The staticky phone line abated Sebastian’s silence. “Oh, man. How?”
“She called the specialist herself and made him tell her the truth.” I still couldn’t believe that doctor was willing to lie in the first place.
Sebastian let out a descending whistle. “Geez, okay. How’d she take it?”
“Pretty graciously, considering.”
“That’s great! I was kind of hoping she’d find out somehow so that none of us had to break it to her. Though I’m not looking forward to breaking the news to my dad.”
It stung that he didn’t even think about how it might have impacted me.
“You’re lucky she wasn’t more upset. She could’ve reacted really badly, you know.”
“Yeah, well, Grandma’s always been tough. It makes sense that she’d take it in stride.” His laugh was uncomfortably forced. “She’s still cool with you coming though, right?”
“Well, yes.” And I had to admit I was looking forward to spending time with her without the stress of keeping up the pretense. “But you still shouldn’t have put me in that position. It’s irrelevant that Claudia took the news well because I would’ve been the one to deal with consequences if she hadn’t. Did you even consider that?”
As I said the words, it dawned on me that I wasn’t really upset about being caught up in the lie—it was obvious Sebastian thought he was helping Claudia. What hurt more was that he didn’t care about how it might affect me when she found out.
“Oh, wow, I guess I didn’t.” More static. “You’re right, Clover—I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”
His rapid apology caught me off guard. Maybe he’d simply been preoccupied with the fact that his beloved grandmother was dying. I felt a little selfish for making the situation about me.
“It’s fine, really,” I said, my resentment shifting to embarrassment. “Like you said, it all worked out in the end.”
I was grateful that a garbage truck chose that moment to rumble past, pausing our conversation momentarily.
“So, I’m actually glad you called.” Sebastian said, once the noise faded.
“Oh?”
“Yeah … because I was wondering if maybe you wanted to get together for a drink tomorrow night? It could be fun to hang out, you know, just the two of us.”
I definitely wasn’t expecting that segue. Was he suggesting a professional meeting to discuss things going forward with Claudia, now that the truth was out? Or did he mean something else? Was it pathetic that I was approaching middle age and couldn’t tell if I was being asked out on a date? The thought of making small talk with Sebastian in a rowdy bar was intimidating, either way.
“I think I might have plans tomorrow night,” I said, panicking. I needed to time process his invitation—and to dissect it with Sylvie.
“That’s cool,” Sebastian said confidently. “We can just do it the night after. Or the night after that.”
He was being really persistent, but I could also be reading too much into it. I did have a history of taking narratives about him a little too far, after all. But would I regret saying no? Maybe Sylvie was right: this was my chance to take a risk.
“The night after could work,” I said before I could talk myself out of it. “Just text me the details.” Better to be casual in case it was just a professional meeting.
“Great, looking forward to it!”
I tried not to put much weight on the excitement in his voice.
“Sebastian, I’m sorry but my train is here so I’ve got to go.”
“No worries—talk to you soon.”
“Goodnight.”
I tapped the red circle on my phone and walked the remaining half block to the subway, unsure if the giddiness I felt was anticipation or apprehension.
26
Ever since my phone call with Sebastian, a lump of unease had made itself at home in my stomach.
On Sylvie’s assessment, his invitation was definitely a date because he’d made a point to say “just the two of us.” On mine, it was merely a social drink with my employer, because no one had ever invited me on a date prior to this, and I didn’t know why Sebastian would be the exception to the rule.
But on the slim chance that Sylvie was right, I’d taken her up on her offer to lend me a dress that “left just enough to the imagination.” Just the idea of being the subject of someone else’s imagination was petrifying.
I stood outside the nondescript facade of the Lower East Side bar, wishing I could disappear into the pockmarked bricks. The black dress constricted my middle and its seams scratched my thighs. It felt like I was inhabiting someone else’s skin, loose in all the wrong places; my limbs felt even more out of proportion to my body than usual. I envied the innate style and confidence of the other people entering the bar, who could all probably tell I was a fraud.
Sebastian had told me eight o’clock. It was now 8:23 P.M., meaning the fifteen-minute leeway you had to grant everyone in New York City because of the unreliable subway system had well expired. Surely I wasn’t obligated to wait any longer. I considered texting Sylvie for her opinion but I already knew her answer. She wouldn’t tolerate the disrespect of her time and would’ve already left.
But then I spotted Sebastian’s now-familiar silhouette hurrying toward me, hunched against the evening cold. He wore an expectedly monochrome palette, but somehow the matching blacks looked neater, more formal. His shoes might’ve been shinier than usual, but it was hard to tell in the sickly amber of the streetlight.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” he said, face flushed. “I got stuck at work.”
“That’s fine.” A date would have texted to let me know, right? Another point in my column.
We hovered awkwardly in front of each other like teens at a dance.
Sebastian opened the door to the bar. “You’re gonna love this place—I come here all the time.”
My feet felt nailed to the grimy pavement. Just get out of your head, Sylvie’s voice nagged at me.
The pavement released its grip.
The dark establishment felt only slightly wider than a school bus. A long bed of oysters on ice lined the narrowest part of the bar, while a man with a waistcoat, white button-down, and waxed mustache shook a copper cocktail shaker with feigned insouciance. Fascinated, I absorbed the scene around me. I’d never had a reason to set foot in this kind of bar, but I’d always wondered what lay beyond their purposefully generic front doors.
Sebastian led me to the back of the enclave, where leather banquettes lined the perimeter. Small tables the size of milking stools sat with a single candle flickering in the center of each. The impractical dimness made it hard to tell, but I suspected that the patina of the tin walls and ceiling was more cultivated than earned.
A trio of brunettes was vacating the table in the corner. The shortest of the cohort stared at us in surprise.
“Sebastian! Hi!!”
I could almost hear the excess of exclamation points.
Sebastian’s posture stiffened. “Oh, hey … Jessie.” From the slight pause, I guessed he’d recalled her name in the nick of time. “How’s it going?”
“Great!” Jessie gestured to her friends. “Just out for a girls’ night!” Her eyes drifted conspicuously to me.
“Oh,” Sebastian said stiffly. “Jessie, this is Clover.”
“Hey, Clover,” Jessie said, her voice too saccharine to be genuine. She turned back to Sebastian and tugged on his lapel with an exaggerated pout. “It’s been so long—call me so we can catch up!”
“Um, sure.” He fidgeted with the end of his scarf. “See you later, Jessie.”
“See you soon.” As she breezed past, friends in tow, she trailed her hand down his forearm.
Sebastian quickly directed me to the now-vacant banquette and waited until the women were safely out of earshot.
“We dated for a month last year,” he said as if I’d demanded a confession. “Nice, but a little ditzy.”
Unsure how to respond to that unsolicited information, I sat down and studied the cocktail menu written in cursive on aged paper stock. “Wow, these cocktails are pretty elaborate.”