Chapter 12 - Scott
“This way.”
We go past the liquor store and into the subway station. I pull out my phone and head towards the turnstile, expecting Chelsea to follow me, but she stops. I look at her.
“I don’t have a subway pass.”
“Oh, okay.”
I spin around and show her the Omny app on my phone.
“I didn’t know.”
“You haven’t been on the subway yet?”
She shrugs.
“I can walk to everything here.”
I head to the kiosk and quickly buy her a thirty-day unlimited metro card.
“Here,” I say, handing it to her. “Good for a month. I can show you the app when it’s about to run out if you want.”
“Thanks.”
We take the elevator and then the stairs down to the platform. Chelsea’s looking around like she’s seeing everything for the first time, which I suppose she is. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head.
She wrinkles her nose. I don’t blame her. It doesn’t smell very good.
“It’s not glamorous,” I admit. “But it’s very efficient. You’ll take this train to FIT.”
“Ah,” she says. “You must think I’m a terrible coward.”
The train comes and we get on. There’s a seat for two open in the corner, but I head for the middle of the car.
“I don’t think you’re a coward, but you should…”
“What?”
Get out a little,I almost say, but I manage to stop myself. Back when I was at NYU, I had plenty of friends who were new to the city. Heck, I was kind of new to the CITY city. Manhattan is different from way out in Queens.
“You’re still settling in,” I say. “And it must be kind of intimidating.”
“A bit.”
“Well, I can show you around. Maybe on Saturday. Or I could knock off early on Friday if you want to do something after work.”
She looks at me. Her eyes are so green. Up this close I can see little flecks of gold in them. The idea of spending Saturday, or even just Friday afternoon with her, is very appealing.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” I say. “Just shout out the answer, okay? Don’t think about it.” She nods. “First…touristy thing you want to do.”
“Statue of Liberty,” she says immediately.
“Okay, good. We’ll do that, but first…” The train is approaching Fourteenth Street and slowing down. “Let’s get that ring.”
We get off the train. I’m not sure if I’ve ever gotten off at this stop, except to change trains. I’ve never had a need to go to the jewelry district. The guy who owns the jewelry store, Geoff, bought one of my condos a while back. I can’t even remember which one. But he said he was taking over the family business and if I ever got engaged, I’d better let him help me out. And I guess I’m engaged now, sort of.
In addition to not being brave enough to leave the neighborhood—which I find kind of cute—Chelsea also walks way too slow. I walk next to her to try to create a buffer as people push briskly past us. At one point she stops and looks at the wall. Actually studies it.
“It’s white,” she says. “It doesn’t look dirty, but somehow…”
I follow her gaze around the platform.
“I know what you mean.”
There is just a dinginess to the station, decades upon decades of grime.
“Somehow it reminds me of the wood stove we have,” she says. “But that’s kind of homey. Dirty though. No matter how much you try, ash and soot get all over stuff.”
As we head up the stairs to the street, I explain about the old work trains that ran on diesel. They’d come through the station belching horrible black smoke.
“Is that why you don’t like subway tile?” she asks.
“Pretty much.”
“I’m going to change it,” she says. “I kind of don’t like it anymore either.”
“Are you sure? I mean, it is your decision.”
“Positive. There are a billion other options.”
“Here we are,” I say, stopping in front of the building.
We have to get buzzed into the building and then into the store. When I open that door we step into a floor to ceiling cage, which I know—just some innate New Yorker instinct—will stay locked until the door to the hallway shuts behind us.
“Scott,” Geoff calls from across the room.
He lets us in. I introduce him to Chelsea. Her eyes wander around the room taking it all in. For a second, I wish I had taken her to Tiffany’s or Cartier. A diamond is a diamond, I tell myself. You definitely pay a lot more for the experience on 5th Avenue. But rumor has it, it’s a very nice experience.
Geoff is wishing us a hearty congratulations.
“How did you guys meet?” he asks.
I freeze, but Chelsea is off and running with a story. She tells Geoff how we were at Lassen and Hennings and she grabbed my order by mistake. I went chasing after her and when she turned around and our eyes met, I offered to walk her home and we realized we were living in the same building, so we had a good laugh that we would have been able to trade sandwiches anyway.
She ends with, “I kind of knew right away.”
She makes it totally believable, smiling shyly at me.
“Me too,” I add.
Geoff is nodding, but I doubt he’s that interested. He takes off to the back room to get some rings and I wrap my arm around Chelsea and lean down to whisper in her ear.
“What was all that?”
“I figured we had to have a story,” she says. “Sorry I didn’t clear it with you. Are you mad?”
“No, it’s a good one.”
“Alright,” Geoff says, putting a large tray filled with rings down on the counter in front of us. “These are all one carat.” He starts explaining the different cuts, then interrupts himself. “Oh, let me get your size.”
He grabs a large hoop off a hook behind him. Instead of keys it has a bunch of rings attached.
“Hand, hand.” He motions to Chelsea, who holds out her right hand. “Nope, the other one.”
He slides a few rings onto her finger and asks her to pick between two.
“Six, average,” he says, writing the number down on a little card.
She’s not average,I think immediately.
“So what do you think?” Geoff looks back and forth between us. “I could go bigger. Carat and a quarter? Half? Two?”
“Could you go smaller?” Chelsea asks.
“I—”
“I think one is good,” I say firmly and Geoff smiles.
“So, what do you like? These are just the set solitaires. We have loose stones too. We could do a custom setting.”
Chelsea looks like a deer caught in headlights. I reach over and pick up a ring. It caught my eye because, of all the rings, it has the most sparkle.
“How about this one?”
“Yes, yes, try it on.”
I pick her hand up and slide it on her finger.
“I think it looks good,” I say.
“It’s too big.”
Chelsea twists it around on her finger.
“Oh, we can fix that, right now, no problem.”
“I think this is the one,” I say. “I mean, I know I said you could pick it but if I was picking it for you, I would pick this one, it reminds me of you…”
I realize I’m babbling and shut up. Chelsea holds her hand up and looks at it. She studies it carefully. I try not to read into the fact that she is taking this very seriously.
“Okay?”
I’m sure Geoff would spend the next two hours letting her try on rings, but I’m even more sure he values efficiency as much as any other New Yorker.
She smiles, her whole face lighting up.
“Yes.”
“Good, good, give it here.” Geoff motions frantically. Chelsea slowly slides the ring off her finger and hands it to him. “Arthur, I got a sizing,” he calls.
“Wait,” Chelsea says. Geoff stops in his tracks and turns back. “We can return it, right? If…we change our minds?”
“Change—”
I cough softly. When Geoff looks at me, I give him a quick, tiny nod, hoping he understands. He smiles, a little too obviously, but it does mask his confusion.
“Of course,” he says. “Full refund, no problem. Tasha, put this away please.”
He steps into the back room. Tasha slides into his spot and grabs the tray and follows him. Geoff comes back out and I hand over my credit card. We had discussed prices on the phone. I said something in the ten-thousand-dollar range. The total is a little under 8K.
“Told you I’d take care of you,” Geoff says with a wink.
We kill the time waiting while the ring is resized looking at various jewelry. Geoff offers us a deal on a wedding package, earrings, and a necklace. Chelsea and I look at each other and quickly say no. He says to come back if we change our mind. We move onto looking at the estate pieces, making up stories about the former owners. Finally, we are done and buzzed out. I show Chelsea how to turn the ring around with the stone facing her palm. My mom always used to do that when we rode the subway when I was a kid. I figure it doesn’t hurt to be careful.
“You like it though, right?” I ask her as we head back to the train station.
“I think it will work.”
“Work?”
“For the producers, right?”
“Right.”
“Do you want to come over?”
“Um, sure.”
I look at her. She’s smiling again.
“Great,” she says. “I have some ideas to replace the subway tile. And maybe we should work on our presentation, you know, together.”
“You want a pizza?”
“Are you always hungry?”
“Pretty much,” I say, shrugging.
“Okay, pizza.”
“You’re not a pineapple on pizza person, are you? I’m not sure I want to be engaged to someone who eats that.”
“We’re only fake engaged.”
“Not even fake engaged.”
“How do you feel about mushrooms?”
“You mean fungus?”
She whacks me on the shoulder.
“What? Mushrooms are fungus.”
We decide on a half mushroom, half pepperoni. I’m about to place the order when a thought occurs to me.
“Do you want to walk across the bridge? It’s a nice day.”
She shakes her head.
“I have to get the tile settled and I want to work on the presentation.”
Man, she’s really focused, I think. Guess I should not read anything into her asking me over and sharing a pizza.
It’s a nice afternoon, and I would love to show her the bridge, it’s one of my favorite places in the city. But she’s probably right. I hold up my phone for her to confirm the order.
When we get back to Brooklyn Heights, I lead her down the block to Fascati’s Pizza.
“I haven’t been down this way yet,” she says.
“Henry’s End is down there.” I point. “Hey, maybe we should go there on Thursday, after the meeting.”
“We can’t celebrate until we know we have it. Bad luck.”
“Okay.”
She seems to be hell bent on not spending any more time with me than absolutely necessary.
“I like to think positive,” I announce. “I’m just going to assume we are going to get it.”
The pizza is ready when we get there. We don’t even have to go inside, but I can see her peering into the shop.
“We could eat here,” I suggest, but she shakes her head.
When we get to my house and her apartment she heads right to her own door.
“Do you want to come in?”
“Sure.”
“Good I can’t wait to…”
She’s struggling with the lock. I think about offering to help but keep my mouth shut. Maybe she is changing her mind. What exactly can she not wait to do?
“Show you the tile,” she says as she opens the door.
She turns back and smiles at me. I smile back, but my heart isn’t in it. This is a problem. I like her. Too much.
“Well?”
“I can’t wait to see the tile either.”