“Oh, that must be fascinating,” I said, apparently unconvincingly.
Sweater Vest laughed. “It is to me, but not to everybody.” The flight attendant came over with more red wine, and I made the hand gesture for a swallow more. “Are you going to Paris for fun? Or work.”
“Fun. A little treat for myself. To visit an old friend. And do some shopping.” Perfect, vague, believable.
Sweater Vest wasn’t looking for fashion tips. “What do you do for work?”
“I’m a dental hygienist.”
Here’s the thing about dentistry: nobody asks any follow-up questions because the thought of staring into people’s mouths all day is revolting to most human beings. Other than the occasional “Why did you want to become a dental hygienist?”
To which I answered, “My parents are dentists.” If there’s anything scarier than one dental professional, it’s a family of dental professionals. Sweater Vest completely changed the topic after that, and for the few hours after dinner and before giving in to sleep, we covered every topic but teeth. One of those intimate and far-ranging conversations that you only have on planes because you know you’ll never see the person again. Sweater Vest was surprisingly talkative once he put away his family of Androids.
He’d grown up in Portland, Maine, was forced to learn to sail, and never got comfortable on the water, much to the disappointment of his outdoorsman father. He much preferred sitting in a dark room, playing video games and writing code, for which his two older brothers teased him. He’d received a PhD in artificial intelligence from the University of Washington and then made his way down to Silicon Valley after that. As far as I could tell, he worked at, with, or near Stanford at some point, which I think is the law in that field, and developed some patents, sold them to some entrepreneurs, and had just relocated to Santa Monica, or Silicon Beach as the Chamber of Commerce dubbed it, because of a particular deal and was trying to get used to the constant sunshine. He wished he had a dog, but he was never home. His favorite city was Hong Kong, but he also loved London. He was a terrible cook, couldn’t boil water, but was really good at ordering in restaurants. He was in Paris for the weekend but may have to stay longer if some meetings he was trying to set up worked out. He was staying in the conference hotel, the InterContinental, because it was convenient and Paris geography confused him.
I managed to avoid most personal information, except the fact that I was allergic to dogs, thought driving was overrated, and wished LA had a more cohesive public transportation system—and that I was staying at my favorite hotel on ?le Saint-Louis, but I hadn’t been in the city for years. I mentioned that my relationship status had recently changed but didn’t go into details.
I had the vague sensation that he had a girlfriend somewhere, because he kept referring to “we,” as in, “We’re renting a place near the beach, but we never have time to sit in the sun.” I guess it could have been a roommate, but he seemed way too old to live with somebody he wasn’t sleeping with. He had one-tenth of the charm of my former husband, unless you find the qualities of seriousness and intensity charming, which I was beginning to, thanks to my encounter with Casey earlier. Though I could never be 100 percent sure again, my seatmate didn’t look like a guy who would hide a secret family in a nearby neighborhood. The more he talked and the more wine the flight attendant poured, the more attractive he grew, khakis and all. I switched to water.
Finally, about two hours later, he handed me a card and said, “I’m Nate, by the way.” Now that I knew his life story, it was time to learn his name. His card read “Nathaniel Redmond, PhD, CEO Green Town Industries.”
“I’m Joan. I don’t have a card.” Of course, I did, but not one that said “Dental Hygienist.” I was starting to really regret my cover story when a recollection hit me. “Green Town Industries? Is that a Ray Bradbury reference?”
Nate was clearly surprised. “It is. Are you a Bradbury fan?”
“Um, my father . . . ,” I started, then stopped, hoping Nate wouldn’t notice the incomplete sentence. Of course, what I really meant was that my father was not only a fan, but a friend. Two Angelenos, they met regularly for lunch over the years, both creative visionaries with a love-hate relationship to new technology. My father was always forcing Bradbury books on me, explaining that Bradbury put down in words what my father created in light and color. I read Bradbury’s last novel, Farewell Summer, set in the fictional Green Town, Illinois, after my father’s death. It was bittersweet. But Nate didn’t need to know that. “You must admire his work.”
“Yes. I wasn’t much of a reader growing up, but his books always made me think.” Nate looked a little embarrassed by his confession.
I was tempted to confess that I wasn’t really a dental hygienist, to make him feel less exposed. By this point, I was pretty sure he wasn’t a threat to my Panthéon Sketches, and I probably could drop my cover story, but then how pathetic would I look? I slipped his card into my bag. My eyes were starting to get heavy. “I think I need to doze off now. Or I’ll sleep through my first day in Paris.”
Nate smiled. “You wouldn’t want to do that.” He held my gaze.
Well, that was a little bit of something.
“Do you need a ride to your hotel? I have a car waiting. I can drop you anywhere,” Nate said in a matter-of-fact manner. We were walking through the airport, en route to baggage claim, then customs. I realized I was going to have to ditch him. As soon as we landed, I went into work mode. I had to get the sketchbook safely to the dealer, and then I could relax for the weekend. Until then, I needed to be cautious. I didn’t want him following me through customs.
“Oh, that’s so kind of you. My friend is coming to pick me up.” Not true at all. I had a car coming as well. “In fact, I have to make a detour here to the restroom. I guess this is it.” I pulled up my wheelie bag and reached out my hand for a parting handshake. “I enjoyed talking to you, Nate.”
“Thanks, Joan. Me too, with you. Usually I work the whole flight. It was a good break.” There was a pause as he slowly let go of my hand. “Joan, I have reservations at this restaurant tonight. It’s supposed to be very good and very hard to get into. It’s called Passages or Itineraries or something like that. Left Bank. I have the address in my calendar.”
“Itinéraires?”
“That’s it. My sister is a foodie, and she was going to come along but had to cancel at the last minute. She’s my business partner, too, and usually the one to force me to leave the conference hotel no matter where we are. She made me promise that I would get out, and I don’t want to disappoint her.”
Oh, the “we” was not a girlfriend, but a sister. For some reason, that made my skin prickle a bit, and it felt good.
“I don’t know if you’re free tonight, but I would love to have a dinner companion. Seems a shame to waste the reservation.”
Yes, it did, especially to such a hot spot. I’d read about it on Polly’s blog, of course, where she praised the “sleek design and the market-fresh menu.” There were a million reasons I could come up with to say no, including fear of exhausting my knowledge of dental terms pretty quickly should the conversation turn to my work. But after seeing Marissa in that maxi dress, headed out on my dream vacation, and then that stupid text from Casey, like I was still pining away for him, I knew I had to do something a little reckless with a guy. And here was a guy right in front of me asking me out to dinner at a trendy restaurant. I didn’t have to sleep with him, but a Paris street make-out session would do the trick. The thought stirred up some genuine and unexpected sensations in my body. Why not go to dinner? After all, it was Paris. This could be categorized as fun, right? “I’d love to.”