3. Daisy
3
Daisy
T he sun casts a copper glow across the historic townhouses of Brooklyn Heights as I lock up Joe’s and step into the cool evening air. I rarely work such long hours, but Celine decided to call in sick with a migraine at eight-thirty this morning, most likely to get back at me after Dave made her come in so early for my seven-year anniversary thing. Anyway, Dave had to go see his daughter’s play, so he asked me to work a double shift. As usual, I had nothing else planned—and I hated to leave him stranded—so I agreed.
My feet regret that now, though.
I should head straight for the subway, but I’ve been craving ginger duck from that Thai place since I mentioned it to Weston this morning. My plan is to grab some and head home, where I’ll spend the next few hours vegging in front of Netflix.
I frown to myself as I trudge along Fruit Street. It was only this morning that I promised myself my life would change, and what am I doing? My usual act of scurrying home after work to retreat from the world. I should be out partying, like other people my age. I should be meeting up with someone off Tinder, or whatever the latest dating app is.
But I’m so tired .
I sigh as I spot the Thai place up ahead. All I want is ginger duck and to pour myself a glass of wine at home. Honestly, sometimes I think I’m a middle-aged woman trapped in a young woman’s body, which is exactly why I struggle to date guys my age.
What about Weston? my brain suggests, which is hardly fair, knowing that will never happen.
I allow myself exactly ten seconds to slip into the fantasy I’ve indulged in many times before.
I’m in the coffee shop, in the early morning, and Weston enters, no longer wearing his wedding ring. I make a heart shape in the foam of his coffee and he looks at me with longing in his eyes—
Right. That’s enough. This is why you’re stuck.
I shake the image from my head with a frustrated exhale. I’m nearly at the Thai restaurant when I hear a door slam to my right, and a male voice spits furious words.
“ Fuck you .”
My eyes widen and I freeze, glancing to find a guy thundering down his front steps, angry gaze intent on me.
What the hell? I know this is New York, but jeez.
He slows his steps, blinking as if suddenly noticing I’m there. “Shit, sorry. That wasn’t directed at you.”
I glance around the street, searching for whoever he was speaking to, only to see we’re alone.
He shakes his head. “No, it was—” He rubs his hands down his face in agitation, before motioning back toward the house. “My dad… never mind.”
Oh, right.
I look from the house back to him, and my heart squeezes a little when I notice his frustrated expression and slumped shoulders. If anyone knows anything about not getting along with their folks, it’s me.
“I get it,” I murmur, and he gives me an odd look as he pulls a cigarette and lighter from his pocket.
“Get what?” The anger drains from his eyes and he cocks his head curiously. Meanwhile, my feet groan in protest at me standing here, talking to a random guy when I could be eating Thai food on my sofa. This is the problem with spending all day making conversation with strangers. Sometimes I forget I don’t have to do that when I’m not on the clock.
“Nothing,” I mumble, turning to go.
“Wait.” He lights up and takes a deep drag. The smell of weed wafts toward me and I realize it’s not a cigarette. “What did you mean, that you get it?”
I shrug, turning back. “Just that I argue with my dad too. With both my parents.”
He nods, flicking the ash off the end of his joint, which glows in the fading evening light. It’s definitely working its magic because he’s now studying me with a relaxed air of interest.
For reasons I can’t quite pinpoint, I find myself studying him back. He’s tall; six-foot, I’d say, with a lean, athletic build. Up close his ice-blue eyes gleam with mischief, and a smile plays on his full lips as he pushes his wavy chestnut hair back from his forehead. He’s around my age, and even though I have no explanation as to why, there’s something vaguely familiar about him. Maybe I’ve seen him at Joe’s.
Silence settles between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. He leans on the railing of the stoop, watching me as he smokes.
“What do you argue about?”
I lift a shoulder. “How much time do you have?” I joke, but it’s not funny. I don’t argue with my folks anymore. Not since I cut off contact with them when I moved to the city years ago.
The stranger grunts a laugh of recognition. His gaze drifts over me, from my messy bun all the way down to the aching, tired feet in my Keds. His eyes spark when they meet mine again.
“I could make the time.”
Whoa. Is he flirting with me?
The minute the thought crosses my mind, heat rises to my cheeks. This is the problem with having a pale, freckled complexion like mine. My emotions are transparent.
He notices, and a grin curls along his lips, but it’s not a mean or mocking grin; rather, it seems like he’s appreciating my reaction.
“Maybe I could take you out sometime,” he adds, offering me a cocky smile.
Okay, so he is flirting with me. More than that, he’s asking me out.
An excuse rises to my lips, but I swallow it back. Wasn’t I just thinking that I wanted to get out of my rut? It’s like the universe heard me and intervened.
And he is kind of cute.
I run my gaze across his navy-blue Yankees hoodie and ripped jeans. He carries himself with a casual, confident air, although that could be because of the weed. The smoking would usually put me off, but it feels like everyone in the city smokes weed. I smell it everywhere in Brooklyn. It’s legal, after all, and he’s had a fight with his father, so I can’t blame him for wanting to unwind. Besides, I was about to switch off in front of the TV for the rest of the night because I don’t feel like dealing with my own feelings right now. At the end of the day, these are all simply different methods of accomplishing the same thing: escape.
Again, I think of Weston, the way his gold wedding band glinted under the bright lights of Joe’s this morning, and make a decision. It’s time to break the pattern I’ve been stuck in for way too long.
It’s time to get unstuck.
“Maybe you could,” I reply, and my belly flips when his mouth tugs wider in response. I can’t explain why, but something compels me toward him. I feel like I know him from somewhere.
“Have we met before?”
He cocks his head, studying me as stamps out his joint. “I don’t think so. I’m sure I’d remember you.”
My cheeks warm again at the compliment, but I can’t shake the familiarity of him, the nagging feeling that we’ve crossed paths before.
“I work at Joe’s.” I motion down the street. “Do you go there?”
He gives a slow shake of his head. “Never heard of it. I only moved into the neighborhood today.”
Huh.
“I’m Jesse. Jesse Abbott.”
“Daisy Griffin,” I reply.
He pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it to me. “Give me your number, and I’ll text you.” His mouth hitches up on one side into a grin. “After all, it sounds like you had a pretty juicy story to tell me about your folks.”
I scrunch my nose. We will not be talking about that, thank you very much .
He notices and gives an easy laugh. “Right, I get it. How about this—no family stuff. Let’s keep it light and have a good time, yeah?”
“Okay.” I relax, examining his face. I feel like I’ve gazed into those clear blue eyes before, and more than anything, the need to figure out where I know him from has me entering my number into his phone. He texts me so I have his number too. I stare at the message from him— Are you free tomorrow night? —and my heart gives a little kick of anticipation.
I have a date for the first time in months. Or is it years?
I smile and text him back: Yes .
His mouth curls back into that grin. A car’s horn honking behind us makes us turn to the street.
“I’d love to stay and chat,” he says, pocketing his phone, “but my ride is here. I’ll text you later.”
I nod, watching as he climbs into a heavily modified Dodge Challenger. The tinted windows obscure any view of the driver, and the car is so low it barely clears the ground. My stomach falls at seeing him climb into such a ridiculous car. Part of me had thought he was different from guys my age, but that car is all I need to know I was wrong.
By the time I get home, I’ve all but convinced myself to cancel plans with… what was his name? Jesse. What was I thinking, agreeing to go out with a total stranger? Sure, he was cute, but is he really the kind of guy I want? Someone who smokes weed, who gets around in a car that looks like something off the set of The Fast and the Furious ?
Besides, is my life really so bad as it is?
After letting myself into the apartment I share with Denise in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, I set the Thai takeout down on the kitchen counter and open the fridge, looking for something to drink. Hundreds of pink Post-Its assault my vision, each with a huge letter ‘D’ on them, and I roll my eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sa—”
“Good, you’re home.”
I snap my mouth shut, turning to see my roommate standing behind me, blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, one manicured hand resting on her hip. I know what this pose means; she’s pissed about something I’ve done, even though I tread very carefully around our apartment.
“Hey,” I say warily, grabbing a bottle of water from the door of the fridge. It’s one of the few items without a Post-It on it, because it belongs to me.
“You ate my yogurt again.” Denise’s eyes follow the water bottle as I carry it to the living room with my dinner, no doubt checking it’s mine.
The tiredness from the day finally catches up with me, and I sink onto the sofa. “I didn’t eat your yogurt. I ate the yogurt I bought. It was on my shelf.”
At least twice a week we have this conversation. It’s exhausting.
“You can’t sit out here,” she says, gesturing for me to move. “I’ve got the girls coming over for the final of The Bachelor .”
I press my eyes shut for a beat, summoning patience. It’s never worth fighting with Denise, because it makes life in this apartment extremely unpleasant.
“Fine.” I rise to my feet, grabbing my dinner and bottled water. At least she’s forgotten about the yogurt. “I’ll eat in my room.”
The word “room” is way too generous, though; it’s more like an alcove off the living room with nothing but a curtain separating it from the rest of the apartment, which is why I can afford to live in this neighborhood on a barista’s income. I think it was once the dining room in the original layout of the house before someone broke it into apartments, but I can’t be sure. Either way, it gives me the space I need for a twin bed, dresser, and an armchair with a view overlooking the street, but it has almost no privacy. Usually, Denise goes out with “the girls,” but it seems tonight I’ll be subjected to them tearing apart the women of The Bachelor .
As Denise’s friends arrive, I pull the curtain to my room shut, shoving my noise-canceling headphones onto my ears. Then I settle into my armchair and kick my feet up onto the windowsill, looking out across the street as I eat. The food is as good as last time, and I try not to feel guilty about spending what little extra cash I have on takeout, instead of cooking. I used to love cooking, but it’s hard when I share a kitchen with Denise. The shrieks from the living room cut through my headphones, and I fight the urge to hurl myself out the window. I’ve been unhappy in this apartment for some time now, but the thought of trying to find a new place to live is overwhelming. Denise usually calms down after a while, and I usually convince myself everything is fine.
Though as I sit here, thinking back over my day, everything feels far from fine. I’ve spent seven years in a job I only ever intended to be short-term. I’m still a virgin who’s never been in love. And my living situation makes me want to tear my hair out.
But tonight, something different happened. Tonight, I got asked out by a cute guy.
I reach for my phone to reread our brief text exchange, as if to reassure myself that it was real and I didn’t imagine the whole thing. And there on the screen is a text from him.
Jesse: It was nice to meet you tonight. Unexpected and really nice.
With a smile I set my food down, responding.
Daisy: It was nice to meet you too.
I know the standard thing for guys is to play it cool and not text back immediately, so I probably won’t hear from him again tonight, and that’s—
My phone buzzes in my hands. I stare in surprise at the reply he’s sent.
Jesse: I’m looking forward to tomorrow night. What kind of food do you like?
I glance at the Thai food and grin, replying. And to my amazement, he replies immediately again. I ask his age: twenty-three. He’s younger than I’d hoped, but the way he texts back in such a timely manner—and doesn’t ask me to send nudes—gives me hope.
Maybe I misread him earlier.
We chat while I finish up my food and get ready for bed. Denise’s friends are still here, so I climb under the comforter, my noise-canceling headphones still in place, and when I tell Jesse I’m going to bed, he sends me a kiss. It’s sweet, if not a little premature.
I think again about his cute, mischievous smile, and snuggle under my comforter, trying to ignore the raucous laughter of Denise’s friends that cuts through my headphones. I want to get out of my rut, and going out with Jesse is a good first step. I can’t help but smile as I close my eyes, and for the first time in months, I drift off thinking of someone other than Weston.