I take a sip of water, knowing this night is going to be a long one. “It doesn’t matter. What about you? How long have you been at Sky View?”
I’m more than ready to move on to the gallery when Mark finally finishes his food. He spent most of dinner talking about himself—by my design—so I ended up eating a ridiculous amount of healthy, wheaty bread to keep myself occupied after I finished my carbonara while he slowly worked his way through his prime rib.
He has a more impressive resume than I expected, with a lot of accolades and awards I’ve never heard of under his belt. He told me he teaches high school because seeing his students succeed makes him feel like he’s done something well, and he takes a lot of pride in their knowledge by the end of the year.
He carries on his monologue as we head to the gallery, stopping only to pay for our entry tickets.
“Let me get them,” I say, since he refused to let me pay for my half of dinner.
Mark waves me away and hands over his card. “Don’t be ridiculous, Briggs. Tonight is on me.”
Once we get inside, Mark takes hold of my hand and tugs me to the right like he’s on a mission to find something specific. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the modern art section, and then he launches into his opinion of the first piece as we come to stand in front of it.
Every other painting, according to Mark, is “evocative,” though he can never expand beyond that. It makes sense, given he’s a math and numbers guy, but the longer we wander the gallery, the more I start to wonder if he knows anything about art or if he’s just trying to impress me. He’s using a lot of words that sound artsy, but I’m pretty sure they don’t actually mean anything.
It’s kind of cute that he’s trying. I guess.
He doesn’t let go of my hand, which negates Jordan’s lesson on temptation. I must have done better than I thought while at dinner, even though I barely said a word outside of asking Mark questions. I guess Jordan was right when he said I knew what I was doing, and a bubble of confidence grows in my chest.
I haven’t felt that in years.
“What do you think of this one, Briggs?”
I look at the painting in question, which is just a bunch of crisscrossing lines of varying thicknesses and distances. They’re all different shades of blue, and while the right angles where they intersect speak of rules and order, there’s a sort of chaos to the painting. Like an underlying mischief waits beneath the mismatched patterns.
“It feels free,” I say, unable to find another word to describe it. A shiver runs through me, and I fold my arms against the sudden gnawing sensation in my chest. “It reminds me of something I used to know.”
“Fifth grade coloring projects, probably,” Mark mutters. “Are you cold?”
