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I picture the Eiffel Tower. A stucco villa on a hill. Speedboats. Bikinis. Sebastian’s eyes, serious, soulful, staring into mine. “I love you, Carrie,” he whispers in my fantasy. “Will you marry me?”
I was still hoping to go to New York this summer, but if Sebastian wants to take me to France, I’m there.
“Hello?”
“Huh?” I look up and see a blond woman wearing a headband and a gummy smile.
“I had to ask. Where did you get that bag?”
“Do you mind?” Sebastian says pointedly, to the blonde. He plucks the bag off the table and puts it on the floor.
The woman walks away as Sebastian orders another round of drinks. But the mood is broken, and when our lamb chops come, we eat in silence.
“Hey,” I say. “We’re like an old married couple.”
“How so?” he asks in a flat voice.
“You know. Eating dinner and not talking. That’s my worst fear. It makes me sad every time I see one of those couples at a restaurant, barely looking at each other. I mean, why bother going out, right? If you have nothing to say, why not stay home?”
“Maybe the food’s better at a restaurant.”
“That’s funny.” I put down my fork, carefully wipe my mouth, and look around the room. “Sebastian, what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Well then,” he says.
“Something is wrong.”
“I’m eating, okay? Can’t I eat my lamb chops without you nagging me the whole time?”
I shrink with embarrassment. I’m two inches tall. I widen my eyes and force myself not to blink. I refuse to cry. But wow, that hurt. “Sure,” I say casually.
Are we having a fight? How on earth did this happen?
I pick at my lamb for a bit; then I put down my knife and fork. “I give up.”
“You don’t like the lamb.”
“No. I love the lamb. But you’re mad at me about something.”
“I’m not mad.”
“You sure seem mad to me.”
Now he puts down his utensils. “Why do girls always do that? They always ask ‘What’s wrong?’ Maybe nothing’s wrong. Maybe a guy is just trying to eat.”
“You’re right,” I say quietly, standing up.
For a second, he looks anxious. “Where are you going?”
“Ladies’ room.”
I use the toilet, wash my hands, and peer closely at my face in the mirror. Why am I being like this? Maybe there is something wrong with me.
And suddenly, I realize I’m scared.
If something happened and I lost Sebastian, I’d die. If he changed his mind and went back to Donna LaDonna, I’d double die.
On top of that, tomorrow night I have that date with George. I wanted to get out of it but my father wouldn’t let me. “It would be rude,” he said.
“But I don’t like him,” I replied, as sulky as a child.
“He’s a very nice guy, and there’s no reason to be unkind.”
“It would be unkind to lead him on.”
“Carrie,” my father said, and sighed. “I want you to be careful with Sebastian.”
“What’s wrong with Sebastian?”
“You’re spending a lot of time with him. And a father has instincts about these things. About other men.”
Then I was angry at my father too. But I didn’t have the guts to cancel on George, either.
What if Sebastian finds out about the date with George and breaks up with me?
I’ll kill my father. I really will.
Why don’t I have any control over my life?
I’m about to reach for my bag, when I remember I don’t have it. It’s under the table where Sebastian hid it. I take a deep breath. I order myself to buck up, put on a smiley face, get back out there, and act like everything is fine.
When I return, our plates have been cleared. “So,” I begin with false cheeriness.
“Do you want dessert?” Sebastian asks.
“Do you?”
“I asked you first. Can you please make a decision?”
“Sure. Let’s have dessert.” Why is this so excruciating? Chinese fingernail torture sounds more appealing.
“Two cheesecakes,” he says to the waitress, ordering for me again.
“Sebastian—”
“Yes?” He looks like thunder.
“Are you still angry?”
“Look, Carrie. I spend all this time planning a date and taking you out to a really nice restaurant and all you do is pick on me.”
“Huh?” I say, caught off guard.
“I feel like I can’t do anything right.”
For a second, I sit frozen in horror. What am I doing?
He’s right, of course. I’m the one who’s being a jerk, and for what? Am I so scared of losing him that I’m trying to push him away before he can break up with me?
He said he wanted to take me to France, for Christ’s sake. What more do I want?
“Sebastian?” I ask in a tiny voice.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He pats my hand. “Everyone makes mistakes.”
I nod, sinking further into my chair, but Sebastian’s mood is suddenly restored. He pulls my chair around next to his, and, in full view of the entire restaurant, kisses me.
“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” he whispers.
“Me too,” I murmur. Or at least, I thought I did. But after a few seconds, I break away. I’m still a bit angry and confused. But I take another sip of my martini and push the angry feelings down, right to the bottom of my soles, where hopefully, they won’t cause any more trouble.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN Little Criminals (#ulink_f893e8f1-354d-5764-997a-f530d2926948)
“Wow,” George says.
“Wow what?” I ask, coming into the kitchen. George and my father are comparing notes on Brown like they’re old pals.
“That bag,” George says. “I love it.”
“You do?” Hmph. After my roller-coaster date with Sebastian, which ended with us making out in his car in my driveway until my father switched the outdoor lights on and off, the last person I want to see is George.
“I was thinking,” I say to George now. “Instead of driving all the way to this inn, why don’t we go to The Brownstone? It’s closer, and the food’s really good.” I’m being cruel, taking George to the same restaurant as Sebastian. But love has made me evil.
George, of course, has no idea. He’s annoyingly agreeable. “Wherever you want to go is fine with me.”
“Have fun,” my father says hopefully.
We get into the car, and George leans over for a kiss. I turn my head and his kiss lands on the side of my mouth. “How have you been?” he asks.
“Crazy.” I’m about to tell him all about my wild two weeks with Sebastian and how I’m being stalked by Donna LaDonna and the two Jens, and the nasty card in my locker, but I stop myself. George doesn’t need to know about Sebastian yet. Instead I say, “I had to take a friend of mine to this doctor to get birth control pills, and there was a girl who’d obviously had an abortion and—”
He nods, keeping his eyes on the highway. “Growing up in the city, I always used to wonder what people did in small towns. But I guess people manage to get into trouble, no matter where they live.”
“Ha. Have you ever read Peyton Place?”
“I mostly read biographies. When I’m not reading for class.”
I nod. We’ve only been together for ten minutes, but already it’s so awkward I can’t imagine how I’ll get through the evening. “Is that what they call it?” I ask tentatively. “‘The city?’ Not ‘New York’ or ‘Manhattan’?”
“Yeah,” he says, with a little laugh. “I know it sounds arrogant. Like New York is the only city on earth. But New Yorkers are a little arrogant. And they do think Manhattan is the center of the universe. Most New Yorkers couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.” He glances over at me. “Does that sound terrible? Do I sound like an asshole?”
“Not at all. I wish I lived in Manhattan.” I want to say “the city,” but I’m afraid I’ll sound affected.
“Have you ever been?” he asks.
“Not really. Once or twice when I was little. We went on a school trip to the planetarium and looked at stars.”
“I practically grew up in the planetarium. And the Museum of Natural History. I used to know everything about dinosaurs. And I loved the Central Park Zoo. My family’s house is on Fifth Avenue, and when I was a kid, I’d hear the lions roaring at night. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Very cool,” I say, hugging myself. I’m strangely cold and jittery. I have a sudden premonition: I’m going to live in Manhattan. I’m going to hear the lions roaring in Central Park. I don’t know how I’m going to get there, but I will.
“Your family lives in a house?” I ask stupidly. “I thought everyone in New York lived in apartments.”
“It is an apartment,” George says. “A classic eight, as a matter of fact. And there are actual houses—townhouses and brownstones. But everyone in the city calls their apartment a house. Don’t ask me why. Another affectation, I suppose.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “You should visit me. My mother spends the entire summer at her house in Southampton, so the apartment is practically empty. It has four bedrooms,” he adds quickly so I don’t get the wrong idea.
“Sure. That would be great.” And if I could get into that damn writing program, it would be even better.
Unless I go to France with Sebastian instead.
“Hey,” he says. “I’ve missed you, you know?”
“You shouldn’t miss me, George,” I say with coy irritation.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know you enough to miss you. To think about you, anyway. Is that all right?”
I should tell him I already have a boyfriend—but it’s too soon. I hardly even know him. I smile and say nothing.
“Carrie!” Eileen, the hostess at The Brownstone, greets me like I’m an old friend, looks George up and down, and nods approvingly.
George is amused. “They know you here?” he asks, taking my arm as Eileen leads us to a table.
I nod mysteriously.
“What’s good here?” he asks, picking up the menu.
“The martinis.” I smile. “And the French onion soup is pretty good. And the lamb chops.”
George grins. “Yes to the martini and no to the French onion soup. It’s one of those dishes Americans think is French, but no self-respecting French person would ever order.”
