La Vie en Rose {Life in Pink} (6 page)

Riley rotated, a phenomenal grin on his face as though he’d entered man heaven. “Where should we begin?”

“You’re my captain. I trust your instincts.”

Canopies and makeshift booths formed long aisles for people to wander. Steam clouded the various sites, eliciting attention with each peculiarly pleasant aroma.

Chefs acted as street performers, enchanting patrons, drawing them near with careful explanations for pairing fermented spices and specialized condiments with seared meats. It was a sort of live gallery, showcasing the artistry of New York cuisine.

Servings were sometimes dainty, offering a sampling of what could be the world’s most eclectic menu. The selection was endless, filet mignon sliders, fresh pecan bread sold by the slice, doughnuts the size of grapefruits, and even specialty booths for vegans and other diets she’d never heard of before.

“Oh, we have to start here,” he veered to the right and she followed. When the walkways became clogged with people, he reached through the crowd and pulled her to his side. “Watch this, Em. This is how meat
should
be treated.”

It was indeed a performance. The vendor tossed a steaming brisket onto the wood surface and unwrapped the charred foil covering. Juicy morsels of fat were trimmed away to unveil perfectly cooked, tender, pink beef. As the peddler made a show of slicing the meat in precise portions, it fell apart and her mouth watered.

Riley’s voice turned gravelly. “Oh my God, we are so eating that.”

She grinned at him, loving the glazed lust in his eyes. Only men got that way with meat. She supposed beef and pork were to a guy what shoes and purses were to most women.

As the chef prepared their sandwich, Riley asked questions about the smoking process. The vendor was very friendly and informative. “You want everything on it?”

“What’s everything?” Riley asked.

“Cheese, pickles, hot peppers, sweet sauce.”

He glanced at her. “You afraid of hot?”

“No.” She wanted to taste the sandwich the way the creator intended it.

Riley grinned. “Give us the works.”

The man dressed the small sandwich until it was bursting with meat and dripping with sauce. Riley paid and she followed him to the side of the booth where coolers held the vendors’ supplies.

“Are you ready for this?” he asked, eyes set with excitement.

“You taste it first.” She wasn’t sure what would be more enjoyable, watching his exhilaration or actually tasting it for herself.

“You sure?”

She nodded as he carefully held the messy sandwich and took a bite, bits of cheese and meat falling from his fingers. “Oh my God,” he moaned over a mouthful. “You have to try this.” She reached out, but he shook his head, still chewing. “Just open. It’s too messy.”

Opening wide like a ridiculous baby bird, she let him shove the corner of the sandwich in her mouth and bit down. “Oh my God!” she echoed.

“I know, right?”

An exquisite blend of flavors burst over her tongue. “It’s amazing,” she mumbled, holding her fingers over her lips so food didn’t fall out.

“I could eat twenty of these.” He took another bite.

“We so should.” She opened as he held the rapidly shrinking sandwich out for her again.

They didn’t waste time talking for the next few minutes as they devoured the most delicious sandwich she’d ever tasted. When they finished, Riley snagged some napkins and passed her several to wipe her mouth.

As they journeyed onward they sampled maple bacon cupcakes, Bangladeshi street cuisine, and even shared a pumpkin spiced S’more cooked under the flame of a blowtorch. It was an incredible festival of food.

“Do you like oysters?” he asked as they approached a merchant standing before a bowl of crushed ice.

“I don’t know.” She’d never tried an oyster before.

“Wanna try one?”

“Sure.”

As the chef sliced open the rocklike case and revealed an opalescent inner shell, she tried not to be revolted by the goopy booger looking mollusk inside. He shucked the blob loose, leaving it resting on half a shell, and placed it in a bed of crushed ice.

“What do they taste like?” she asked.

The chef continued to shuck. “Briny, like the ocean. If you’re virgins I can dress them in a mignonette sauce to soften the taste. I have a nice ginger cucumber one.”

“What do you suggest?” Riley asked.

“I’m a purist, sir. I like them with a bit of pepper and lemon and that’s it.”

Riley glanced at her.

“I think I should try it with the sauce.” The more she stared at the little glob the more unappealing it became. These were considered delicacies? If she was remembering correctly, they were also aphrodisiacs. She didn’t see anything sexy about them.

“Ready?” Riley asked, holding his lemon oyster while offering her the one dressed in the ginger sauce.

Timidly, she reached for the shell.

Their eyes met and he counted off. “One... two...three.” His head tipped back and her mouth filled with—

Oh my God. What the fuck is in my mouth?

“Not bad.” Riley grinned then started laughing. “Are you okay?”

She shook her head, booger mollusk sliding around her tongue, and desperately searched the table for a napkin.
You gag and it’s all over.

“Swallow it!” he shouted, laughing at her.

The vender passed her a napkin.

“No, don’t spit. Swallow!”

Oh my God, she was going to kick him if he didn’t shut up. People stared as they walked by and she spit the disgusting thing into the napkin and balled it up.

Riley shook his head. “Oh, Emma, I’m disappointed. Good girls swallow.”

“Shut up,” she snapped, her face burning.

He laughed and nudged her, tossing a few dollars on the table and directing her into the crowd.

“That was disgusting. Now I can’t get the taste out of my mouth.”

He stopped and ordered a cup of cranberry Brooklyn soda. “Here, you big tissue.”

“I’m not a tissue. I tried it.”

“Let’s sit for a while.” He led her to a stout cement barricade along the jetties and they sat facing the East River.

They’d walked miles in a matter of hours so she was grateful for the respite. The short wall was warm from the afternoon sun. “Today was really fun, Riley. Thanks for bringing me here.”

“I had fun too. It’s nice to waste a day taking advantage of everything the city has to offer. We can get immune from living here.”

She smiled, her cheeks tingling under the moist wind off the river. “There’s so much I’ve never experienced. I’ve never even been to the Empire State Building.”

“What?”

She laughed at his shock. “I know. I’m the worst New Yorker in the world.”

“You gotta get out more, Em.”

“I want to.” Letting out a deep breath, she relaxed. “I’m so sick of being me. It’s so tedious, always doing what everyone else thinks I should do.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I think you were right. I don’t think I loved Becket.”

“Conceivable.”

“Was it that obvious? Because if I’m being honest, I’m still getting over the shock.”

“Don’t hate me, but Becket was a prick. He didn’t bring anything to the table. You guys were always running off to meet
his
friends or attend functions at
his
father’s law firm.”

“Well, I do work there.”

“Exactly. You work for
his
family. When was it about Emma Sanders?”

There wasn’t an excuse at the ready. “I guess it never was.”

“Yeah, that’s not love. So when you say you don’t think you were in love with him, I can believe it.”

“You’re a pretty deep guy, Riley. Not a lot of men are like that.”

He shrugged. “I’m comfortable with you. I can just say what I feel.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, her mind drifting back to Riley as a tousled child in grass stained corduroys and wild curls. Although they knew each other since braces and bike rides, this was the first time they actually hung out alone. It was strange they never talked about personal things before, because she really was extremely comfortable around him.

“What do you say we head back and go get that mani-pedi?” he asked.

Her feet were killing her and the idea of a pedicure sounded divine. “Okay.”

He glanced down at her flip-flops and tsked. “I’m not sure they can help those stank walkers.”

She gaped at him. “There is nothing wrong with my feet!”

“Whatever. Where’s your baby toe?”

“It’s right here!” She lifted up her foot.

He leaned forward and squinted. “You can’t call that Darwin freak show a toe.”

“If it’s not then what the hell is it?” Her toes were perfectly normal!

“That’s a nubbin.”

“Whatever.” She stood.

He rose as well. “You think you can manage on your deformed hobbit hooves? We got a hike back to the subway.”

She stomped away. “Jerk.” And just when she was starting to think he was nice!

“Wait up,” he called. “Don’t be like that. We don’t have to wee-wee-wee all the way home. It was a good day at the market, piggy.”

She held up her middle finger and prodded on—laughing under her breath.

––––––––

R
iley didn’t get home from the bar until almost five in the morning. When he woke up sometime the next day, the loft was quiet and he took full advantage of the unusual privacy.

After a lengthy shower and a silent cup of coffee, he settled in with an old, battered copy of
Great Expectations
, refreshed and ready to start the day. But his focus was continuously interrupted by curiosity. Where was Emma?

Tossing the book aside, he went to her bedroom door and knocked. “Emma?”

The door glided open and he stilled, certain it was bad roommate etiquette to visit a roomie’s room without an invite. “Em?”

Glancing around the empty area, he slowly pivoted. Whoa. This was definitely not common area loft space. Her bed, which was made, sat against the exposed brick wall, dressed in vibrant floral prints. Why had she made it? Was she expecting company?

Pictures of girlie shit like birdcages and pearls were everywhere. She had fresh flowers on her nightstand. Who took the time to buy fresh flowers?
Unless they’re from Becket.
He scowled at the flowers.

Cracking open the closet, he noted how orderly all her dresses were hung. Emma wore a lot of dresses, not the trampy kind, but soft cotton ones that smelled like sunshine and came in Easter colors. They reminded him of that laundry bear that giggled and bounced on fluffy towels.

In the back of her closet was
the
dress, still wrinkled and hanging like a forgotten dream. He gently touched the delicate beadwork at the hem.

Becket was an asshole.

Riley hadn’t realized how cool Emma was until recently, but he hadn’t asked her to marry him. Becket had to know the cool girl he was giving up.

Shutting the closet and checking to make sure everything was as it should be, he left her room and wandered into the kitchen. The front door opened and he immediately smiled. “Hey, stumpy. Where you been?”

Emma’s steps slowed and she pursed her lips. “What did I do to you that you have to call me the most insulting nicknames?”

He scoffed. “They’re terms of endearment.”

“So far you’ve called me Stumpy, Piggy, Ma ‘goats, and Tiger. How flattered should I feel?”

She was in a feisty mood today. “You’re short. There are too many compact names I never get to use. I’m trying them out, sugar pants.”

“Sugar pants?”

He took in her short white shorts and blue striped shirt. Her hair was tied back in a white cotton headband. “Where were you?”
Yachting?

“The roof. I came down to grab more sunblock. Wanna join me?”

“Sure. You have music?”

She disappeared in her room and returned a moment later lathering sunscreen on her shoulders and neck. “Only my iPod, but I’m not into music right now. Everything’s a love song and most songs remind me of Becket.”

“You’re listening to the wrong genre. I’ll grab my boom box and meet you up there.”

After selecting some cassettes he went to the roof. Emma lounged on a sunny yellow chair in her shorts and a red bikini top.
Nice jubblies.
Stripping off his shirt, he popped in
The Cure
and collapsed on the blue chair beside her.

“How was work last night?” she asked, her face veiled by her oversized Jackie O. sunglasses.

“Work was work. The inn’s always busy on Sunday nights, so I made good tips. You enjoying your sabbatical?”

“Yes. I found two places looking for PA’s. I’m going to apply to both of them.”

“Good for you.”

Her brow wrinkled above her sunglasses. “What are we listening to?”

“The Cure.”

“I said no songs about love.”

“Ah, but this is classic 80’s, a time where love was deep and real, not the shallow impression we accept today. Embrace it. Learn from it, grasshopper.”

“Were you even alive when this was written?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it. Now stop talking. You’re spoiling The Cure.”

The warm August air heated his skin as he shut his eyes and breathed in the moment. The entire first side of the album played and when the cassette needed to be flipped neither of them seemed eager to get up and do the job.

Silence settled over them as the hum of far below traffic drifted in a hushed whisper to their ears. It was a comfortable backdrop.

“That’s the problem with vintage,” she said. “Who’s going to flip the tape?”

“I will in a minute.” He released a deep breath, relaxed and at peace with the calm surroundings.

“Riley?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think you could fix me up with one of your friends?”

Calm feeling gone.

Lifting his glasses, he peered at her. “Seriously?”

She shrugged. “Why not? You have plenty of them.”

He groaned. “But if they’re an asshole to you I have to cut them off. You’re my little sister’s best friend. That puts you in sister territory and the same rules apply.”

“But I’m not your sister. I’m your roommate.”