Chapter 4
4
The Bluebird Cocktail Room is one of my favorite spots in Baltimore, a hidden gem buried in a Hampden side street. When I pass through the wrought iron gate, I spot a figure perched on one of the porch’s wooden swings, rocking back and forth gently and staring down 36 th Street. Graham. He’s early.
“Hey there,” I say. He startles at my voice, as if I’ve awoken him from a daydream. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
His expression softens into a smile. “Not at all. I was lost in thought, I guess.”
“Yeah? What were you thinking about?”
“Nothing, really. Just that I haven’t spent much time in this neighborhood. There’s something so… charming about it.”
“There really is.” Bluebird is a newer addition to Hampden, one that’s undeniably romantic. The exterior brick is covered with moss and twinkling lights. An illuminated sign directs us up the stairs and into the lounge. It casts milky white light across Graham’s features, highlighting the angular line of his jawbone. He’s wearing a cardigan, just like the night we met. This one’s a waffle knit in a midnight blue that matches his eyes. Paired with a white tee, dark khakis, and his rumpled blond hair, he looks like the world’s sexiest British Lit professor.
“After you,” he says, pulling the door open and gesturing toward the interior.
Inside, I slide into one of the yellow velvet booths against the back wall, and Graham takes a seat in the wooden chair across from me. The interior is just as dreamy as the outside, all dark walls and heavy wood, dimly lit by a handful of crystal chandeliers.
Graham thumbs through the menu, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he studies the illustrated pages. “Oh, wow. It’s like a storybook.”
“Yup. All the drinks are literary-themed.” We place our orders— a Briar Rose for me, and The Three Brothers for him—and get fries for the table. A moment later, the waitress delivers our drinks and I take a small sip. The chef part of my brain instinctively parses out the cocktail’s components. Tahini, prickly pear, sesame seeds. An unexpected but delicious combination.
I level my gaze at Graham.
“Alright, enough beating around the bush. The people want to know: what is the status of your tattoo? Is it still there? Did you cover it up with a less spine-chilling design? Or did you have it removed at the earliest possible opportunity?”
Graham’s lips curl upward. “What do you think?”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
An endearing pop of color springs to his cheekbones. He leans back in his chair and affords me a shy smile.
“It’s still here. A source of great pride and even greater terror.”
I laugh softly, surprised by how much this delights me. He hasn’t erased this special piece of our shared history. I wonder if he’s thought of that evening as often as I have.
“Gotten any more since?”
Graham shakes his head.
“That’s disappointing. I half expected your first tattoo would be your gateway ink. Aren’t covert tattoos required for moody academic types such as yourself?”
“Alas, this is my one and only. I’ve always figured, why mess with perfection?”
He gives me a knowing smile as our gazes hold, memories of our shared evening filling the space between us. Now it’s my turn to flush. I clear my throat, eager to steer the conversation back to safer ground.
“So. What have you been up to for the past eight years? Are you married? Kids? Do you have a last name?”
Graham barks out a laugh. “Starting off easy, eh?” He takes a sip of his drink. “My last name is Wyler. No wife or kids that I know of. After we met in London, I finished uni, ran the corporate rat race for a bit, then spent a couple of years in New York working on my master’s. Now I work a pretty soulless job in finance. Nothing too exciting, but it pays the bills.”
My heart skips a beat. Up until this moment, I’d always thought that was a cheesy expression, but suddenly it feels like I’ve thrown myself into arrhythmia.
“You were in New York?” I ask slowly. “When?”
“For the past two years. I just arrived in Baltimore in the spring.”
My mouth falls open in disbelief. “I was there too. What are the odds?”
Truthfully, the odds are high. More than eight million people live in New York City, so it’s not surprising our paths never crossed. Still, there’s something about the idea of us unknowingly circling each other for the past few years that feels strangely like fate. That is, if I believed in fate. Which, I remind myself sternly, I do not.
Graham rests his elbows on the table and leans toward me. “Tell me about you.”
I take a moment to drink him in: the lean muscles of his forearms that press into the wooden tabletop, the disheveled mop of golden hair that’s at odds with his otherwise orderly appearance. Behind his glasses, his cerulean eyes are focused solely on my face, instead of darting around the restaurant like most of the guys I’ve gone out with. Graham is the sort of person who listens with his entire body. And despite myself, I desperately want him to be hanging on to my every word.
“Let’s see. After I graduated with a teaching degree, I lasted exactly one year in the classroom. Turns out teaching requires a special kind of patience that I simply do not possess. Then I went to culinary school in New York, spent a couple of years working in a hotel kitchen. Which I loved, but still wasn’t a perfect fit. And now I’m back home, Goldilocksing career number three as an event planner. As you can imagine, I’m the jewel in my family’s crown.”
Graham laughs softly, but his expression is kind. No trace of the condescension I normally sense with that admission. “Well, I think it’s brave to pursue your passions, instead of just playing it safe,” he says. “You’re fearless. I envy it.”
“That’s one way to look at it. Most people just think I’m impetuous. That’s sort of my signature role,” I go on. “My sister, Sarah, is the perfect one, the golden child. After they had her, my parents thought they couldn’t get pregnant again. They considered adoption, but it never worked out. Then one day, there I was, a seven-and-a-half-pound bundle of joy. Sarah’s ten years older than me, so she’s also always taken it upon herself to act like my second mom, while I am the eternal baby of the family. No one takes a thing I do seriously. I know they believe party planning is just another phase. Mostly I don’t bother fighting it. Everyone thinks I’m the class clown, so I lean in.”
Graham twists his lips, mulling this over. “Families are tricky,” he says after a minute. “It’s very hard to change the way people see you. Especially the ones who have known you your whole life.”
“And how does your family see you?”
“Don’t hate me, but I think I’m closer to your sister, Sarah,” he admits. “Everyone counts on me to be the responsible one.”
“Is that why you came here to help your grandmother? Because you’re the one she puts her faith into?”
He gives me a small, sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Something like that.”
“Did your grandparents also move here from England?”
He shakes his head. “No, they’re Baltimore natives. My mom grew up here. She was backpacking through Europe with friends when she met my dad and ended up following him back to London.”
I grin, delighted. “Sounds like the plot of a charming rom-com.”
Graham’s face darkens. “Trust me, it wasn’t. My dad was never faithful to my mom. She did her best to ignore it, to keep the family together for my sake. But he left anyway when I was five. I’ve only seen him a handful of times since.”
My heart sinks at his words. “Oh, Graham, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
He shrugs but doesn’t say anything further. I think back to the way Alfie always described Graham in college. Focused. Serious. Committed to being at the top of his class. He never hung out with us at the bar because he was always studying. And now it makes sense. Graham holds himself to a high standard. He’s committed to succeeding because he doesn’t want to let anyone down.
I trace the rim of my nearly drained glass.
“Your mom didn’t want to move home after that?”
“No. My grandparents begged her to come back, but my mom was too proud. She didn’t even tell them about my dad leaving for a while. I guess she was afraid to admit she’d made a mistake following some bloke who wasn’t even worth it. But that’s the kind of person she is. She leads with her heart. Doesn’t let anyone tell her what to do.”
One corner of his mouth rises in a half smile as he stares at me from across the table.
“Kind of like someone else I know.”
My heart flutters as his eyes lock on mine again. Then his gaze drops to his half-empty drink.
“She’s tough, though. Really strong. She got a work visa and eventually filed for citizenship. She always had that American spirit about her. Tenacious, determined. Utterly fearless. Threw herself headfirst into everything she did. She was an amazing mom too. I can’t imagine being a single mother who was pretty much on her own, but she always showed up for me.”
He swirls his drink stirrer around the ice cubes at the bottom of the glass. “Anyway, I promised myself at an early age that I’d never be like my dad. I’d never be the kind of guy who would let someone down or walk away from a commitment.” He pauses, the ridges on his forehead smoothing as his expression shifts into bemusement. His eyes flicker playfully.
“Not even a daft agreement to get a tattoo with a complete stranger.”
I stare at Graham, dumbfounded. I’ve been on more dates than I can count with man-children who blamed their personality flaws and poor habits on their parents. But not Graham. Instead, he’s harnessed his childhood hardships as motivation to become a better person. I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone quite like him. I don’t know how to put all the things I’m thinking into words, so instead I say, “It must be nice to get to spend time with your grandma.”
The smirk melts off Graham’s face, and his eyes go soft.
“It’s the best. When I was a kid, I spent every summer with my grandparents. Once I hit my teenage years, though, my visits became fewer and further between. When my grandfather passed last year, I felt horribly guilty about how much time I let go between visits. In the four years I’ve lived in New York, I only ventured down to Baltimore a handful of times. Getting to spend so much time with Granny now is a gift.”
A tiny smile forms in the corner of his lips. “We used to do jigsaw puzzles together when I was a kid. When I announced that I was planning on spending a few months here, my grandmother bought half a dozen new puzzles. We’ve just finished the first one.” Warmth spreads over me as I picture Graham and his grandmother bent over a pile of cardboard pieces, laughing, and nibbling scones while a fireplace crackles in the background. It’s cozy and British and completely congruent with his personality.
He lifts his chin toward me. “And how about you? Are you happy to be back home?”
“I am,” I admit. “I was close with my grandma growing up too. We didn’t do puzzles, but we’d watch The Price Is Right together and fangirl over Bob Barker. Then we’d go to Macy’s to see how many coupons we could use at one time.” Graham grins and I continue. “My family drives me nuts sometimes, but I missed them when I was living in the city.”
It’s true. We were so close growing up, and as much as I miss the energy of New York, a piece of me has been restored since coming home.
After settling the bill, Graham turns to me, eyebrows raised in invitation. “Want to take a walk?”
We stroll down 36 th Street, our path illuminated by twinkling streetlights as we pass whimsical window displays and soak up the smells that drift through restaurant doorways. When we come to a familiar sign, I grab him by the hand and drag him through the Bookstore Next Door’s magenta doorway.
Graham lets out a low whistle as he surveys the floor-to-ceiling display of used books. He makes his way slowly through the front section of the store, pausing to brush his fingertips across the spines of a Dickens collection displayed on a wooden cart.
“One of your contemporaries,” I say. Graham’s mouth tilts up into a smirk.
As he picks up one of them, gingerly flipping the aged cover open, I slide past him, making my way to the cookbook section. My eyes drift over the books, which are haphazardly stacked in no order, until I’m drawn to one particularly interesting title. I pull the book off the shelf, examining the cover. Jewish Festival Cooking. There’s blocky handwriting scrawled across the front in several places. “Good chopped liver, page 132,” it reads in one corner. “Charoset like ours, page 25,” it says on another.
I flip the book open, thumbing through the pages. There are more notes jotted through, along with half a dozen food stains. All evidence of a well-loved cookbook. I find myself trying to visualize the book’s original owner, wondering how she used these recipes. Did she host family dinners for the High Holidays? Or were the highlighted recipes simply family favorites that she prepared for Friday night dinners?
“Looks like someone’s uncovered a buried treasure.”
Behind me, Graham is so close I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, and the hairs on my forearms rise.
I turn to face him and take a steadying breath to quell the butterflies currently performing the Macarena in my belly.
“Used cookbooks are the best,” I say. “You get so much more than a recipe. You get a history. What making food meant to someone.”
Graham’s eyes burn into mine. “I think you and this book belong together. It’s fate.” There’s that word again. Fate.
My heart hiccups in my chest. Maybe I’m not such a non-believer after all.
“You might be right,” I say, my voice now barely a whisper. “And who am I to argue with fate?”
His face is so close to mine that I appreciate for the first time how long his eyelashes are. So long that they brush against the lenses of his glasses, fanning out like wings. His lips part, and I catch a whiff of lingering gin on his breath. My own breath is coming out in fast spurts now, and I shift one inch closer to him. Graham’s gaze drops to my lips. My pulse is hammering so fast against my throat that I wonder if he can see it.
Just then, someone clears their throat loudly. Graham and I whip our heads around at the same moment to see a store employee lingering at the bottom of the two-step staircase.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “But it’s nearly closing time.”
The tension in the air deflates like a popped balloon. Taking a step back, Graham flips his wrist over to glance at his watch. It’s an old-fashioned design, with a large face and a black leather strap. On anyone else his age, it would look wildly out of place, but it suits Graham perfectly. It’s classic, just like him.
“Oh wow, it’s nearly six,” he says. “Time really got away from me.”
“You know, most guys our age wear Apple watches,” I observe wryly. “Do you have to wind that thing?”
“Call me retro, but I hate the idea of carrying a computer on my wrist.”
“Cat-eyeglasses are retro,” I reply. “You, my friend, are a millennial Mister Rogers.”
Graham grins, then tips his chin toward the cookbook in my hands. “So, what’s the verdict? Are you going to buy it?”
I flip the front cover again to check the price sticker. My heart sinks a bit at the sight of the thirty-five-dollar price tag. Closing the book, I brush a thumb across the cover reverently before sliding the book back onto the shelf.
“Unfortunately, I’ve got a pretty tight budget at the moment,” I confess. “Being an intern doesn’t pay much, and I’m trying to save up so I can move out of my parents’ place.”
A crease forms between his brows and I can tell he wants to argue the point. But before he can say anything further, I redirect the conversation.
“Anyway, there are a ton of great restaurants in the city. How would you like to grab dinner with a professionally trained chef?” I slide an inviting hand over his, grazing his knuckles with my fingertips. A long, tense beat passes as his body goes rigid. Then Graham takes a step backward, allowing my hand to drop. The store’s temperature suddenly cools.
“I, um… actually have dinner plans,” he says. “In fact, I should probably get going.”
“Oh. Sure.” Disappointment floods through me, followed quickly by confusion. What just happened? It seemed like things had been going great, but all of a sudden, it’s like a switch has been flipped. Was it something I said?
“Let me walk you to your car,” Graham says primly. The low, flirtatious tone in his voice has disappeared. “It’s getting dark.”
I’m still struggling to catch up with the abrupt mood shift, but I mask it with a snort of amusement. “You can always count on the Brits to be chivalrous.”
With a grand sweeping motion, he gestures for me to go ahead of him. It’s gotten chillier outside, and I pull my jacket tighter around me as I step onto the sidewalk. From the corner of my eye, I see Graham lift his arm, like he’s considering putting it around me, but then he drops it limply at his side. The air is thick with sudden tension, though for the life of me, I can’t figure out where it came from. Wordlessly, I lead him down the 36 th Street sidewalk until we reach my car.
But before I can get inside, Graham shifts his body to stand in front of the door.
“Listen, Ali,” he says. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
He stares at me for a long beat, and I watch as a jumble of emo tions play across his handsome features. But the moment his lips finally part, we are deafened by the blare of car horns. A trail of cars careens past us. Their occupants hanging out the window, their faces adorned with purple and white face paint. They whoop loudly as they wave pendants bearing the name of our city’s football team before disappearing down the darkened street.
“Tomorrow’s the first game of the season,” I tell Graham, as I shake my head. “There are no sports fans like Baltimore sports fans. They almost make me want to care about sportsball. Even though I haven’t tuned into a Ravens game since the time Taylor Swift was in the stands.”
I take a step closer, pausing to appreciate the way his pulse jumps in his throat. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”
Graham opens his mouth again, then abruptly shuts it. He shakes his head.
“It’s nothing.”
Bending forward, he brushes his lips against my cheek. My skin ignites at the point of contact, sending a burst of heat through my limbs. When he pulls back, his eyes are clouded with an unreadable mix of emotions.
“It was wonderful to see you again,” he says, his voice soft. “Get home safely, okay?”
I nod as I slide into my car, shutting the door behind me. After buckling my seat belt, I turn to look back at him through the window, desperate for one last chance to analyze the perplexing look on his face as he kissed me goodnight. But he’s already walking away.