Page 29 of Somewhere in the Sunset

It’s not that I’m embarrassed about being friends with Gracie. I just don’t want the guys – Adam, especially – getting on my case about it. They’ll assume I’m into her, that we’re sleeping together, that I’m on the rebound. And okay, fine. Maybe I did sleep with Gracie already, but it was under unique circumstances, and it won’t happen again. They will never know about it.

“I won’t say anything,” Brooks promises, and I swallow hard with relief. “But, at the end of the day, you’re still cooking a steak dinner for a girl who’s single. Have fun. And for God’s sake, throw some bleach down your toilet if you haven’t already.”

I laugh as he hangs up the call. My apartment can be messy, but it’s definitely not filthy. I do clean, though admittedly I’ve been slacking lately, for obvious reasons. Having Gracie over tonight was the nudge I needed to deep clean. After I left her at Starbucks earlier, I called Brooks for advice on what the hell to cook, and then headed straight to the grocery store. I bought two bottles of white wine, one bottle of red for the sauce I plan to make, two filet mignon steaks, asparagus, potatoes, shallots. Oh, and parsley. Then I floored it home and went ham with whatever cleaning supplies I had around. The bathroom is scrubbed spotless, there are fresh sheets on my bed, every crevice of floorspace is vacuumed. I even plumped the damn couch cushions.

I’ve showered, worked some gel into my hair, sprayed maybe a little too much cologne. I’m wearing the brand-new polo shirt my dad gifted me for my birthday a few months back, and I feel pretty good. I’ve made an effort.

I finish up my prep work, put the potatoes on to boil, pace my apartment in circles, then pop the tray of asparagus into the oven. Seven o’clock draws closer, and I become antsy. I attempt to relax on the couch, but I can’t sit still long enough to last more than a minute before I’m back on my feet again, checking the potatoes and peeking into the oven.

There’s a knock on my door. Although I’m expecting it, I still jolt.

On my way to the door, I glance back at the table set-up I’ve got going on in the middle of my apartment. I do own a table and two chairs, but they’re permanently folded away in the storage closet because of the severe lack of room in this damn place. Tonight, the table has made an appearance. I even bought placemats at the grocery store. Though Brooks is probably right – I should have definitely bought candles too. It’s very clear the table lacks a centerpiece, and it seems kind of pathetic now that I’m looking at it. It’s also a punch in the gut when it occurs to me that I never once pulled out the table for Charlotte. Whenever we ate here, we sat on the couch with our plates on our laps. Fuck. I’m the worst.

I shake away the guilt and open the door.

“Hi,” says Gracie.

Even in the harsh lighting of the hallway, Gracie looks nice. Her hair seems more blond than auburn without bright light to pull out the red tones, and it sits a little too perfectly against her shoulders in curls. She’s wearing makeup, but not too much, just enough to accentuate her eyes. My gaze travels down her body, drawn to her waist highlighted by the red sundress she wears. There’s a denim jacket over her shoulders to keep her warm from the San Francisco breeze.

My chest tightens. It should be Charlotte standing at my door, because she’s the only woman I want to cook dinner for. The disappointment seeps through me so intensely it becomes obvious on my expression. Gracie’s smile gradually fades.

“Are you okay?”

“You’re not her,” I say, then shake my head as though to retract the words. I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeeze my eyes shut, and take a deep breath. “Sorry. That was rude. Of course, I’m happy for you to be here, it’s just .?.?.”

“I know,” says Gracie, and her voice is soft and understanding. “Can I come in?”

Still kicking myself, I step to the side and gesture for her to enter my apartment. Tonight isn’t about Charlotte. Mylifecan’t be about Charlotte. I ruined that, and there’s no repairing it. I have to move on and learn how to be better for someone else.

“You put up a table,” Gracie notes, and I force Charlotte’s adorable gap-toothed smile out of my mind as I close my apartment door and focus on what’s right in front of me, and that’s Gracie.

The table looks evenmorepathetic now. “Yeah. There’s not much room in here, so I hope you don’t mind being wedged between my couch and my bed while we eat.”

“That’s okay. What’s on the menu?”

“Steak in a red wine butter sauce with mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus,” I say with flair, and Gracie nods keenly with approval. “I should start frying the steaks. How do you like yours cooked?”

“Medium.”

I cross to my cramped kitchen and make another check of the potatoes and asparagus. They’re almost ready, so Ireallyought to get these steaks cooking. I pull them out of the refrigerator, already seasoned with salt and pepper, and throw a pan on the stovetop to get it up to heat. Gracie wanders my apartment, removes her jacket from over her shoulders, and leaves it on the couch, then joins me in the kitchen. She leans back against the counter, watching.

“No pressure,” I joke, melting butter in the pan and placing in the filet mignon steaks. I have my chopped shallots and bottle of red wine at the ready, and I keep an eye on my watch as the steaks sizzle. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Only if it’s that,” Gracie says, nodding to the two bottles of white wine at the other end of my countertop.

I grab a bottle, pop open the cork, and pour out two glasses. I hand one to Gracie and stand in front of her, swirling my wine around my glass. She doesn’t take a sip of hers yet, either. We are both waiting for something.

“Should we toast?” I ask.

“Probably.”

I think for a second, allowing my gaze to naturally find hers. There’s still fragility behind her eyes, a pale blue that seems to be missing its sparkle. “A toast to us,” I say, holding up my glass, “for being sad motherfuckers yet somehow surviving, and in the hope that soon we might feel okay again.”

Gracie smiles, but it’s so painfully sad I almost regret saying anything at all. “Yes,” she agrees, and taps her glass against mine. We both take a sip while maintaining eye contact. “Mmm. You picked well.”

“I’m glad you approve,” I say, then set my glass down as I turn back to the stove.

I pull the pot of potatoes off the heat, drain the water, then start mashing them. I add butter, milk, salt and pepper. I make these potatoes the fluffiest, butteriest mashed potatoes Gracie will ever taste. In between, I flip the steaks over, and remove the asparagus from the oven.

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