Page 11 of The Last Good Man

March is just around the corner. Valentine’s Day has passed, and I don’t evenhave a memory ofit, except for the flowers. I receivedtons offlowers from a couple of exes who kept in touch with me because it made good business sense, and then there was Thomas.

And not only him.

I met Thomas and Emile, a French painter, at the same event, a business dinner at the Ritz–Carlton, a few days before Valentine’s Day.

The food was delicious–I remember that–and the floral arrangements had caught my eye.

I kept talking about them, several people noted how much I love flowers, and Thomas and Emile took it a step further.

How did Emile get into the mix?

Several artists, fashion designers, and celebrities were invited to a fundraising event after dinner.

Emile… Yes, the Frenchman.

His looks weren’t that impressive––not that it’s a deal breaker for me.

Decent looking guy with spunk and wit above average.Cultured guy as well. He talked my ear off.

Then.

That was then.

We exchanged numbers.

He said he’d spend a few more days in New York, perhaps an entire week, and wanted to meet me for coffee or drinks.

That was before Valentine’s Day.

He called me on Valentine’s Day, an hour before a bouquet of roses arrived at my apartment.

The doorman picked it up before I reached my place, and with Emile’s flowers and his call came his sincere apologies for notbeing able to meet me.

It wasn’t like I’dmade plans with him myselfbutit stung a little.

I’m a big girl, though. I know when something else comes up, a different woman, another possibility, and I get tossed to the side after briefly being considered.

It was his way of dumping me and making it into an event. As courteous as his gesture was, it had stroked his ego more than it had flattered me.

Emile was strikingly different in a long line of bankers, prosecutors, doctors, and just plain well–off people.

I doubt he was the high-quality man Aretha has talked about. His ability to read me stemmed from his need to play games with me, but they all do that.

So Thomas was the obvious choice in the end.

I get ready to type when another message pops up.

Thomas: We can have dinner at my place after the show. I’ll cook.

I read that again andstarttyping with one hand.

Me: Cook?

His answer arrives immediately, followed by a laughing emoji.

Thomas: Got your attention, huh? I don’t seem the type, I guess.

Me: Not at all.

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