Page 8 of Crossing Into Brooklyn

My curiosity has led me wandering down 42nd Street in New York City in thirty-three-degree weather on a Thursday afternoon. Don’t get me wrong, I love the city. It’s rare for me to travel from Connecticut into New York for a coffee, even if it is a business meeting. If I need to come into the city, I make a weekend of it. Not today. Today, I endured rush hour-traffic to get to Stamford, hopped a thru-train, and rode the hour to Grand Central Station to meet Brooklyn for a beverage. Because I’m cheap, I decide to walk to the café. For. A. Beverage. That’s not entirely accurate—for a beverage with Brooklyn Brady. The longer I walk, the more I question my sanity, and the more my fingertips regret my decision not to hail a cab. I hope this coffee meeting lasts more than twenty-minutes. I text Brooklyn when I reach the one-block mark: I’m a block away. Be there soon.

Brooklyn: I’m here. Let me grab our coffees so we can get a table. What would you like?

Me: You don’t have to do that.

Brooklyn: If you want to sit inside, yes, I do.

Me: A cappuccino. Nothing special.

Brooklyn: One cappuccino. I will pry a table from someone’s warm butt. See you in a few.

Brooklyn’s message makes me giggle. Someone’s warm butt? I turn the corner and can tell the café is bustling. Not surprising. It’s frigid and windy for early November. My stomach revolts when my hand reaches the door. Have I mentioned that meeting strangers is not my forte? Nerves lead me to ramble and I know it. Ali says it’s endearing. Somehow, I doubt most people would agree. Deep breath. My eyes scan the room as I step through the door. Where is Brooklyn? Let’s face it, people don’t always look the way they do in a photo. I try to picture her. Instead, I hear her voice. I mentally shake myself. Brooklyn. Where is Brooklyn? I chuckle. If I were to ask that question of someone here, I’d receive stop by stop directions to the burrow. My eyes settle on a young woman seated at a bistro table in the corner.Brooklyn.Why am I frozen? I tell my legs to keep moving. I’m not sure they can carry me when my heart has stopped. Jesus. She resembles her picture. Her photo is a far cry from doing her justice. She’s stunning. And young. Get a grip, Carter. This is abusinesscoffee meeting. Now, move. She waves. I smile and head in her direction. Be cool, Carter. Don’t fidget anddon’tramble.

“You made it.” Brooklyn reaches her feet to greet me.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever been as grateful for heat.”

“I hear you. I made sure I found chairs that had been recently warmed.”

“Thank you.” I take a seat across from her. “Sorry if I’m a little late.”

“You’re not late.” Brooklyn passes me a cup.

“And thank you for this,” I tell her. “What do I owe you?”

“Well, if you hire me, we can always work it into my fee.”

I feel my eyebrow raise slightly. Business flirtation, romantic flirtation, and sexual flirtation are each unique. My head tells me Brooklyn’s playful tone is business-related. My body seems to have other ideas. And I’m not entirely sure what to make of the lump that’s formed in my throat. Maybe it will keep me from talking too much. That would be a bonus.

“I don’t mean to put you on the spot,” Brooklyn says. “No pressure. You don’t owe me anything. Not for the coffee, and not the promise of a job.”

“Thanks. But I think we both know if I wasn’t interested in your services I wouldn’t be sitting here.” Oh, my God! I have been joking about Brooklyn having a porn star’s name far too much. What the hell was that, Carter? Interested in her services? Smooth.

“I’m glad you’re open to negotiations.”

Okay. That was flirting. There is no way that was not flirting, and not the business kind. I sip my cappuccino, but it doesn’t help to cure the dryness of my mouth. I manage to smile at her. “So, you don’t think I’m a hopeless case?”

“I like challenges. But, no. I don’t think a person who pays their bills as a writer is hopeless. I have seen the pictures of your desk. That might be a different story.”

Brooklyn asked me to send her some photos of my workspace. I complied. No sense in hiding the truth. Not about my desk. It’s a mess. It’s such a mess that I forgot to pay my electric bill last month. Don’t ask me why I haven’t gone paperless. I think it has something to do with growing up in the eighties.

“How do you think I can help you?” Brooklyn asks.

“I need someone to put things in order.” I hate to admit it. I do. “I tend to avoid things that stress me out.”

“Like all humans.”

“I think I might be on the high end of the avoidance scale.” Why would I admit that to a stranger? Any stranger?

“Interesting,” Brooklyn muses. “I can help you get organized. I think I can help leverage your business as well. Get rid of the extraneous things that aren’t helping you maximize what drives your profit.”

“Marketing?”

“It’s not only marketing,” Brooklyn tells me. “It’s software. It’s files. It’s systems you think help you when all they really do is annoy you.”

“You might be working overtime.”

Brooklyn’s laugh is infectious. I find myself laughing with her.

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