Page 49 of Meant to Be

Elna was out of town, but I didn’t want him to come to my apartment regardless.

“She’s welcome to join us…you know, for a little while,” he said with a chuckle.

“I don’t know,” I said, waffling. “I kind of don’t want her to know I’m hanging out with you.”

“Why not?” he said. “She doesn’t like me?”

“She doesn’t know you,” I said. “But she doesn’t like theideaof you.”

“Why not?” he said, sounding a little hurt.

“I think you could guess the reasons.”

“Hmm…Well, doyoulike the idea of me?”

“The jury’s still out,” I said with a smile.

He laughed and said, “Damn. You really don’t sugarcoat anything, do you?”

“Nope,” I said. “What’s the point?”

“I agree. I like that.”

A few seconds passed before he said, “Okay…well, how about you come over to my place tomorrow? I’ll make you dinner.”

“You can cook?”

“Not really. But I can get takeout and transfer it to plates and pretend I made it.”

“Nah,” I said with a laugh. “Remember. There’s no need to fake anything with me.”

—

The following eveningafter work, I went home to shower and change before heading down to Joe’s. I was glad Elna was away, which meant I didn’t have to answer any questions about where I was going. As much as I confided in her, I wasn’t ready for that. When I got out of the shower, I cranked up my music, opened a bottle of Amstel Light, and blew my hair out, flat-ironing it pin-straight and parting it in the middle. Going for a feminine but laid-back feel, I put on a vintage silk Miu Miu dress with a brown and white floral print and nude slingbacks with low block Prada heels.

At that point, I was on autopilot and could have been getting ready for any date, but by the time I got into my taxi, I was keenly aware that I was headed to the apartment ofJoe Kingsley,a man with the highest possible pedigree who was way,wayout of my league. If not an absolute fact, it was a statement that 99.9 percent of the world would agree with—and as we got closer to his SoHo address, I could feel myself start to panic. What in the world was I thinking, anyway? How did I think this was going to end other than badly?

I told myself there was no point in second-guessing my decision—it would be too dramatic and weird to cancel last minute. Better to just view the whole thing as an experiment. See how far we could get before he realized what I knew to be true. Or maybe he alreadydidknow. It was suspicious—or at a minimum noteworthy—that Joe had yet to ask any real details about my family or educational background, simply accepting my vague and very misleading comments about “still finishing up my degree.” It was tempting to believe that those topics had simply slipped through the cracks, but I knew better. Guys like Joe always came out of the gate with that question: Where did you go to school?In most instances they meant college, though the boarding schooltypes cared about high school, too. And if you went to a public school, you sure as shit better be from an upscale suburb. It was bizarrely consistent. I also knew those queries were usually just a ruse—disguised as casual conversation when they were really trying to discern my social status. In other words: Was I a working-class girl who had used modeling to pull myself up by my bootstraps? Or did I come from a “good family” who had insisted that I also go to college?

The fact that Joe hadn’t really pressed me on the subject meant one of three things: (1) I’d successfully misled him into making the wrong assumptions; (2) He knew the truth about me—on some level—and liked me anyway; or (3) He wasn’t analyzing any of that because all he really wanted was a fling. The last one seemed the most likely, I concluded as we turned onto a block that felt quintessentially SoHo—hip but a little grungy—with cobblestone streets and prewar warehouses converted to apartments. I paid my fare and got out of the cab, looking around, half expecting to see the paparazzi lurking in the shadows. But there was no sign that Joe—or anyone of import—lived in the gray building before me. There wasn’t even a doorman. I climbed the stairs, scanning the buzzers, looking for Joe’s name, somehow knowing that his wouldn’t be labeled.

I took a chance and hit the only unmarked apartment number, holding my breath, waiting. A few seconds later, Joe’s voice came back fuzzy over the intercom. “Hello?”

“Hi. It’s me,” I said, my heart starting to race.

“Hey! Come on in! Take the elevator to the fourth floor!” he said, buzzing me in.

I took another deep breath, reminding myself that I really had nothing to lose so long as I kept my expectations low, then opened the heavy front door. I made my way through the spartan, emptylobby, then took a small elevator up to the fourth floor. When the doors opened, Joe was standing right there, waiting for me with a huge smile. Thursday was at his side, wagging his tail and attempting to jump on me as Joe held him back and reprimanded him.

“It’s fine,” I said, petting him, remembering that day on the beach. “Thursday and I go way back.”

“I guess that’s true!” Joe laughed. He was looking as handsome as I’d ever seen him, dressed casually, wearing faded blue jeans, a cream Henley, and black and white Adidas sneakers, the laces loosely tied.

“So…hi,” he said with a cute little laugh, then gave me a big hug.

“Hi,” I said, hugging him back, inhaling his cologne, which already felt familiar.

We separated and he stared at me with a goofy grin. “You look amazing.Wow.”

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