So I give in. “Well,” I say, backing the ’Burban out of the parking space. “You’ve never been to my house. Bric brought you here back when you first met. But I never took you home. I’ve always regretted that.”
“We’re going to your house?” she asks, a quiver of excitement in her voice.
“After,” I say, as if this explains everything.
I have taken Rochelle out to many nice restaurants since we started… dating. All over the city. In fact, it was something we did for fun. We’d scour the Westword, looking for new restaurants, and we even had a list ready to go on the refrigerator, held up by a vintage Pepsi magnet she found in an antique store once. If we ever got bored, we’d just look at the list and choose one that had not been marked off yet.
Tonight’s pick was all on me. I don’t have that list anymore. She left it stuck to the fridge when she disappeared last year and I took nothing out of that apartment, even though Bric told me I should. So the list is gone. That whole life is gone, I realize. Everything we’re doing now is new.
I like that. A lot. I like that it’s a do-over, of sorts. A way to look at what went wrong and fix it. Make things better.
I think it’s going well. It was hard for the first few days, but after I went up there Sunday night and found Bric has filled in for me, I felt better knowing he was there. He picks up my slack. He smooths over my wrinkles. He compensates for my shortcomings. And he set up this date. He said it was for a selfish reason. He wants to take Rochelle to a party on Thursday night and to make it fair, he gave us a night out alone.
But it was not selfish. It was very generous. I like that about Bric. And Smith too. Even though most people don’t see him as selfless, Smith is the definition of the word. He’s a giver. And Bric is his partner in crime in that endeavor.
We end up at Sallie’s. It sounds like a diner, but it’s not. It’s a very fancy Italian restaurant down in Englewood. An unassuming place down on South Broadway. A good twenty-minute drive at this time of night, but Rochelle talks excitedly the whole time. She tells me about her day. Something I’ve missed a lot over the past year.
“We took a walk to see if Chella’s neighborhood really wasn’t walking-accessible the way you said it was,” she says.
“So is it?” I ask, getting off the freeway and turning left. It’s snowing, which I think is good luck.
“You know, it’s so close, but so far. That stupid train station takes up the whole north side of the block. So we had to walk all the way around and…”
Long story short, I was correct. In order to get over to Little Raven Street from Wynkoop, you have to go out of your way. They got as far as Coors Field and turned back.
I want to be magnanimous and say, You can just drive over there. She has guest parking. But I take the win and say, “I’m never wrong.”
She agrees with a sigh, just as I pull into Sallie’s parking lot and find a space.
The only thing you can see inside Sallie’s are small orbs of light from the crystal chandeliers. The place is made of dark tinted glass. During the day, it’s just another building made of glass, but at night it’s inviting and mysterious. The way houses are at night when you drive by and get a glimpse of someone else’s life through a lit-up window.
As soon as we walk in, the host, dressed up in black and white, invites us to sit in the elegant, but comfy couches and offers up champagne. They do this even if your table is ready. It’s called greeting time. If it’s not too busy, and it’s not tonight, the champagne comes within two minutes and three minutes later, the waiter will appear to escort your party to the table. Just enough time to take a sip and enjoy the atmosphere properly without feeling rushed.
This is exactly how it happens tonight.
We sit and settle, looking over the slim piece of fine paper with tonight’s menu on it.
Once we decide, and order, Rochelle picks up her champagne and asks, “What was your day like?”
It has been so fucking long since anyone asked me this question. Not even Chella has asked me this question. Sure, she asked about me. What did you do all day? Did anything interesting happen? How are you feeling, Quin?
But only Rochelle says it precisely this way.
“My day was filled with thoughts of you.”
She smiles. Blushes, even. Because that was always my opening answer. It’s like old times. Good times. Predictable times. When we knew where we stood and how things would play out.
I don’t think we know either of those things right now. But it doesn’t matter. We’re starting over.
I tell her. It’s nothing interesting, just work stuff. But she responds with interest and drills me when she thinks I’m leaving out details.
There is no lull in our conversation. She has always been a talker with me. She tells me all sorts of things. Asks me all kinds of questions. We eat, still talking, and finish, never running out of things to say.
Bric texts us a picture of sleeping Adley and we admire her. Talk about things that only new parents can relate to.
Even when we get back in to the truck and drive towards downtown, we talk.
It’s just little things. Unimportant things, but things that intimate people find fascinating about their partner. There are no life-altering revelations. No excuses for past behavior. Nothing that might upset the order of the evening.
When I pull up to the valet of my building Rochelle looks up with wide eyes. “You live in the SkyClub?”
“I do,” I say, just as the valets appear, opening our doors. I hand off the keys, tip the kid, and meet Rochelle on the other side of the truck.
We walk through the lobby and get on the higher-floor elevator using my access card.
“This is pretty fancy, Quin,” Rochelle says.
We both watch the digital numbers ping off as we ascend to the penthouse, and when the doors open, I wave her forward into the condo.
“Wow,” she says, automatically walking towards the fourteen-foot, floor-to-ceiling windows. I have never had a visitor up here, aside from my mother—and she doesn’t count—but I imagine this is everyone’s first reaction. It was mine, for sure. “Holy… I love this.”
I walk over to her and take off her coat. I drape it over a dining room chair and then take mine off as well. “This isn’t the surprise, but since it’s your first time here and all, I’ll give you the tour.” I turn us around so we’re facing the great room and pan my hands. “Voilà.” Rochelle giggles. Because a tour isn’t really necessary. It’s just a giant room with fourteen-foot ceilings that holds the ultra-modern kitchen, the dining room space, and the living room. I have ten pieces of furniture in this massive room, and four of those pieces are barstools pushed up against the kitchen island. “It really needs a woman’s touch,” I joke.
Rochelle hangs on my arm and laughs. “Well, I love it.”
“The bedroom is next.”
“Is that where my surprise is?” she asks, as we walk down the hallway.