“Sure, any other impossible tasks for me? Should I grow a massive beanstalk in the middle of the sidewalk here?” she asks, craning her head to look over her shoulder, but not letting go of me. “Maybe you have some water you’d like me to turn into wine.”
“Nah, just you and me, that’s the only difficult thing I want right now.”
“Impossible,” she corrects.
“Nothing’s impossible. Well, maybe that beanstalk thing. You and me, though?” I pull a face, like that’s nothing. “Not impossible at all.”
“You know rejecting reality doesn’t actually mean reality goes away, right?” she teases.
“I make my own reality,” I tell her. “And in my reality, we’re not impossible. And look.” I drop one of my hands from around her waist to gesture to the bustling city all around us. “Here we are, on a date, having a great time, liking each other. I found a way, didn’t I?”
“You did,” she says, nodding. “And I’m very, very impressed by this. But assuming we can’t move here, we’re going to have to go home to reality.”
“Where we’ll keep seeing each other.”
Nodding once, she says, “And you’ll make me fall for you.”
“That’s the plan. Don’t worry, I’ll catch you.”
“And then you’re gonna have to break my heart,” she concludes.
“Nope,” I tell her, shaking my head. “Not gonna do that.”
“Not because you want to,” she replies, meeting my gaze. “I know you don’t want to. I know you’re sincere. I love your sincerity. It makes my knees weak. But this is going to get so hard, and it won’t be new and fun anymore, and you’re not going to want to keep doing it. You’re going to want someone you can take out in your own city, someone you can take home to those holiday dinners your mom’s so fond of. Can you even imagine a reality where that’s me?”
“Sure I can,” I toss back, with much more confidence than I have a right to. Truth is, I can see it, but it might be more my obstinate nature than accessible reality. Doesn’t matter. If I can change the landscape by blowing up a few mountains, maybe that’s what I’ll have to do. The more all these damn people keep telling me I can’t have Francesca, the more they’re making me want to prove them wrong.
—
The cab drops us off outside Lincoln Center, and Francesca still has no idea what we’re doing. Since I told her to wear something comfortable to explore the city, she wore jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt that she looked incredible in, but it didn’t fit the nighttime dress code. So, after we finished our crazy shakes, I took her to pick out a nice dress.
Even though I didn’t think she’d be excited about it, given all the times she’s told me about her extensive wardrobe and the formal family dinners, she still was. She picked out this sparkly dark purple dress, and we went to the hotel room I booked. We’re not staying the night, we’re flying out late, but I got a room so she’d be able to change, keep the crap she bought today somewhere, and chill out at if we felt like it. I didn’t know for sure that Francesca would take to the whole tourist routine, and I wouldn’t have minded cutting the sight-seeing a little short and spending time together back at the room. I didn’t mind the sight-seeing either, though. I’ve seen New York a bunch of times, and a carriage ride through Central Park should’ve made my eyes roll so far back in my head that my optic nerves were damaged, but she got so excited when she saw the horses prancing around the park, I couldn’t say no.
Then I took her to a nice Italian dinner at Café Fiorello—a little common, for someone about to see a show at Lincoln Center, but she doesn’t know that. I don’t live here anyway, so I can act like some tourist schmuck if I really want to. Then I took her to Magnolia Bakery, per her request. I don’t know how she’s not in a legitimate sugar coma from all the dessert she’s had today—Fruity Pebble coated ice cream, a carrot cake doughnut, chocolate from the stores in Times Square—but she’s not passing any of it up.
Provided she likes this ballet as much as I think she will, we’ll wrap up with one last cocktail at an underground Moroccan bar with a goddamn waterfall inside.
I don’t mean to boast, but I’m nailing this date.
We’re lost in a crowd of nicely dressed patrons when it hits Francesca what I brought her to.
“The ballet?” Her wide brown eyes slide to mine, her shock evident. “You brought me to the ballet?”
I shrug, keeping a hand at the small of her back. “You said you wanted to be a ballerina when you were a little girl. Figured it must be something you liked.”