Chapter 6
Chapter six
Maya
Iload the last of the glasses into the back of my car and lean on my trunk in relief.
I'm already exhausted and I haven't even left; I don’t know if I’ll survive another rush order with Jerry as long as I live.
Though he said he’d be done with the flutes two days ago, he ended up getting a rush order from another client that took priority.
After several pleading calls in which I promised him Napoleons from scratch (including the puff pastry), Jerry finally finished Adam's order late last night.
As requested, I texted Adam, even though it was one in the morning.
I let him know I'd have to rush over to Jerry's apartment in Staten Island at the crack of dawn before HE left on vacation too—Am I the only one not taking time off this Summer?
—and I'd head to the venue after my morning class.
Somehow, I let Tiffany talk me into leading crafting classes part-time at her Summer camp in Harlem. No wonder I'm worn out. I've already been to three of the five boroughs and I still have a four-hour drive ahead of me.
When Tiff's program in DC ran out of grant money, I assured her New York had plenty of underserved students in need of support.
She linked up with Harlem School of the Arts two weeks later, but found out their usual crafting teacher got married and is taking the Summer to backpack through South America with her new wife.
As Tiff's closest friend in the city since her move, I volunteered, which meant my Saturday mornings lately have been spent waist deep in yarn, popsicle sticks, and construction paper.
Tiffany has bought drinks every girls' night to make it up to me but honestly?
It's heaven. One of these kids might become a lifelong art lover because of this program.
That's how it happened for me, at least.
I see the last of the kids off to the 6 train and check my watch.
12:15pm. I plug the venue address into my phone and head back to the center—my car is parked out front.
Google Maps says the drive will take four hours, so if I add an hour for traffic and another thirty minutes for bathroom breaks, I should get there around…
5:00pm. That’s cutting it close for an event that starts at 6:30pm.
I double-check the address and hope I’ve added in enough buffer.
Adam is not going to be happy but the situation couldn't be avoided.
Maybe he'll have mercy on me because I was helping kids?
Not likely. New Yorkers aren't exactly known for their compassion.
Hand deliveries are definitely not the way to go in the future. They are way too nerve-wracking.
I take a deep breath before writing my text.
Adam (Champagne Flutes)
Adam (Champagne Flutes): You’re not going to get here until 5:00pm?! Emily is going to kill me.
I thought the bride’s name was Jessi?
Adam (Champagne Flutes): It is. Emily is the MOH/wedding planner. I told her not to worry because YOU told me not to worry and now we might be screwed.
I’m sorry again, Mr. Park. It was really the perfect storm of events that led to this. But I promise I’ve built in more than enough travel time.
Adam (Champagne Flutes): I don't really have a choice, do I? And, for the love of God, please call me Adam. No sense being so formal at this point.
OK... I have to go. I can’t text and drive.
I force close my messages and set my Spotify to Chronixx Radio. For long drives, it’s gotta be either reggae or Motown classics. Today, Protoje and Kabaka Pyramid keep me company while Google leads the way.
Three hours and one bathroom break later, a call interrupts the chorus of “Eternal Light”.
“Hey, Denise.” She knows I’m driving otherwise she definitely would have texted.
“Hey, girl! I can’t believe you’re driving all the way to Cape Cod for some lousy champagne flutes. And you didn’t even charge for gas?! What kind of nonsense is that?”
Denise has been my girl since our days at Pratt.
We both started in Apparel Design, but I switched to Textiles sophomore year.
I've always liked making clothes, but I never had much fashion sense.
Denise, on the other hand, interned with Tory Burch and even had her senior project featured at the Fashion Institute in NYC.
Denise has a personality as big as her breasts (DDD), a big booty (she’s fond of calling it a ‘donk’), and big hair—she’s just big all around.
She and Tiffany are a lot alike, which is why they bonded immediately when I invited Tiff out for karaoke with us.
Unfortunately, now that means I have two people busting my balls about my relationship status and my issues with confidence.
There’s not a day where I don’t wish I had the courage to flaunt my “assets” the way they do instead of hiding mine under sweaters and large prints.
It's not that I don't want to, but…Ugh, now is not the time to spiral.
“OK first of all, my champagne flutes are not lousy. They are beautiful and pair perfectly with a Cape Cod engagement party.” I feign annoyance, but from her laughter, I can tell she knows I’m teasing.
“Sorry, girl. I’m just salty I didn’t get an invite to this weekend getaway. I like wine. I like lobster. What about me?”
I laugh at her ridiculousness and maneuver a tricky left exit before responding.
“I’m sorry. You know I’m mostly going to be working. After I deliver these flutes to Adam, I’m going to drop my card at a few venues in case they’re looking for personalized items for future events.”
“Oh it’s Adam now, is it? Not ‘Mr. Park’?” If we were having this conversation face to face, I just know she’d have an eyebrow raised.
“No, no, no. Don’t make it like that. I literally tried to call him Mr. Park but he keeps insisting I call him Adam. We’ve never spoken on the phone. I don’t even know what he looks like. There’s really nothing there.”
“Don’t know what he looks like? You didn’t even look him up on Facebook or Instagram?" My silence is telling. "Girl! You weren’t the least bit curious?” I love Denise, but she can certainly make a mountain out of a molehill.
“I’ve never looked because he’s just a client and this is not ‘You’ve Got Mail’ or some other rom-com."
"Not with that attitude," Denise scoffs. I roll my eyes.
"I’m a romantic, but I’m also a realist and in real life, people don’t appreciate when you stalk them on social media.”
Denise sucks her teeth and is silent for a moment.
“...What if I look him up for you? Is that still considered stalking?”
I laugh out loud and shake my head. This is why Denise is one of my ride or dies. “I love you, girl, but I gotta go. The exit for the venue is coming up and I don’t want to miss it.”
“Ok, spoilsport. Love you, too and have a great weekend!”
I take the Chatham exit and pull into the Chatham Bars Inn ten minutes later.
As I park my Hyundai Accent next to an actual Bentley in the circle drive, I suddenly feel incredibly out of my league.
Just get in and get out, Maya. Deliver the flutes and ignore the cars worth several years' worth of rent.
A tall, Asian man wearing what I would describe as “J. Crew chic” makes a bee line for me, his mouth in a tight line.
This must be Adam. I stay where I am and try not to pull at my oversized cardigan.
Adam looks like he just walked out of a catalog, meanwhile I look like a fashion-challenged substitute teacher. Just perfect!
“Please tell me you’re Maya,” he demands. Yep, this is definitely Adam.
“I’m Maya. And I have the flutes.” I press my mouth into a nervous smile and extend my hand, but he doesn’t take it. I lower it after a few awkward seconds. “I told you I’d make it in time. Luckily there wasn’t much traffic.”
The whole time I’m talking, he’s warily assessing me, from the messy bun of locs on top of my head, to my plaid, pleated skirt, down to my worn out Mary Janes.
I can’t read his expression, but I’d guess it’s impatience that I’ve got the nerve to still be talking instead of unloading his order.
This is the last time I ever give white glove service.
“Yes, you made it on time…Just barely." Jerk. "Can I help you carry these in? I wouldn’t want an accident at the last moment.”
Could this guy be any ruder? I get here thirty minutes earlier than planned after driving 4+ hours and I don’t even get a "hello" and a handshake? And now he thinks I’m going to drop his precious cargo on the floor like a complete rookie?
Time to wrap this up and check into my room down the road.
I grab a load of boxes and incline my head toward the entrance.
“Please lead the way, Mr. Park.” It might be petty, but if being formal annoys this jerk, I will never call him "Adam".
The line of his mouth gets even tighter.
Without a word, he picks up the other boxes like they weigh nothing and takes off at a brisk pace, leaving me to awkwardly run-walk behind him to keep up.
I follow him up the stairs, through double doors, and into what seems like a maze of hallways.
Everyone we pass is busy, placing flower arrangements, reviewing place settings, lighting candles.
From the looks of it, there are at least three other events happening here tonight.
It feels like a carefully choreographed ballet and reminds me why I love doing what I do, regardless of the few difficult clients.
We finally reach the Beach House Grill. The color palette is white, pink, and gold with pops of coral. The flowers and chandeliers complete the look that screams “old money”. At least the flutes will fit in here. I, on the other hand, should head back to my car as soon as possible.
“This place is so beautiful," I whisper, awe clear in my voice. I do a 360 to take it all in, the box still in my hand. "So where should we put these boxes?”
Adam opens his mouth to answer but suddenly a blonde, willowy woman stomps over and steps in between us. She stands a bit too close and levels me with an icy glare.
“Finally! I'm assuming you're here with the champagne flutes?
" I nod, too overwhelmed at the hostility coming off this woman in hot waves.
"Thank goodness! I was two minutes from talking to the venue manager about a potential Plan B if you didn't show.” Her intense gaze doesn't waver as she gestures towards a table to her right.
“Just put them there and Adam and I will worry about setting them up.” With a flip of her hair and a quick pivot towards the restaurant staff, I consider myself dismissed. This is why I prefer to ship. Safe in my apartment, I can pretend wannabe bridezillas like this don't exist.
I unload the boxes as fast as I can and turn back to Adam who seems to still be watching me. What is this guy’s problem? Time to put on a fake smile and get the hell out of dodge.
“Thank you for being so accommodating, Mr. Park, and my apologies again for the delay. Delays aren’t the norm, and I hope you consider ‘It’s Personal’ for your future personalization needs.
” While my words say "Ms. Professional", my eyes are saying "Fuck you and your fancy party". I head back to my car without waiting for an answer, though I can feel him watching my back. I won’t hold my breath for a five-star review.