“Guess I’m a little overdressed for this place,” he said.
I shrugged. “All the same to me.”
“Well, I didn’t feel like heading home just yet. I just lost my job.”
“Oh . . .”
“Yeah, well, officially, I resigned to pursue a secret project.”
“And you thought you’d find it here?”
I worked on tips. You would have thought I’d try to keep the sarcasm in check. But I had beer on my knees and I didn’t feel particularly badly for a guy who could sell his suit and make more than I was paid in a month.
He laughed. “No, I thought I’d get drunk here. And I’ll start looking tomorrow.”
“So what can I get you?”
“Do you make martinis?”
“Not well.”
“Just a beer, then.”
I filled up a pint and put it in front of him. “Five dollars,” I said.
“Five dollars?”
He shook his head, taking out a ten, motioning for me to join him in a beer. It was an offer I had to accept, pouring myself a pint, so I could pocket the other five.
“Maybe you should learn how to make a martini,” he said. “Increase that profit margin.”
“I don’t intend to be here long enough for it to matter.”
“Where do you intend to be?”
“Anywhere else.”
He tilted his head, taking me in, his phony smile disappearing, a different look appearing on his face. Like all of a sudden I interested him.
“To anywhere else,” he said, lifting his glass, tipping it toward mine.
I heard a glass shatter on the ground and turned in time to see Austin stand up, Carla slamming him in the chest.
“I’m out of here!” he screamed, throwing the front door open, heading outside. Then Carla started crying hysterically.
Ryan nodded in their direction. “Lovely couple,” he said.
“They’re here almost as much as I am.”
He motioned toward the front door. “I was just eating at the new French-Korean restaurant around the corner. Have you been there?”
I shook my head.
“The CEO wanted me to check it out with him.”
“Before he fired you?”
“We’re doing this new show, restaurants off the beaten path. Or, I should say, the Food Network is doing a show on off-the-beaten-path restaurants,” he corrected himself. “Though I’m taking it you’re not a regular viewer.”
“Not exactly.”
“Do you like to cook?”
“Does grilled cheese count?”
“But you like to eat?”
Truthfully, I loved to eat. My favorite activity since moving to New York (and one I couldn’t really afford) was scoping out delicious restaurants and dragging Danny to them on a day off. With our schedules, the scoping had subsided, as had the eating out. But I still kept notes of places I wanted to try, and of the most appealing foods—for whenever we had more time to seek them out.
But I didn’t have an opportunity to say any of that.
Ryan looked me up and down, the extra padding in my hips all the answer he seemed to need.
“Obviously you eat.”
“Are you getting to a point?”
“I’m interested in the grilled cheese,” he said. “Your grilled cheese.”
“Why?”
“Would like to hear how you make it.”
He put another twenty down on the counter, motioning for a refill.
“Humor me.”
I started to say that I used American cheese and Wonder Bread, to shut him up. Though the combination of the twenty sitting on the bar and how little I wanted to do the requisite comforting of Carla encouraged a truthful answer.
“I grew up in Montauk, and there is this great bakery a few towns over . . . It opened a couple of years before I left for college, freshest bread you’ve ever tasted . . .”
“Levain.”
I was a little impressed. Most people mentioned the Barefoot Contessa, which had since closed. I must have shown it, because Ryan smiled a little wider, proud of himself.
“I do this for a living,” he said. “Did it for a living. So you use a bread like theirs? What kind of cheese?”
“Swiss. And I add tomatoes and avocado, and mayonnaise.”
“Mayonnaise? That sounds kind of disgusting.”
“Softens the bread in a way butter alone won’t.”
“Makes it closer to Montauk?” Ryan looked impressed. “Levain has a location on the Upper West Side. They’re pretty famous for their cookies.”
“They should be famous for the bread.”
“And you grill your bread and cheese in Red Hook these days.” It wasn’t a question—it was like he was working through something. “That’s exotic.”
“People may think it’s exotic, but . . .”
“What people think is all that matters.”
He nodded as the front door swung open, the drunken Austin returning, Carla jumping into his arms. They started kissing, happily together again, their fight already forgotten.
“And boyfriend, I take it?”
“Fiancé.”
He took a sip of his beer. “Fiancé. And what does fiancé do?”
“He’s an architect.” I paused. At this point, I still valued the truth. I still always tried to be accurate. “He’s actually studying to be an architect.”
“And what do you want to do when you grow up?”
I didn’t want to answer that. Mostly because I didn’t have a great answer. The plan had been for me to go back to school after Danny finished, but I was feeling tired at the notion. Maybe I was just feeling tired.
“You know, the spitfire questions are starting to make me uncomfortable.”
“Fair enough, let me ask you just one more.” He motioned toward the stool beside him. “Could you sit for a minute?”
“Is that the question? ’Cause the answer is no. I have customers.”
He looked around at the mostly empty bar, Austin and Carla now making out with each other in the corner.
“Not many,” he said. And he smiled, licked his lips. Mr. Drunk Pinstripe. He thought he was so charming. Looking for something from me that I wasn’t willing to give him.
“Well, I also have a fiancé,” I said.
“The famous architect. I got it.” He pointed at his wedding ring. “I just want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Your optics.”
“My . . . what?”
“Red Hook. Young and pretty . . .”
He tilted his head like he was convincing himself.
Was this guy kidding me? I pushed my hair behind my ears, defensive. It was the Danny effect. I’d historically never paid too much attention to my looks (maybe it was growing up without a mother), but Danny made me feel like I was stunning: my long blond hair suddenly sexy, my uniform of tank tops and cargo pants, effortlessly stylish in his eyes. Who was this guy to downgrade me?
“The right amount of pretty,” he said, like the issue was settled. “I can definitely work with this. Girls won’t feel threatened, especially because you’re an outsider. Born and raised in the South. Farm country.”
“I’m from Montauk.”
He shook his head. “Nah, makes you sound rich. Can’t start off rich. We’ll pick somewhere in Florida or Texas. We’ll make your dad a tomato farmer.”
I looked at him, confused.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Sunny,” I said.
“Short for . . .”
“Sunshine.”