Page 37 of Bringing Home the Bacon
“I’m getting that. My grandmother is a big fan of yours as well. She calls you her ‘sexy Bacon boy.’”
“Wow. I’m not sure how to respond to that.”
“That’s understandable. For what it’s worth, she’s a very cool lady. And she is single. I can make introductions sometime if you’d like,” she jokes, and even though there’s so much I need to understand about why things turned out the way they did, I’m so relieved that we’re joking.
“I don’t know about that. For the past few months, I’ve been pretty hung up on someone else.”
She smiles shyly. Her cheeks, already pink from the cold outside, get even rosier.
We’re quiet as the elevator ascends.
“So your grandmother watched the show, huh?”
She nods. “My whole family did actually.”
“That must have been…interesting for you.”
She smiles sadly. “Understatement of the century, sir.”
The elevator doors open, and I quickly key into my apartment. She stands in the doorway, taking in the space.
Does she remember that night we shared here together?
I certainly do.
“Are you coming in?” I ask gently.
She snaps out of whatever trance she was in and says, “Yeah, yeah. Thanks.”
“Can I take your coat?”
She reaches to unzip but thinks better of it and clutches her coat tighter, arms crossed over her middle. “Actually, I’ll leave it on for now if you don’t mind.”
That’s odd.
“Heat’s on,” I say. “And it’s the old steam heat these old Upper West Side buildings are known for. The temperatures can get fairly tropical this time of year. But, hey, whatever makes you comfortable.”
She walks the perimeter of the apartment, scanning the bookshelves and finally landing in the kitchen area. Her hand runs back and forth over the marble countertop.
“We packed a lot of memories into one day, didn’t we?” I say softly.
“We sure did.” I could be mistaken, but her throat bobs, and I swear her eyes are glassier than they were a moment ago. “Could I possibly have a drink?”
“Of course. I can make some coffee?”
“I recently switched to decaf.”
“Now I know you’re not a New Yorker,” I tease. “No self-respecting New Yorker says ‘I recently switched to decaf.’”
She doesn’t say anything, just laughs politely. That’s what has me thrown right now. We’re both being so… polite. That first day we met, there wasn’t a polite bone in either of our bodies.
“Well, it’s officially afternoon, so I could open a bottle of wine? Pour another mimosa, maybe?”
“Could I just have a glass of water?” she says.
It hits me what I just said. “‘Another mimosa’ wasn’t a euphemism for—I mean, I know the last time we had mimosas we—I just—I’m not expecting?—”
“I know you’re not, Bacon.”
