“Sure,” I say, reaching into my purse for a Kit Kat and tearing the wrapper off. I skipped breakfast this morning, and I’m starving. Plus, I read this article that said if you eat your dessert first thing in the morning, you’ll actually lose weight! Win/win!
“You may know that Bradley and I have been together for quite a while now.” She looks up at me expectantly, as if I know exactly what she’s talking about, and the weird thing is that I do—Bradley is her investment banker boyfriend. I heard her talking about him one day in the cafeteria.
“And things have been, well, fairly serious between us for some time. I’ve been waiting for him to take things to the next level, but he seems perfectly happy to let things go on as they have been . . .” She gives me a tight smile.
“The next level,” I say slowly. “You mean locking it down with a ring?”
“Well, of course I mean marriage!” She throws her arms up in exasperation. “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?”
Okay . . . I see someone hasn’t taken her Prozac today. Or had her daily Starbucks. Best to tread lightly.
“Does he know you’re receptive to such an offer?” I ask in a neutral voice.
She lets out a long sigh, like a balloon deflating.
“I can’t imagine he doesn’t. We’ve been dating for two years now, and I’ve only hinted around about it a million times. I even sent him links of possible venues for 2018! You have to book these things way in advance, you know, if you want to have any hope of snagging somewhere decent,” she says emphatically, waiting for me to agree with her, as if we’re in exactly the same boat.
I nod. “Oh, of course. Definitely.”
“So here’s the thing. I’m thinking about using your little strike strategy,” she says firmly, placing both hands palms down on the desk, “to perhaps try and force the issue a bit? I mean, I’m thirty-eight now, you know. I’m not getting any younger. I need to lock this thing down now.”
“You mean, refuse to have sex until he proposes?” I gulp. “But the strike isn’t about manipulating anyone,” I say gingerly, aware that I’m on dangerous ground.
“Well, maybe that wasn’t its original purpose,” she says smoothly, “but it seems to me that it could prove to be extremely useful in my situation. Don’t you think?” She’s basically daring me to disagree, and as much as I love my job, the whole thing seems kind of icky to me.
“Well, maybe,” I start, “but—”
Just then there’s a quick rap on the door, and while normally I’d be pissed, this time I’m more than glad for the interruption. Without waiting for me to give the okay, the door opens and Jake walks in, list in hand.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything important, ladies.”
“Not at all,” Jake,” Morgan says, beaming at him so hard that I’m sure her dermatologist will lecture her at some later date about the dangers of smiling too much. “I was just getting Lizzie’s input on a personal matter.”
She turns back to me, leaning across the desk. “So when should I start the strike? Tonight? Tomorrow morning? Should I send him an email explaining my decision or just let him figure it out for himself?”
“Not you, too,” Jake interrupts. “God, what have you spawned?” he says to me, looking amused.
“Frustrated much?” I ask sweetly. “What’s the matter, Jake? Dates not going well lately?”
“No complaints here.” He smirks, and Morgan gets up.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she says, smiling widely at me. “I think I’ll definitely take your advice, Lizzie,” she says.
“But . . . I didn’t . . . you shouldn’t—”
The door slams shut behind her.
Great.
“Trouble in paradise?” Jake asks. Of course, today’s suit is a lightweight navy fabric that not only brings out the blue in his eyes, but ripples off his taut physique like water.
Not that I’m noticing or anything.
“What do you need?” I ask. “Are you having problems with your list? I’m kind of busy with my own.”
“Then maybe I can help. I’m all done.” Jake lets his sheet flutter to the desk. I look down at the piece of paper and every task has been neatly crossed off in red ink.
“You cannot be serious,” I tell him in a state of sheer disbelief. “You’re finished already?”
“Like it was hard.”
“How?” I sputter. I purposefully gave him the hard stuff! “How is that even possible? There were no less than twenty-four items you needed to procure on here! How did you—”
“Why don’t you come to lunch with me?” he interrupts, like this suggestion to share a meal is totally normal, like we do this every goddamn day. “Maybe I’ll even tell you my secrets.”
I pause. So here’s the thing: on one hand, Jake drives me completely out of my mind, and I’m just as likely to enjoy my lunch with him as I am to stab him with a butter knife. On the other hand, I am hungry, and if there’s any chance he does have some secret to getting this stuff done so quickly, I could sure use it.
“Fine,” I say, picking up my bag and walking to the door. “But you’re buying.”
11
Lizzie
He takes me to Umberto’s, the schmancy Italian place around the corner that directly overlooks Central Park. “Morgan brings all the big-shot donors here,” I say, looking around. “I’ve heard the waiting list is a mile long and—ooh, bread!”
Jake smiles and gestures to the waiter to bring some over. It’s not until I have butter melting in my mouth that I sit back in the cozy booth and finally relax.
“When I get to heaven, it’s going to be a bakery,” I sigh with pleasure, tearing into another roll. “Nothing but butter croissants as far as the eye can see. Or a doughnut shop. Or a bakery-slash-doughnut shop.”
“You know, there’s a place in the West Village that makes cronuts,” Jake says.
“No!”
“Yes.” He grins, clearly amused by my eternal devotion to carbs.
“That’s what makes America great,” I declare. “We see a doughnut, and we think, how much better can this get?”
“How much more of a heart attack, you mean.”
“I like my moderation in moderation,” I quip, as the waiter returns to take our order. I pick the Bolognese and a glass of red wine and Jake gets some kind of complicated chicken dish with mushrooms, but who cares? We’ve already established I’m a carbs girl. It’s pasta all the way, baby. The waiter departs, and I take a sip of wine and brace myself.
“Go on,” I tell him, “we may as well get this part over with.”
“Which part?” Jake looks confused.
“The part where you gloat about getting your list finished, and make me beg so you feel superior before helping me out.”
He laughs. “You sure about skipping through that, because it sounds kind of fun to me.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Tell me, O wise one, how did you do it?” I pause. The fact is, I really do want to know. Securing exhibits is a huge part of the job, and if I’m going to move up in the museum I need some of whatever secret sauce Jake has going on. “I mean it,” I add, when Jake just answers with an infuriatingly mysterious shrug. “I’m maybe, kind of, just a little impressed.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Was that, no, could you have possibly just given me a compliment?”