“It’s not good when you have to lie to a guy,” Maggie says.
I take a deep breath. I want to ask her if Hank knows about Tom, but I don’t.
When we finally push through the revolving door at Peartree’s, I’m relieved to see Bernard’s dark head bent over a newspaper, a glass of scotch in front of him. I still get the jitters when I know I’m going to see him. I count down the hours, reliving the sensation of his soft mouth on mine. As our rendezvous approaches, I get nervous, worried he’s going to call and cancel, or not show up at all. I wish I didn’t care so much, but I’m glad to have a guy who makes me feel this way.
I’m not sure Bernard feels the same, though. This morning, when I told him I had a friend coming to town unexpectedly, he said, “See your friend, then. We’ll get together another time.”
I emitted a gasp of disappointment. “But I thought we were going to see each other. Tonight.”
“I’m not going anywhere. We can see each other when she leaves.”
“I told her all about you. I want her to meet you.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s my best friend. And—” I broke off. I didn’t know how to tell him that I wanted to show him off, wanted Maggie to be impressed by him and my astonishing new life. Wanted her to see how far I’d come in such a short time.
I thought he should be able to t
ell from my voice.
“I don’t want to babysit, Carrie,” he said.
“You’re not! Maggie’s nineteen, maybe twenty—” I must have sounded very insistent, because he relented and agreed to meet for a drink.
“But only one drink,” he cautioned. “You should spend time with your friend. She came to see you, not me.”
I hate it when Bernard acts all serious.
Then I decided his comment was vaguely insulting. Of course I wanted to spend time with Maggie. But I wanted to see him, too. I thought about calling him back and canceling, just to show him I didn’t care, but the reality of not seeing him was too depressing. And I suspected I’d secretly resent Maggie if I couldn’t see Bernard because of her.
Things are tense enough with Maggie as it is. Getting ready to go out tonight, she kept saying she couldn’t understand why I was “dressing up” to go to a bar. I tried to explain it wasn’t that kind of bar, but she only stared at me in incomprehension and said, “Sometimes I really do not get you.”
That’s when I had a moment of clarity: Maggie is never going to like New York. She’s constitutionally unsuited for the city. And when I realized this, my simmering animosity disappeared.
It’s okay. It’s not Maggie’s fault, or mine. It’s simply the way we are.
“There’s Bernard,” I say now, nudging Maggie past the maître d’ to the bar. The interior of Peartree’s is slick—black walls with chrome sconces, black marble tables, and a mirror along the back wall. Samantha says it’s the best pickup place in town: She met Charlie here, and she gets irritated when he comes here without her, thinking he might meet another girl.
“Why is it so dark in here?” Maggie asks.
“It’s supposed to be mysterious.”
“What’s mysterious about not being able to see who you’re talking to?”
“Oh, Mags,” I say, and laugh.
I creep up behind Bernard and tap him on the shoulder. He starts, grins, and picks up his drink. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming. Thought maybe you’d had a better offer.”
“We did, but Maggie insisted we had to meet you first.” I briefly touch the back of his hair. It’s like a talisman for me. The first time I touched it I was shocked by its delicate softness, so much like a girl’s, and I was surprised by how tender it made me feel toward him, as if his hair was a harbinger of his soft, kind heart.
“You must be the friend,” he says, crinkling his eyes at Maggie. “Hello, friend.”
“Hello,” Maggie says cautiously. With her sun-bleached hair and pink cheeks, she’s as creamy as a wedding cake, in sharp contrast to Bernard’s angles and crooked nose, and the bags under his eyes that make him appear to be a person who spends all of his time inside—in dark caves like Peartree’s. I’m hoping Maggie will see the romance of him, but at the moment her expression is one of pure wariness.
“Drink?” Bernard asks, seemingly unaware of the culture clash.
“Vodka tonic,” I say.