Page 133 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

Juni

Now we’re friends?

Oh God.

Not that I’m opposed to having friends. Having them is great, but what happened? Why did I ask a drunk man if he wants to be my friend? So humiliating.Why did I do that?

Have I gone insane?

I sounded so desperate, yet I couldn’t bring myself to stop. Once the words left my mouth, it was too late. I’m now two texts deep into making plans with him. Well, agreeing to not make plans but a plan to hang out sometime.Oh God.

When burying my face in a pillow doesn’t ease the embarrassment flooding every fiber of my being, I consider other alternatives like moving to Alaska, or going on an extended trip to Texas, maybe joining the Navy, a stint onBelow Deck, or even hiking the Pacific Crest Trail like Cheryl Strayed in the movieWild.

Anything works that gets me far from being in the same building, in the same vicinity, or even the same state with him. I half giggle, unwittingly thinking about how he thought I meant the state of New York instead of his state of sobriety. He was drunk, all right.

As funny as that was, how am I going to face him when he’s sober?

Oh, wait.I bolt upright. Maybe Andrew won’t remember. I have a feeling he wasn’t drunk enough to forget. One can only hope it’s the opposite.

Flopping back down on the bed, I need to think clearly. I need to dissect the night through each minute, and then use my brain’s muscle memory to trace and track.

It was a normal night, not meant to be more.

Mr. Clark called about Rascal needing to go out just before ten, so I grabbed my jacket since I had nothing better going on. It wasn’t a big deal. I chose the grass pad down the street instead of hitting the rooftop patch. Sometimes it’s not worth the fit Rascal throws when I’m trying to make him go on fake turf.

But unlike any other night, Andrew had shown up seemingly out of nowhere. Sure, I know he came from down the street, but with that tie loosened and the top button of his shirt popped open, I was taken by surprise.

The way his hair hung over his forehead as if he’d spent hours in bed instead of at a bar, or restaurant, or wherever he was that overserved him. The late-night scruff covering his jaw had me biting his lip—my lip. I meant I was bitingmylip but wanted to bite . . . This might be a good time to drag the pillow over my head again.

At this rate of mortification, I’m never going to get any sleep. I roll to the side to check the time. 12:38.

Only two things will make me feel better. I’ll start with food.

I drag the spices from the cabinet and the paneer cheese from the fridge. I need comfort food tonight, and that means curry. It’s New York, so I could order anything I want at this hour, but sometimes I just need to turn on some music to set the scene and do something to take my mind off things.

Even if just for a short time.

I turn up the music and start cooking. Moving around the kitchen, I dance in the fragrance of the spices. Since I’m using cheese as my protein, it doesn’t take long to simmer everything together, but I go ahead and pour myself a small glass of wine. It may not take my mind off everything from earlier tonight, but for a brief time, it helps.

Twenty minutes to cook.

Ten minutes to devour.

I lose the motivation to clean the dishes afterward, but I’m never one to rush to clean up after a meal anyway. The process of cooking and eating should be enjoyed. Cleaning is such a chore. I fill the sink and leave them to soak until morning.

Turning off the music, I fall back on the couch, stuffed after eating my creation at the island. Like a bad date, the memories return for another round of torture. I wallow a while but then decide I have to resort to the only other option I have.Gil.

Pushing off the couch, I go to slip on my baby-blue, sheep-covered sleep pants and my fuzzy purple robe over my tank top. I tighten the belt and slip on a pair of flip-flops before heading down to the lobby.

The elevator doors open, and the newlyweds from the fifteenth floor—looking like they just walked off the runway—step back with mouths wide open. “Hi,” I squeak out because sure, I needed to be embarrassed once more before bed.

Her flowing chestnut hair drapes over her shoulders as if it considers it a privilege to be there. Her perfect red lips form a smile, but she can’t hide the sympathy filling her eyes as if she knows I begged a drunk man to be my friend.

She’s probably never had to beg for anything.

Cringing inside, I mutter, “We can’t all be supermodels,” with a roll of my eyes.

They let the girl having a mental meltdown have her moment by not saying anything, but don’t think I don’t notice the wide berth they travel when they pass to get on the elevator. If wearing pajamas in a high-rise lobby is considered an act of the insane, then call me cuckoo. I flip my hair and head toward the front desk.

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