Page 15 of Champagne Kisses
I’m sorry again, Mr. Park. It was really the perfect storm of events that led to this. But I promise I’ve built in more than enoughtravel time.
Adam (Champagne Flutes):I don't really have a choice, do I? And, for the love of God, please call me Adam. No sense being so formal at this point.
OK... I have to go. I can’t text and drive.
I force close my messages and set my Spotify to Chronixx Radio. For long drives, it’s gotta be either reggae or Motown classics. Today, Protoje and Kabaka Pyramid keep me company while Google leads the way.
Three hours and one bathroom break later, a call interrupts the chorus of “Eternal Light”.
“Hey, Denise.” She knows I’m driving otherwise she definitely would have texted.
“Hey, girl! I can’t believe you’re driving all the way to Cape Cod for some lousy champagne flutes. And you didn’t even charge for gas?! What kind of nonsense is that?”
Denise has been my girl since our days at Pratt. We both started in Apparel Design, but I switched to Textiles sophomore year. I've always liked making clothes, but I never had much fashion sense. Denise, on the other hand, interned with Tory Burch and even had her senior project featured at the Fashion Institute in NYC.
Denise has a personality as big as her breasts (DDD), a big booty (she’s fond of calling it a ‘donk’), and big hair—she’s just big all around. She and Tiffany are a lot alike, which is why they bonded immediately when I invited Tiff out for karaoke with us. Unfortunately, now that means I havetwopeople busting my balls about my relationship status and my issues with confidence. There’s not a day where I don’t wish I had the courage to flaunt my “assets” the way they do instead of hiding mine under sweaters and large prints. It's not that I don't want to, but…Ugh, now isnotthe time to spiral.
“OK first of all, my champagne flutes are not lousy. They are beautiful and pair perfectly with a Cape Cod engagement party.” I feign annoyance, but from her laughter, I can tell she knows I’m teasing.
“Sorry, girl. I’m just salty I didn’t get an invite to this weekend getaway. I like wine. I like lobster. What about me?”
I laugh at her ridiculousness and maneuver a tricky left exit before responding.
“I’m sorry. You know I’m mostly going to be working. After I deliver these flutes to Adam, I’m going to drop my card at a few venues in case they’re looking for personalized items for future events.”
“Oh it’sAdamnow, is it? Not ‘Mr. Park’?” If we were having this conversation face to face, I just know she’d have an eyebrow raised.
“No, no, no. Don’t make it like that. I literally tried to call him Mr. Park but he keeps insisting I call him Adam. We’venever spoken on the phone. I don’t even know what he looks like. There’s really nothing there.”
“Don’t know what he looks like? You didn’t even look him up on Facebook or Instagram?" My silence is telling. "Girl! You weren’t the least bit curious?” I love Denise, but she can certainly make a mountain out of a molehill.
“I’ve never looked because he’s just a client and this is not ‘You’ve Got Mail’ or some other rom-com."
"Not withthatattitude," Denise scoffs. I roll my eyes.
"I’m a romantic, but I’m also a realist and inreallife, people don’t appreciate when you stalk them on social media.”
Denise sucks her teeth and is silent for a moment.
“...What if I look him up for you? Is that still considered stalking?”
I laugh out loud and shake my head. This is why Denise is one of my ride or dies. “I love you, girl, but I gotta go. The exit for the venue is coming up and I don’t want to miss it.”
“Ok, spoilsport. Love you, too and have a great weekend!”
I take the Chatham exit and pull into the Chatham Bars Inn ten minutes later. As I park my Hyundai Accent next to anactual Bentleyin the circle drive, I suddenly feel incredibly out of my league.Just get in and get out, Maya. Deliver the flutes and ignore the cars worth several years' worth of rent.
A tall, Asian man wearing what I would describe as “J. Crew chic” makes a bee line for me, his mouth in a tight line. This must be Adam. I stay where I am and try not to pull at my oversized cardigan. Adam looks like he just walked out of acatalog, meanwhile I look like a fashion-challenged substitute teacher.Just perfect!
“Please tell me you’re Maya,” he demands. Yep, this is definitely Adam.
“I’m Maya. And I have the flutes.” I press my mouth into a nervous smile and extend my hand, but he doesn’t take it. I lower it after a few awkward seconds. “I told you I’d make it in time. Luckily there wasn’t much traffic.”
The whole time I’m talking, he’s warily assessing me, from the messy bun of locs on top of my head, to my plaid, pleated skirt, down to my worn out Mary Janes. I can’t read his expression, but I’d guess it’s impatience that I’ve got the nerve to still be talking instead of unloading his order. This is the last time I ever give white glove service.
“Yes, you made it on time…Just barely."Jerk."Can I help you carry these in? I wouldn’t want an accident at the last moment.”
Could this guy be any ruder? I get here thirty minutes earlier than planned after driving 4+ hours and I don’t even get a "hello" and a handshake? And now he thinks I’m going to drop his precious cargo on the floor like a complete rookie? Time to wrap this up and check into my room down the road. I grab a load of boxes and incline my head toward the entrance.
