Also, interesting fact, vests are in but not the kind of vests I was wearing. I got a couple of cute, modern vests I’m allowed to wear with boyfriend Ts, but only if I tuck the front part of my shirt into my jeans that’s paired with a belt and a long necklace. Honestly, my head is swimming with fashion advice. I told the girls they’re going to have to take pictures of outfits for me until I get the hang of it all.
Once we were done spending a pretty penny, getting alterations for our dresses, and indulging in an Orange Julius—what a treat—we headed home, but for me, I wasn’t done. I was riding a high of becoming a new woman on the outside and there was one person I really wanted to share it with. You would think it would be Gram but when I went into my phone to dial her, I ended up calling Carter.
At first I was confident in my decision to call him, but once I started asking him to hang out, nerves took over and I tried to backtrack so I didn’t have to face rejection. Lucky for me, he said yes.
The entire taxi ride over to Prohibition was full of bouncy knees and sightseeing. It wasn’t until I was paying the cabbie and getting out of the car that I realize just how nervous I was.
This entire outfit is new to me. I might think I look nice, but then again, I thought I looked nice in my watering-can crewneck sweatshirt with embroidered polo shirt peeking out of the neckline. Who’s the judge of what looks good?
Will Carter like it? Do I even care if he likes it?
I hate to admit it, but I do care.
He’s a handsome man, with his dark, almost sinister eyes and mysterious vibe. For once in my life, it would be nice for a man like him to look at me differently. Not like a friend or an acquaintance, but like a beautiful woman he can’t resist.
The funny thing is, I don’t need him to validate if I’m pretty or not. I can look in the mirror and know I’m pretty, inside and out. I just want to be appreciated on every level. I want to be swept off my feet. I want a man to not be able to take his eyes off me.
Clearing his throat, Carter looks me up and down and runs his hand through his hair. “I, uh, I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Pulling on the hem of my jacket, I shyly say, “Yeah, I did a little shopping today.”
His jaw ticks as he takes me in one more time. Instead of complimenting me, like I thought he would, he clears his throat again and tells me to take a seat. His dismissal of my appearance breaks my heart.
“I’m getting a beer.” His head is buried in his menu, so I can barely hear him.
“A beer?” I ask, making sure I heard him correctly. He could have said he’s getting the deer, or he’s becoming queer, or he likes their schmear. What else rhymes with beer? Year, tear, veer, adhere. Maybe he’s switching gears or he wants to do a Bronx cheer. Or his friend is Buzz Lightyear.
Being friend’s with Buzz Lightyear, now that is something I would be interested in talking about.
“Why are you giggling?” he asks, annoyed, from over his menu.
“Do you know Buzz Lightyear?” I ask, a little too giddy.
His eyebrow questions me. Lowering his menu, he assesses my features, his face growing harder with each once-over. Uh oh, why do I feel like I’m about to get in trouble? Leaning forward, with a menacing look, he asks, “Are you high?”
High? Is he insane? “I beg your pardon.”
“Marijuana, did you smoke some?”
“No! And I’m insulted you would even ask. I don’t do drugs.”
Sitting back in his seat, he says, “Marijuana is hardly a drug, Snowflake.”
“Well, it’s a drug to me, and no, I haven’t smoked any. Why would you ask that?”
“Why would you ask if I know Buzz Lightyear?”
“Because you said beer.”
The look on his face is priceless. “I’m not following.”
“It was a rabbit trail in my head. I don’t think you want to know.”
Casually, he drapes his arms across the back of his booth, finally starting to relax. Maybe the whole Buzz Lightyear thing was a smart move on my end even though I can feel my cheeks blushing from the whole interaction.
“Fair enough.” He gestures at the menu. “Are you going to get a drink?”
“Like an alcoholic one?”
Slowly he nods his head while biting his lower lip and studying me. “Yeah, an alcoholic beverage. You’re of age, and I think it’s time to take another step toward your goal, don’t you think?”
I’ve already taken a big step by flipping my wardrobe and style upside down, isn’t that enough for today?
By the look on his face and the way his teeth nibble on his lower lip, I think maybe I can take one more big girl step.
“Okay, hand me the drink menu?”
“Really?” Carter asks in surprise, as if he really didn’t think I was going to have a drink.
“Yeah, really. Hand it over.”
Resigned, he opens up the drink menu and pushes it in my direction. “You might want to stick to this section.” He points to the cocktails right above the beers.
There are so many options, and oh boy, they are pricey, at least I think they are for a drink. I don’t really have anything to compare it to. Whispering, I glance up at Carter and say, “Ten dollars for a drink? Is that normal?”
Smiling wickedly, he nods his head. “Yeah, Snowflake, that’s normal.”
“Goodness, it better be a good drink.” Looking over the menu, I can’t decide. “Moscow Mule, that seems interesting. I’ve never seen a copper cup before.”
“You won’t like it,” he states bluntly.
“How do you know? It might be my favorite drink.”
“It’s not.” He folds his arms over his chest, so sure of himself.
“How can you say that? You don’t know my taste buds.”
“Snowflake, I’ve watched you gag meeting after meeting at Dear Life from the coffee they serve. If you can’t handle coffee, you’re not going to be able to handle a Moscow Mule.”
“Fine,” I concede. “But for the record, that coffee tastes like sludge.”
“I’m not going to argue with you about that.”
“What about Breaking Bad. That seems delightful.”
Smiling, he takes the menu from me and puts it back behind the salt and pepper shakers. “Now that’s more like it.”
Eeep, why does that smile make me feel tingly all over?
After we both decide on getting the house-made chicken pot pie, something they are famous for, we wait for the waiter to bring our drinks.
“This is exiting, my first drink ever. Who knows, maybe by tomorrow I’ll be doing shots.”
Carter’s brow crinkles. “You won’t be doing shots.”
“I might,” I counter. “I don’t have a job. Maybe I’ll start doing shots in the afternoon just for the heck of it.”
“If you’re someone who uses the term ‘for the heck of it,’ I’m pretty sure you won’t be going on any afternoon shot binging.”
“Well, now I have to prove you wrong.”
“Go ahead,” Carter challenges me. “And be sure to call me after your first shot, I’m sure you’ll be singing songs of regret into the phone.”
I hate to admit that he’s probably right. Just the mere thought of doing a shot has my stomach quivering.
“Fine, I won’t do any shots. But I could if I wanted to.”
“You could.” He pauses and asks, “Do you want a job?”