I wondered what the evening would bring. I wondered what Olivia would be like. I hoped he was alone when he picked me up. My stomach lurched as I thought about seeing Drew with a woman. Maybe once, years ago, he had brought someone to dinner. I vaguely remembered her. How had Drew dealt for ten-plus years?
When I walked up the steps to the terminal at Penn Station, Drew stood right where he texted me he’d be—in front of the Au Bon Pain. I studied him in the few seconds before he saw me. He looked wonderful—tall and dark, open-faced, and friendly. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the crowd. His eyes caught mine, and he broke into a wide grin and waved. When he hugged me, my heart thudded. This is ridiculous, I scolded. Drew was my best friend. He was seeing someone, seriously enough to want us to meet. He’d been watching me with Greg for years. I needed to calm down, but I didn’t know how. He smelled like Drew, soap and shampoo, like home to me. What had I been thinking? This is going to be impossible.
“Hi,” he said, ducking his head almost shyly. “You look great, Claire. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too. I need a night out. I need you, actually.” I put my head on his shoulder.
He gave me a quick squeeze. “Well, let’s go. Wait till you see my apartment!” He led me through the crowd and to the street. We hailed a taxi.
“I can’t believe you live in Harlem!” I also couldn’t believe we were taking a taxi a hundred blocks. Drew must be rich.
“Stop, it’s not like it used to be. The crime in southwest Harlem is incredibly low. When was the last time you went into the city? The eighties?”
I stared out the window, watching the city go by, like a silent movie running at the wrong speed. Traffic was surprisingly light. The opulence of the Upper West Side melded into rundown row homes of Morningside Heights. We turned on 119th Street, and the row homes faded into beautiful brownstones with sculpted steps and ornate front doors. The cab stopped, and Drew got out. The tree-lined street boasted historic and stately homes.
“These are gorgeous!” I exclaimed.
“See? And you doubted me.” He grinned evilly.
His apartment was huge by New York standards, with hardwood floors and a large, elaborate fireplace. The kitchen was small, but he had two reasonably sized bedrooms—two bedrooms. Unheard of! The living room and dining room were one open room separated by a display of ten different-sized stained-glass windows hanging from chains, with smaller ones hanging from each to create a faux wall. Some had ornate, bursting lilies and roses in a kaleidoscope pattern, and others were simpler, alternating square patterns in basic colors, reminiscent of old New Jersey farmhouses. Light flooded around the frames, and the prism effect created hypnotic dancing spots of light throughout the room.
“Drew, did you do this? It’s beautiful!”
He shrugged. “I needed a divider between the rooms, and walls are so last year, you know?”
I laughed. I had only been to one or two of Drew’s previous apartments. His living area was clean, with a surprising sense of style. I briefly remembered what Greg’s bachelor pad had looked like—all utility, simple furniture and faux wood. Drew’s had flair—a small sculpture, a tray of sand and marbles on the coffee table, not a Yankee candle in sight. Very chic. Clearly, the handmade art was all one of kind, not chain store accessorized, like my own house.
When I said as much, he laughed. “Well, Claire, I am an artist. Which reminds me. Guess what we’re doing tonight?”
“What?”
“We’re going to a gallery opening.” My jaw dropped. I had brought nothing to wear to an event like that.
“Don’t panic. It’s just a one-room gallery a few blocks over. They’re showing my collection. Remember the one I told you about, with the lunchtime affairs?”
I nodded. How could I forget?
“It’s called Illicit. Please don’t say no. I want you to see it.” His took my hand, his touch sent pulsing jolts up my arms, curling my toes.
“What do I wear?” I asked, slowly withdrawing my hand. My eyes held his for a beat.
“Anything you want. It’s a small reception, probably less than twenty people. But it’s the art world. Everyone dresses crazy. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry. And besides, you’re going with me, and I’m the star of the evening.” He performed a deep bow, tipping an imaginary hat.
I went to his guest room to unpack and figure out what to wear. I had packed the wrap dress Sarah had raved about in San Diego, but it looked so Mom-ish. I pulled out a pair of black leggings and a black boat-neck glitter sweater. The outfit was fashionable and not me at all. I had taken it off of a mannequin at a store where I had never shopped before because the shop was out-of-my-league trendy. I put the ensemble on in front of the mirror and could barely believe my reflection. I added a pair of pointy-toed flats and shyly opened the door.