Page 19 of Date and Switch

Bryce rolled the platinum sidecar in its fancy glass while we sat under the stars.

“To quote a famous blue blood, ‘I’m an open book.’”

He huffed a laugh over his glass, luxuriating in a sip before continuing.

“If you weren’t so charming…”

I raised my eyebrows in invitation, wondering what the rest of that sentence was.

“Why banking?”

That was not a question I thought was anywhere in the orbit of conversations we’d have at that moment.

He must have seen the question on my face because he clarified. “You very clearly love to sing, and I don’t have to tell you how talented you are. Watching you up there it was as if I had a solid piece of the Sera puzzle. Maybe the central piece of the Sera puzzle. So why are you in banking?”

“Well,” I tried to speak around the thrill of his compliment as it tightened my throat and tickled my insides. “After Berklee—College of Music, not CalBerkley—I couldn’t get any work. I’m trained, classically, in performance opera and music theater. As I was coming up it was before this whole body positivity, diversity in the performing arts movement. And to be frank, casting directors thought I was too fat to be in shows. They had concerns over gosh—practically everything. From whether or not I would be able to keep up with the complex choreography to whether or not they’d be able to source costumes for me.”

I’d decided to join Bryce in imbibing in his fancy sidecar drink. It packed a hell of a punch. It had to be the reason I exposed my biggest shame to Bryce. Someone who up until that very moment, I’d hoped to have sex with at some point on this trip.

“Angel,” he reached across our table and took both of my hands in his, “you are beautiful. I hope you know that. Just because some stupid prick with a hard on for bean poles decided you weren’t worthy for his piece of shit show, I hope you know that there are millions of men, millions who see you walking down the street and do a double take.”

I couldn’t have that conversation with him. Those emotions existed in broken cracks of my psyche, buried deep enough I hoped they’d be forgotten. It left me feeling exposed in a way that I didn’t want to feel.

“How come you call me angel?”

He tilted his head, regarding me for the longest moment before answering.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he said.

“Well, there’s an obvious reason yes.”

“You’re the one named after the highest of all the holy angels.”

“You call me angel as a form of irony?”

“Irony?” He laughed, “God no!” He held his finger up stifling a giggle, “That was not intended to be a pun. You are definitely not ironic in how angelic you are. You’re sweet and good, and kind, and considerate.”

“And that’s why you call me angel?”

I don’t know why I needed to get to the bottom of his pet name.

“Why does there have to be an explanation? It’s just something that happened, organically.”

With a tilt of the heavy crystal, I cleared the remnants of my pricey drink before continuing.

“When you call me angel, or the times that you’ve said it, it feels different. Oddly significant. As if it’s a pet name.”

“Of course, it’s a pet name.”

Sensible me told me to just pump the brakes. It wasn’t important enough to push. The me emboldened by the drink, however, needed answers and pursued.

“It feels like whenever you say something tender you use angel. I can count on my fingers the number of times you’ve called me Sera.”

His head rolled backward, as if the answer smacked him on his forehead.

“I thought it would be easy,” he started, running his finger along the rim of his glass, “being here with someone with the same name. But the more I’m with you, the more I want to separate you from her. To try to force my brain to compartmentalize old Sarah from you. Like I said before, transference. I want to avoid it. So I don’t end up hurting you.”

I nodded. Of course. It was a transference thing. That stupid word again. I was sick of that word. Transference be damned. Did I want to be known for me? Of course. But maybe the path to his seeing me as me was through the memories of Sarah.