Chapter Six
I don’t make a fuss over picking a spot to eat.
It’s dinner with the last person on Earth (save for maybe Ernest) that I want to be with.
Let’s rip the Band-Aid off and get it over with.
We’ve just left Chinatown when I lead him into a diner that does all-day breakfast and bottomless margaritas.
Once we’re seated at a booth in the corner, I seize the bucket hat from my head and throw it sluggishly onto the table.
“Nice hair.”
Shit, I forgot! I scramble to grab the hat again, but my own exhaustion stops me. “You know what? I don’t care anymore. The other day, I saw a man on the train wearing a traffic cone like it was a top hat. This is New York—so what if it looks like a pigeon made a nest in my hair!”
Parker’s mouth falls open, then shuts. I think his brain is trying to catch up to my meltdown. It doesn’t get the chance, because a waitress with deep red lipstick walks over to our booth. She does a double take when she spots Parker, then hums into a smile. “What can I get for you, hon?”
He’s quick with his order, but I’m too distracted by my hunger to tune in. I can’t remember the last meal I had. My soup dumpling–less stomach is yelling all kinds of curses at me in its native rumbling, and I’m inclined to listen—even if it means sitting across from Parker Tran for the next hour.
“That’s all for me, thank you.” He motions over to me, and the waitress nearly gets whiplash when she spots my hair.
I scan the menu assiduously. “I’ll have the triple grilled cheese with a side of fries, the eggs benedict, and . . . blueberry pancakes, please.”
Parker lifts a brow as he collects our menus and hands them over.
“What? I haven’t eaten yet.”
“This year?”
“Ha-ha. Hilarious. At least I’m not the one footing the bill.” I give him a taut smile. Nice try, but I won’t let him get under my skin. “What if I said this was all part of an elaborate plan to scam a free meal out of you?”
“I’d say you could’ve picked somewhere of the Michelin variety if that was your game. Didn’t anyone ever tell you to shoot for the stars?”
“I could totally con a man into a reservation at Le Bernardin if I wanted,” I mutter, and I know he doesn’t believe me. I don’t even believe me.
“Maybe on a better hair day.”
“Shut up.”
Parker rests his crossed arms on the table.
The diner’s fluorescent lights reflect off the face of his fancy watch, and I’m nearly blinded.
I rub my eyes, mascara wiping onto the backs of my hands.
I realize how I must look, sitting across from literal perfection in a designer suit.
But it can’t be as terrible as how I feel.
For a moment, I flashback to the not-job interview and sink in my seat.
“I haven’t seen you in years,” says Parker before I can brace myself for it. “How have you been?”
Are we actually doing this? The last time I left a diner with this same boy—well, man now—it ended with a strawberry milkshake in his lap. I have the urge to throw my hands up and demand, What the hell are we doing? Didn’t we make an unspoken vow to never see or speak to each other again?
But I swallow that impulse. “Good.”
“And how do you like New York?”
“S’great.” I don’t bother telling him that I like free entry to the Met and the British shorthair cat at my local deli.
Grabbing bagels at Zabar’s on the Upper West Side and donuts from Peter Pan in Greenpoint.
How being in New York always feels like something exciting is about to happen. I doubt he’d care to hear it.
“What do you do for work?”
“I’m a copy editor,” I say, annoyed at myself for breaking my monosyllabic streak. “I do some freelance writing on the side, but I’ve been full-time at an independent magazine for a few years now, and . . . Why are you smiling?”
“Hm? Oh, it’s just that fact-checking people and correcting their grammar sounds like something you’d excel at.”
He looks so smug with self-satisfaction that I consider quitting my job and becoming a wheat farmer just to prove him wrong.
I glare at him and reply with an edge in my tone, “How’s San Francisco?”
For a moment, he seems startled that I’ve asked. Crap. I hope he doesn’t think I went out of my way for that information.
“Not too bad. I moved for work, but I didn’t expect to like it so much. It’s been . . . Sorry, one sec—”
His phone buzzes loudly as he retrieves it from his pocket.
“I have to take this.”
Parker leaves to take the call outside the diner. I have a good view of him through the window but preoccupy myself with my own phone instead. My notifications are dry—only Charlotte has texted—but I pretend like I’m reading the world’s most fascinating email.
In the wake of his exit, I’m left wondering what could be so urgent for him to bolt like that.
Work? He is dressed like a finance bro from Kips Bay.
Or maybe someone’s waiting for him at home, wondering why he’s not back yet.
I try to remember if I saw a ring on his finger, but the image of a married Parker Tran doting on a faceless woman assaults my brain, and I shudder.
What’s his angle, anyway? Is his plan to dine and dash, leaving me to pick up the bill?
Or maybe he’s trying to lure me into a false sense of security, and that urgent call was to tell some guy on a rooftop with a laser to my forehead to take the shot.
I still don’t know what he does for a living.
In my paranoid spiral, the suit is looking a lot less finance and a lot more organized crime now.
Our orders arrive, and it’s a couple of minutes before Parker returns from his call. As he walks back to the booth, I take a quick peek at his hands. No ring.
“That was work,” he explains, settling in front of a mug of coffee. I realize belatedly that the only food on the table is what I ordered.
I blurt out, “Are you going to tell me what you do for a living?”
He takes a business card out of his wallet and hands it to me. “I’m in sports marketing.” He pauses, eyeing me like someone who knows all my tells. “And yeah, I can see it on your face, Dani. You’re trying really hard not to call me a bro right now.”
I blink and make an effort to sound indifferent. “Marketing . . . You didn’t go pro?”
“Nah.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Wasn’t in the cards.”
Glancing down at the card, I read his name in simple black text, the accompanying title—Marketing Director—and, in the corner, the company name: Venture Sports Marketing.
“I’m not going to lie—it did occur to me that I hadn’t been jumpscared by your face in the middle of Sunday Night Football.”
Parker taps a finger on the table. “That sounds like you’re saying you were thinking about me.”
“Only as a precaution.” I take a bite of my grilled cheese. It’s greasy beyond belief, but my body cries for sustenance. “What exactly do you do in sports marketing?”
“The short answer? I put athletes in Nike ads and tell every old rich dude who owns a sports team how to get even richer.”
I can’t tell if his levity comes from a place of self-awareness, which would also be new.
“I’ve got a few clients in New York, but I’m mainly here to oversee a campaign for the Rangers. It’s a whole initiative to boost their digital presence and to connect them with some fresh brand sponsorships. Get more people talking about hockey.”
Okay, that explains why he’s here, but it doesn’t make his arc from Friday Night Lights to Mad Men any less confusing. I don’t know nearly enough about sports or marketing to make a comment of any value, so I move on to my pancakes.
“That’s all you’re having? A coffee?”
“I had dinner before this. With the client I mentioned earlier.”
“So, you’re just going to watch me eat? Like some kind of voyeur?”
“A voyeur? Seriously, Dani?”
To my surprise, Parker laughs. It catches me off guard, and I realize he hasn’t scowled once or muttered something under his breath about me being an insufferable smartass.
Aside from the sarcasm, he’s been kind of .
. . pleasant? It’s as if someone hit rewind, and we’re right back to a time when I had most of my dinners at his house—when seeing him sitting across from me felt like comfort.
The thought creeps in soberly, and I drop my fork with a loud rattle.
He picks it up for me. “You good?”
I make noises that sound like “good” and “fine.” I’m still trying to get my head on straight.
Parker pays the bill as promised. My inner Asian auntie surfaces at the last second to slide in my credit card, but he slides it right back. He even orders an Uber for me so I don’t have to take the train home. I check my phone—it’s already past ten.
“Oh, by the way,” Parker says as we’re waiting for the car. “Are you doing anything this Friday?”
My stomach does a funny little dip. “No. Why?”
“There’s an event at my hotel, and my company is one of the sponsors.
You know the St. Regis, right?” He says it like it’s not a city landmark.
As if a suite didn’t cost over two grand a night.
“Just a gathering of professionals. It’s open to anyone with an invitation.
If you want to drop by, I can put you on my guest list.”
I can’t think of anywhere I’d stick out more. “What would I even do there?”
“Meet people. Network.” His dark eyebrows draw together. “I know you spent all of high school doing the exact opposite, but surely you’ve learned how to be around people by now.”
I roll my eyes and go silent.
“Is that a no?”
“It’s not a yes.”
Parker fishes out his phone again. “Do you still have the same number?”
I shake my head, and he flips the screen toward me.
“Give me your number so I can text you the details. You can decide later.”
I hesitate, my face suddenly hot. After a beat, I tap my number onto the screen for him to save.
We’re caught in a breeze, and his impeccably styled hair gives in to the wind for only an instant before falling back in place.
I remember noticing this as a teenager, and the thought strikes me again: His hair looks so soft, so silky.
It never made sense to me why this football-obsessed brute had all the prettiest features, right down to his full lips and offensively long lashes.
When I study him this closely, I can see exactly where my outdated memories of him end and the new Parker begins.
The baby fat is gone from his face; now, his jaw is strong and sharp.
Around his eyes, I can see how twenty-eight years have mellowed him.
And yet, he still carries all the confidence of his quarterback days, when everyone adored him and wanted to be him.
And when he smiles or laughs, I catch that same boyish charm from all those years ago.
The more I think about it, the more my head feels fuzzy.
This has been the strangest night. I was supposed to be making plans to be in Asia by the winter, not considering a Friday evening with the boy I dumped a milkshake on and swore never to speak to again.
College me would be cursing the universe with every known expletive, but right now, I don’t know what to feel.
I am very aware, though, that Parker is looking at me. He’s been doing that a lot.
“What?” I instinctively hide under the bucket hat.
He shrugs into a wide grin. “It’s just kind of wild that I’m talking to you right now.”
“Because I haven’t flung myself off the Manhattan Bridge yet?”
“No, because I thought I’d have to check under the bridge to find you with all the other trolls.”
“Oh, were you looking for me? Trying to fulfill a dream of drowning me in the East River?”
“I see that winning sarcasm is still intact.”
“I’ve always been a smartass. Remember?”
Parker is unfazed by the callback, except for the slightest twitch of his brow. “I did say something like that. A long time ago.”
I feign my surprise with a gasp. “And here I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”
“That’s insane. How could I ever forget about you?”
I could be wrong, but I don’t think he meant for it to sound the way it did. He bites his lip, holding my stunned gaze for a second before his eyes dart to his phone. “Your Uber is here.”
Once the car slows at the curb, I step to it without another word.
“I’ll see you on Friday,” he calls out to me.
“I didn’t say I was coming.”
“I know.” A hint of a smile, bordering on a smirk, returns. “But I have a feeling I’m going to see you anyway.”