I kept the boots and the pearls on the entire time. The apron went by the wayside.
We didn’t see the outside world again until Saturday morning, when we headed to the market. I’m sure New York missed me, but I wouldn’t trade that night for the world.
“So, about tonight.”
“Tonight? I thought we’d have another night like last night, but if you want to go out, I could be talked into those dumplings again,” he replied, dropping a kiss between my neck and shoulder, to the dismay of the woman at the front of his line. The dismay was shared by the next woman, the woman after that, and the man after that. I understood; I’d been in that line only a few weeks before.
But back to tonight. “No, no dumplings. And yes, obviously last night was incredible,” I said when he moved my apron strap over and dropped one more kiss just below my ear, making me go all shivery. “But tonight, we’re going out.”
“I still can’t believe you had these made for everyone.” He gestured at the rest of his team, now proudly wearing the new aprons. He wasn’t sure about them at first, wondering why in the world he needed to wear an apron that said Bailey Falls Creamery when he was standing under a sign that said the same thing, but eventually he acquiesced and slipped it over his head with a sheepish look. “So, where are we going tonight?” He handed an order of cheddar to the next customer with his usual “strictly business” expression.
“How would you feel about going to the opening of a new art exhibit?”
He looked back at me while handing over a wheel of Brie. “What, like paintings?”
“No, it’s an abstract exhibition—a photographic study of New York City trash cans juxtaposed with large-scale plastic installations, designed to represent man’s overarching reach toward industrialization, and its impact on the environment with its waste.”
The entire line had fallen silent, as had Oscar’s team, listening to what I was saying with confused looks on their faces.
“It’s garbage art?” he asked, looking beyond skeptical, then noticing that the line had stopped. “Here’s your cheese,” he grumbled, handing over a package and putting the line back in motion again.
“I can’t describe the work as well as the artist; you’ll have to ask her for her explanation.” I sighed, rolling back and forth on my ankle.
He instantly spotted it. “Why are you nervous about going to see garbage art?”
“Because the artist is my mother,” I squeaked.
“You want me to meet your mom?”
“And my dad? Is that too weird?” I said, pulling at my apron.
It was weird, it was totally weird. Why was I doing this? This was too much too soon, and it was suddenly very warm in this stall.
Oscar studied me carefully, and I wondered what he was thinking. Would he say yes? Would he say no? Would he order me out of the stall? Would he run screaming in terror at the idea of meeting my parents? What the hell was I thinking? I never did this!
“Okay,” he replied, turning back to his customers. “What do you want?” He always accentuated the you, making it sound like the customer was somehow putting him out.
“Wait, so, you’ll go?” I asked, breath moving back into my lungs.
This was happening—this was really happening! The budding panic was gone the instant he said yes, and I realized how very much I wanted to introduce him to my world and my family. This. Was. Happening.
He turned toward me with a grin. “Sure, no big deal. Not sure I have anything to wear, though. I didn’t bring anything fancy.”
“We can go shopping after we’re done here!” I squealed, giddy over the idea that my boyfriend and I would be stepping out on the town tonight. “I can call Barneys or Bergdorf’s and have them set some things aside for you—”
“Can we go to Macy’s? The one that has the parade?” he asked, his face lighting up. “We always watched the parade every year, before the football games started up. I’ve always wanted to go there.”
He was smiling. Even at his customers. And between orders, he actually began to . . . whistle.
Macy’s it is.
We took the subway to go shopping, something he’d never done before.
“We can just take my truck, no biggie,” he said, gesturing to where it was parked behind the stand.
I shook my head. “It’ll be faster this way, and we won’t have to worry about parking. Besides, no one drives in the city.”
He looked around at all the traffic with raised eyebrows, then turned to me with a “tell me that again” expression.
“Seriously, look again at those cars. They’re all cabs, Uber guys, or private drivers. It’s much faster to move underground,” I replied, taking him by the hand and leading him toward the station on Thirty-fourth Street.
They had a helluva men’s department at Macy’s, and within an hour we had him outfitted in a nice oxford shirt, a new tie, and a jacket. He refused to buy new pants, though. “Jeans are fine. I always see guys in jeans in those fashion magazines,” he’d said.