Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Ben
As we enter the Damascus Room, Avril lets go of my hand and turns three hundred and sixty degrees, while she gazes at the walls and ceiling.
It’s made up of two rooms—a small seating area and room they refer to as an antechamber, which is lined with dark brown and red wood, decorated with gold leaf. It’s grand and cozy at the same time.
“This is beautiful. I can imagine living here,” she says, then she laughs. “I have ideas way above my station.”
I can’t help but smile. She’s bright and full of imagination and curiosity. But she’s so completely down to earth. She’s like no other woman I’ve ever met.
Her eyes trail back to mine, and then to the table set for dinner for two. “We’re having dinner here?”
I nod, unable to take my eyes from her. She’s so beautiful.
So full of life and enthusiasm. The more I know her, the more I like her, and the more I like her, the more I want her.
Having the Met to yourself isn’t something that happens every day, but I’ve barely noticed anything but Avril.
I can’t concentrate on anything else when she’s around.
Our guide talks about the origin of the house and how different generations of the same family would have shared the space. All I can think about is how I can’t wait for the two of us to be alone.
Avril asks questions about the calligraphy on the wall and repeats what the guide tells her it means. “‘The lightning saw the darkness frown and smiled. It skimmed and wafted over the ?owers of the hills.’” She turns to me. “Isn’t that pretty?”
I nod and shove my hands in my pockets. She’s pretty.
Eventually, we sit down at the table, surrounded by the wood paneling and historic architecture.
As soon as we’re seated, Avril jumps up.
“I can’t wear sneakers to dinner here.” The guide has dropped our bag at the entrance to the room, and Avril quickly slips off her sneakers and replaces them with the shoes she wore the first night I met her—at Aurora and Deacon’s engagement party.
Was that deliberate?
Did she want to remind me of that night? Like I could ever forget it.
Is she trying to seduce me or is that just wishful thinking?
Everything feels so easy between us. It’s like we’ve known each other our entire lives—like we have some kind of fundamental connection.
But maybe this is all in my head, all in my imagination.
She’s been living with me and I still can’t read her.
The only person in my history I haven’t been able to put in a box with a label on it is this beautiful woman in front of me.
I’m losing my focus. Avril has me losing my goddamn mind.
She retakes her seat opposite me. “This is very romantic,” she says on a smile. “If any date could make me fall in love with you, it would be this one.” She shakes her head, still smiling. “You’re good.”
“Good?”
“Like with the seduction stuff. The clothes, the private viewing of the Met, the dinner in here…it’s all very…you know, the kind of thing you read about in romance novels.”
“I don’t read romance novels,” I say.
Her eyes twinkle as she smiles at me. “Well, I do, and this is the kind of stuff that heroines really like.”
“Good to know.”
“Being your girlfriend must be…something else. Unless, you’re not like this with your girlfriends.”
She’d be right about that. Not that I’ve had any serious relationships, and nothing recently.
I’ve certainly never taken anyone to the Met before.
Relationships always seem like a big risk.
New York’s a small city and everyone knows someone you know.
I need to be the man people have no doubts about—that people trust completely.
I knew I couldn’t do that if I had a trail of exes scattered across Manhattan.
But it hasn’t felt like a sacrifice. I’ve never met anyone I particularly wanted to share my life with.
And now, with Avril in my apartment, I’m being forced to share my life with someone, and instead of running away from it, I want more.
“Are you fishing for information?” I ask her, as our appetizers arrive.
She laughs like she’s been caught out. “Maybe. What is your relationship history?”
I pick up my knife and fork. “Nothing much to tell. You?”
She sighs. “I seem to be on this merry-go-round where I meet guys who are okay and we date and then he’s an asshole or I’m bored or they’re bored, and we break up and it’s fine and I just get back on my carousel horse and start again.”
“I can’t imagine any man ever being bored with you for company.”
“Right?” she says and then dissolves into laughter. “I’m kidding, but there’s always something, you know?”
Who are these men she’s dating? Is it possible that New York is inhabited by a bunch of idiots?
“Some with mommy issues. Some money issues. But a lot of them just don’t know what they want.
They think they know, but they don’t. Or they pretend to want a relationship when what they really want is sex.
And that’s fine. If you want to bang your way through your thirties, I’m all for it, just don’t pretend you want anything more, you know? ”
“And what do you want?” I ask. “You want to bang your way through your thirties, because, seriously, I’d be happy to help you with that.”
She laughs. “I’d be happy for you to help me with that too.” She pauses and pulls in a breath. “That’s a night I won’t forget anytime soon.”
My chest expands at her memory. It was an incredible night. “Same,” I say.
She clears her throat. “But we’re not fixated on it. We can be professional. No waters need to be muddy.” She looks up at me. “Right?”
“So far, so good,” I reassure her.
“Oh, I nearly forgot.” She reaches for her handbag that the waiter brought a stool for and placed next to her chair. She pulls out a bunch of papers that have been folded in three. “I’ve been doing a little research.”
“Research? On Boston?”
She sighs. “Well, yes, but this isn’t about that.
This is about culinary school. Basically the best school in the country is Culinary Institute of America.
They have a campus upstate in Hyde Park.
It would be quite the commute. Buuut,” she says before I can even think about what she’s saying, much less respond, “what you do have in Manhattan is the Institute of Culinary Education. It’s basically five blocks from your apartment. ”
“You want me to improve my omelet making?” I ask, a little perplexed about why she’s talking to me about cooking school.
“Your omelets are perfection. But you were saying that you’ve lost a little enthusiasm for your job. And you’re rich. You could do anything you wanted. So I was thinking that you could go to culinary school. You love to cook.”
I sit back in my chair and she thrusts the papers into my hands. Has she been researching career opportunities for me? I’m not sure how to respond, I’m so shocked. “I’m not a chef,” I stutter. That was my dad.
“But you love to cook,” she says with a smile. “You were born to cook.”
“I cook because I can. Because I was taught.” My dad taught me. He was always in the kitchen, and if I wanted to spend time with him, then learning to cook was the way to get his attention.
“But you’re great at it and you enjoy it, right?
Maybe you could do something more with that.
” She takes the papers from me. “You can look at these later.” She glances down at her plate.
“And maybe it’s not going to culinary school.
Maybe you want to own restaurants. Serenissima. You could help them expand.”
“Serenissima is great because it’s an old-school family restaurant that cooks good food well.”
She shakes her head. “I still don’t know how it survives with business taxes and all the other expenses…”
“They don’t pay much rent,” I say. I’ve never told anyone that. Not even Beppe and Maria.
“How come?”
I shrug. “Landlord likes their food, I guess.”
“Their landlord likes their food?” she asks suspiciously. “Most landlords don’t give a shit what kind of business is paying the rent. They just want the money.”
“Not this one.”
A smile curls around her lips. “You own the building and don’t charge them market rent?”
“I would hate them to find out. Promise you won’t say anything.”
“Of course, I won’t say anything.” She reaches across the table and threads her fingers through mine, my heart spinning in my chest at her touch. “That’s really nice of you.”
I shake my head. “It’s what they deserve. They work hard, the food is excellent. It’s well managed. They deserve to have a successful restaurant.” Just like my father did. Just like my family did. I want them to have the success that others don’t.
She holds my gaze, and I can tell she wants to say something but is holding back. It’s not like her.
“What?” I ask her.
“I think that’s a really nice thing to do. Like the kind of thing a really good man does.”
“It’s a good restaurant. They’re a lovely family.”
“And they treat you like a son, even though they don’t know you’re helping them like you are.”
“They’ve known me since I was a boy.”
She pauses again, like she’s still holding back, then she squeezes my hand and releases it. “I think you’re a very special man.”
Her words hit me in my chest. I can tell she means what she says. There’s no thought of Boston or what I can do for her—she’d never try to manipulate me like that. She’s too good. Too kind.
“I have a proposition for you,” I say, before I can overthink what I’m about to propose.
“Oh no,” she says, wearing an expression of exaggerated disappointment on her face.
I can’t help but chuckle. “What?”
“The last time someone had a proposal for me, I ended up in some strange guy’s apartment for a week, rescuing cats and watching him cook.”
I narrow my eyes, thinking about how that sounds. “Yeah, you’re right, maybe a proposition is a bad idea.”
“I didn’t say it was bad. Just…not on my bingo card.”
Well, there’s no doubt that what we’re doing is highly unusual. I’m still not quite sure how I got myself a roommate, but I can’t regret it.