Chapter 42
A LL I HAD TO DO was move on, right? Make some intelligent changes in my life. I’d gotten rid of Maria’s old junker and moved onward and upward to our cross-vehicle. What could be so hard about making some other changes? And why did I keep failing at it?
Alex has a big date , I told myself at various times during the following Friday. That’s why I’d picked the New Heights Restaurant on Calvert Street over in Woodley Park. New Heights was a big-date sort of place. Dr. Kayla Coles was meeting me there after she finished work ? early, by her standards anyway ? at nine.
I took a seat at our table, partly because I was afraid they might give it away if Kayla showed up late ? which she did, at around quarter after.
Her being late didn’t matter to me. I was just happy to see her. Kayla was a pretty woman, with a radiant smile, but more important, I liked spending time with her. It seemed like we always had something to talk about. Just the opposite of a lot of couples I know.
“Wow,” I said, and winked when I saw her gliding across the dining room. She had on flats, possibly because she’s five foot ten without them, or maybe just because she’s sane and can’t stand the discomfort of heels.
“Wow, yourself! You look good too, Alex. And this view. I love this place.”
I had asked to be seated at a bank of windows overlooking Rock Creek Park, and it was kind of spectacular, I had to admit. The same could be said for Kayla, who was decked out in a white silk jacket with a beige camisole, long black pants, and a pretty gold sash tied around her waist, gently falling off to the side.
We ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir and then had a terrific meal, highlighted by a black-bean-and-goat-cheese pate that we shared; her arctic char, my au poivre rib eye; and bittersweet chocolate praline crumble for two. Everything about the New Heights Restaurant worked great for us: the cherry trees out front, in bloom in the fall; some pretty interesting local art up on the walls; delicious cooking smells ? fennel, roasted garlic ? permeating the dining room; candlelight just about everywhere our eyes went. Mostly, though, my eyes were on Kayla, usually on her eyes, which were deep brown, beautiful, and intelligent.
After dinner, she and I took a walk across the Duke Ellington Bridge toward Adams Morgan and Columbia Road. We stopped at one of my favorite stores in Washington, Crooked Beat Records, and I bought some Alex Chilton and Coltrane for her from Neil Becton, one of the owners and an old friend who once wrote for the Post. Then Kayla and I wound up in Kabani Village, just a few steps from the street. We had mojitos and watched a theater workshop for the next hour.
On the walk back to my car we held hands and continued to talk up a storm. Then Kayla kissed me ? on the cheek.
I didn’t know what to make of that. “Thank you for the night,” she said. “It was perfect, Alex. Just like you.”
“It was nice, wasn’t it?” I said, still reeling a little from the sisterly kiss.
She smiled. “I’ve never seen you so relaxed.”
I think it was the best thing she could have said, and it sort of made up for the kiss on the cheek. Sort of.
Then Kayla kissed me on the mouth, and I kissed her back. That was much better, and so was the rest of the night at her apartment in Capitol Hill. For a few hours anyway, it felt like my life was starting to make some sense again.