Lindsay sipped coffee at home and checked her email. Fred meandered over and settled on her lap. “What kind of food do you like, Mr. Astaire? I saw you eyeing my sushi takeout last night. Should I review more sushi places?” Fred let out a happy little brrup in response.
Erica had sent a list of new restaurants the Forum hoped to review, so Lindsay did a little research on each one and decided on assignments for the various freelancers who reported to her. For herself, she decided on a new restaurant on Vanderbilt Avenue near her apartment, for convenience.
She picked Thursday night to dine at this place—she preferred weeknights to avoid the weekend/date-night crowds—and hoped to get the review done while the restaurant still had some novelty. Then she texted each of her friends to invite them to join her.
And then the replies came.
Lauren: Caleb is working the night shift Thurs so I’ll be home with Hannah.
Paige: Book club at the café Thursday night, so I’m closing at 8.
Evan: I’ve got a work meeting in Manhattan that will prob go late. Sorry, honey.
Well, that figured. Thursday was two days away, too late for anyone to change their plans. She supposed she could go eat by herself. Bring a book, catch up on her reading.
Then Brad popped into her head.
He’d asked her for a date, hadn’t he?
She picked up her phone. He’d be at work now, but he could probably answer a text.
She said, I’m reviewing a new restaurant in Prospect Heights Thurs night. You free?
The reply was a few minutes coming, but Lindsay knew better than to interpret that as hesitancy. This time of the morning, Brad was probably taking bread out of the ovens.
But rather than say yes, Brad replied, What kind of food?
Lindsay laughed. That seemed on-brand. Just like a foodie to think about the cuisine first and the company second. She wasn’t even offended, because she probably would have had the same response. Upscale pub food. New restaurant owned by a British chef. Menu is fancy takes on shepherd’s pie and fish & chips, etc.
Lindsay was actually looking forward to trying this menu. There’d been a pub near the culinary school where Lindsay and her classmates had hung out after class all the time. The waitstaff all had Irish accents and the menu contained dishes like bangers and mash and a full Irish breakfast. The restaurant was still there, but Lindsay hardly ever went to that neighborhood anymore and she missed it. She wondered if upscale takes on the same kind of food would be delicious or pretentious—it could go either way.
And, okay, if it was pretentious, mocking it with Brad might even be fun.
Brad responded, Sounds good. Gotta keep an eye on the ovens now, but text where/when and I’ll be there.
Lindsay considered telling him he’d been her backup choice and this was not a date, but thought better of it. Instead, she texted the restaurant address and told him to meet her there at six. He texted back a thumbs-up emoji.
She hadn’t said it wasn’t a date. She hadn’t said it was, either. Would Brad think this was a date or just one friend inviting the other to the restaurant she was reviewing?
She sat back in her desk chair. Was she really doing this? Was she really going to go on a date with Brad?
Her friends were right. She’d never really gotten over him. She’d told herself she had, but she avoided places he’d be, she followed what he was up to, and she still had photos of him on her phone despite their breakup being five years past. She knew deep down that he was a good guy. He was hot, he was talented, and he was caring. And for a year, he’d made her happy.
But Lindsay was very skittish about getting her heart broken again.
Or at all; that was what had made her run the first time.
They’d been out somewhere about three months before their graduation from culinary school. Lindsay couldn’t remember where, probably the High Line. One of Brad’s favorite leisure activities was getting lobster rolls from a seafood store in Chelsea Market and then walking up to the High Line to eat them outside and people watch.
It had been one of those cool spring days that nobody knew how to dress for, before the warm weather really arrived. As Brad dug into his lobster roll and Lindsay tasted some excellent tuna salad, she commented that although it was still too cool for the guy who rollerbladed by them in shorts, it was definitely too warm for the woman bundled up in a puffy coat with a hat and gloves to be wearing that many layers.
“Judgy of you to point that out, Goldilocks,” said Brad.
“I’m just saying.”
“What people wear isn’t hurting anyone. I’m going to sit here and enjoy my off-season lobster roll.”
“Do lobsters go out of season? I thought they caught them in Maine year round.”
Brad shrugged. “I always think of lobster as a summer food, but who knows? Did you know that thing everyone attributes to Anthony Bourdain about not eating seafood on Mondays isn’t true?”
“What’s that?”
“It used to be conventional wisdom that restaurants got their seafood deliveries on Tuesdays, so on Monday, you’re eating the oldest fish. Thus you should not eat in seafood restaurants on Mondays. But that’s not really true anymore.”
“Oh, right. The sushi place near my apartment is closed on Mondays. I wonder if that’s why. No one wants to eat sushi on Mondays.”
Brad laughed. “Right. True or not, I bet sushi consumption drops off on Mondays.”
Brad’s gaze snagged on an athletic blond woman who jogged by wearing only a sports bra and bike shorts.
Lindsay snapped her fingers. “I’m over here, buddy.”
“Sorry,” Brad murmured. Then he turned his attention back to her. “So. Oh, get a load of those two guys by the bar cart over there. Frat bros or gay couple?”
And maybe it was some kind of residual childhood trauma, but something flopped over in Lindsay’s stomach. It was a completely innocent thing. Brad wouldn’t have gone after the jogging woman. He was just looking. He was a heterosexual male with a pulse; he was allowed to look. It was unreasonable for Lindsay to demand Brad’s constant attention when she herself sometimes looked at other men.
And Lindsay’s parents’ situation was so different. There’d been strain in their marriage for as long as Lindsay had been aware enough to recognize emotions. They fought constantly. Lindsay’s mother threatened to leave at least once a week, and then finally, Lindsay’s father hadn’t bothered to hide the affair with his secretary, and her parents had signed the divorce papers.
She didn’t think she and Brad had that dynamic, but they’d only been together for a year. Surely her parents had liked each other enough once to get married. Was Lindsay just doomed to repeat the same patterns?
She could admit that she’d had a foot out the door as a way to safeguard her own heart. She didn’t want to repeat her parents’ old patterns.
But had that been fair to Brad? Probably not, because even Lindsay could now acknowledge that catching him with Phoebe was more an excuse than a reason to end the relationship. Brad’s explanation of what happened with Phoebe, which Lindsay now believed, ran roughshod over the narrative that she’d been telling herself for so long. And he’d shut down that New York Times lady. That had to mean something. But could she trust him? Could she trust herself?
She knew love was real. Her friends, particularly Lauren and Paige, had found great, loving relationships, and they seemed so happy. Lindsay was cynical, but deep down, she wanted that, too.
She pushed away from her desk and went to the kitchen to refill her coffee. She hoped she wasn’t making a mistake in giving Brad a second chance.
***
Brad followed Lindsay to their table and looked around. From the outside, the restaurant looked like a pub. It was called the Deer & Goose, like some old British pub, and the signage reflected that. But inside, the restaurant looked like an interior designer had run away with a wilderness theme. There was a huge reclaimed-wood feature wall in the back, from which hung framed watercolor paintings of trees. Each table had a tiny flowerpot with some kind of coniferous tree thing in it, reminiscent of the little trees his mother always bought at Christmastime.
Brad glanced at the menu, then looked at Lindsay. She did look pretty tonight. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders, and she had on a pink cardigan over a floral dress, like she’d actually tried to look nice for this date. Or it wasn’t a date. Brad wasn’t totally sure.
“So how does this reviewing thing usually work?” Brad asked.
“Well, we don’t want them to know I’m a critic, so we definitely don’t speak aloud about that.”
Brad mimed zipping his lips.
“Order whatever you want, but let’s order different entrées so we can try each other’s. I’ve been wanting to try this sausage dish since I saw it on the online menu.”
“Ooh, maybe I’ll order the toad-in-the-hole.”
Lindsay narrowed her eyes at him. “Isn’t that just an egg in a piece of toast?”
“Only if you’re an American.”
“You’re an American.”
“In England, toad-in-the-hole is a Yorkshire pudding with sausage, onions, and gravy. This menu says they use a chicken apple sausage, which sounds tasty. But partly, I want to judge the Yorkshire pudding.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had one.”
“You totally have. I’m sure I made them when we were dating. I was really proud of myself when I mastered making them. It’s like an eggy, bread pastry thing.”
Lindsay laughed. “You have a way with words. ‘Eggy, bread pastry thing’?”
“If they do it right, you’ll see.”
Brad turned the menu over to see if they had desserts listed. They didn’t on the dinner menu, but he spotted that the chef was Michelle McKean.
“Get out of town,” he murmured.
“What?”
“I know the chef.”
Lindsay sighed. “You know everyone.”
That was not at all true, but he did know a lot of chefs in New York between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five.
A waitress came over to take their orders. Lindsay let Brad order first and then ordered a different appetizer. Before the waitress finished saying, “I’ll be right back with your drinks,” Brad said, “Is Michelle here tonight?”
“Michelle the chef?”
“Yes. She and I aren’t old friends or anything, just casual acquaintances, but I figured I’d say hi if she’s here. My name is Brad Marks.”
“Ah, sure. She is here tonight. I’ll let her know.”
Lindsay looked pissed when the waitress walked away.
“What?” Brad asked.
“You might as well have just blown my cover. The whole idea is for me to taste a typical meal at the restaurant. Now that the chef knows you know her, she’ll probably put a little extra care into our entrées. So now I can’t review a typical meal.”
“Oh, whoops. Sorry about that. I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, you were not.”
“Well, now that we’re off on the wrong foot, how are you?”
Lindsay looked like she was doing some mental gymnastics behind her strained facade. Likely she was trying to tell herself this was not a mistake. “I’m fine,” she said.
So, fine, he’d fucked up. He probably should have waited until after they’d eaten to let the waitress know he was friends with the chef. But Lindsay could turn down her irritation with him a little.
“Hamilton is adjusting well at home,” Brad volunteered. “Although during that heat wave we had last week, he slept in my bathroom sink pretty much constantly. Do you think it’s because the porcelain or whatever sinks are made of is cool?”
“Probably,” said Lindsay. The crease in her forehead started to slip away. “Fred sleeps in the sink sometimes.”
“Fred Astaire the cat, right? Does he dance?”
“Not well.”
Ah, so that was how this was going to go. He’d stepped in it and pissed her off. She was going to make him pay for it the entire meal. He sighed and sipped his water.
Michelle herself brought their appetizers from the kitchen, plus an extra basket of crumpets. “Hey, Brad,” she said.
“Hey, yourself. Long time, no see.”
“This is my friend Lindsay. She was actually the one who suggested we try this place. We’re excited to try the food.” He glanced at Lindsay. He couldn’t see a way out of the hole, but he could pull her into the conversation.
Lindsay pasted on a smile and said hello.
“You guys live in the neighborhood?” Michelle had a bit of an English accent that had been flattened by many years living in the States.
“Yeah, we both live a few blocks from here. I had no idea this was your place until I saw your name on the menu.”
“Did I hear correctly that you’re making pastries for cats now?”
“Well, not just for cats, but I work at a cat café. You should come by sometime! It’s over on Whitman Street.”
“Maybe I’ll do that,” Michelle said, touching Brad’s shoulder. “Are you the one who ordered the toad-in-the-hole?”
“Guilty.”
“I hope my Yorkshire pudding is up to snuff. I know you have strong opinions about them.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s fine,” said Brad with a wink. “Aren’t you actually from Yorkshire?”
“I am! It’s delightful that you remembered.” Michelle smiled wide. “I gotta get back to the kitchen, but it was great seeing you. The crumpets are on the house.”
Once she and the waitress were gone, Lindsay was seething. She glared at Brad with her arms crossed.
“Are you going to murder me with your butter knife?” Brad asked.
“I’m thinking about putting the knife through your eye, yeah.”
Brad let out a breath. He’d been friendly with Michelle, but Lindsay couldn’t really be jealous, could she? He said, “All right. Lay it on me.”
She sighed. “No, whatever. Damage done. Nice of you to introduce me as your friend.”
Brad caught the snotty note in her tone and was irritated that she wasn’t really letting this go. “Now hang on a minute. How was I supposed to introduce you? Are we even together? Is this a date? Or did you just ask me to dinner because all your friends were busy and you didn’t want to eat alone?”
Lindsay’s eyes went wide and she looked chastened, so Brad guessed he’d hit the mark.
God, why was he trying this hard? He was tired of her scraps. Ever since they’d reconnected, Lindsay kept showing she was interested in getting back together, but she was too stubborn to admit it. And she was doing it to him again now. If they had any hope of making this work, she had to meet him in the middle. He couldn’t do all the work.
“Is this a date?”
“Do you want it to be a date?”
Brad let out a breath. He’d ordered an appetizer that was a plate of Irish cheddar with house-made crackers and a little tub of apricot jam, so he spread some jam on a cracker and tasted it. It was very good, probably also house-made. He glared at Lindsay, irritated now.
“What do you want, Linds? Because I’ve made my feelings pretty clear, I thought.”
“You want it to be a date. You want us to be together.”
“I’ve wanted you back since the moment you walked out of my life, that’s true. But I also want you to trust me, and I want you to be willing to try to make this work. It can’t just be me doing all the work and hoping you’ll come around anymore. I’m… I’m tired of trying to prove myself to you, if I’m honest. Am I perfect? No. Will I fuck up sometimes? Probably. But you have to trust that at the end of the day, my priority is you—us.”
Lindsay stared at her appetizer—a chopped salad with bacon and crispy chickpeas—and then said, “Oh.”
“If we get back together, I’m going to talk to other women. And other men. And, yeah, I know a lot of chefs in this city. And probably I’ll flirt with people in all of those categories sometimes. But you have to trust that I will always choose you, always come home to you, and always be faithful to you. If you don’t trust that, then I guess we have nothing else to talk about.”
He watched her wrestle with that, so at least he’d gotten through to her. He didn’t want to bail on dinner—he really wanted to try that Yorkshire pudding now—but he was feeling pretty steamed.
Lindsay started eating her salad, so Brad dove into the cheese plate.
The rest of dinner was tense. Brad figured Lindsay was thinking through what she wanted while she ate, so he didn’t push her. The Yorkshire pudding was good—fluffy and eggy and exactly what it was supposed to be—and the chicken sausage was a nice complement to it.
After a few minutes of silence, Brad said, “How’s the bangers and mash?”
“Good. Really good pork sausage. Nice snap to the casing.”
Brad laughed because it was so like a chef to comment on the snap of a sausage and not the taste.
They each ate a few bites off each other’s plates. Brad was impressed by how creamy and well-seasoned Lindsay’s potatoes were. Lindsay ate a bit of Yorkshire pudding and said, “Oh, right. I remember this now.”
“There’s kind of an art form to getting them right. They’re sort of like a souffle in that way. If you nail it, they are fluffy and delicious like this. But if you do one thing wrong, the whole thing deflates into a flat, dense, flavorless hockey puck. I made you eat a lot of them because I was practicing.”
“Sure. I remember now. Like how you made me eat a hundred éclairs while you were trying to master choux pastry.”
“I don’t recall you being that mad about it. Who can be mad about eating an éclair? Or five?”
“Not all of your early batches were good.”
“True, but I make great éclairs now. I should make mini ones for the café, maybe.”
“Are you going to try to make them feline in some way?”
He had a flash of making icing with stripes, like a striped cat. He might be the only one who thought stripes looked feline, though, so he filed it away to mull over later. He’d think of something. “I will certainly try.”
Brad was pretty full by the time the waitress handed them dessert menus, but he agreed to split a slice of chocolate stout cake with Lindsay.
By the time they were sinking their forks into what turned out to be an excellent slice of cake, the tension between them had dissipated. When Michelle swung back out at the end of the meal to ask if everything met with their approval, Brad was polite but kept an eye on Lindsay, who still seemed irritated he’d torpedoed her review.
He thought about inviting her back to his place once they left the restaurant, but he was still annoyed, too, so he just said, “Well, this was fun.”
She sighed. “Was it?”
“I will admit, arguing with you was not super fun. But, look, we know where we stand, I think.”
She stood there on the sidewalk for a long moment with her lips pressed together.
“You invited me to dinner,” said Brad. “I thought we were making progress. If this wasn’t a date, what was it?”
“I don’t know.” Lindsay shook her head. “I need more time to think.”
Brad didn’t know why she’d need more time, but he nodded. “All right. Well, let me know when you decide something.”
Lindsay hooked her thumb to point south, in the direction of her apartment. Brad’s was a few blocks north. “I mean, do you want to come to my place for a cup of coffee or something.”
“Not tonight. Gotta get up at four to make cat treats and all that.”
“Right. Of course.”
“And I don’t think it’s fair for us to…well, act on our physical feelings when we’re still tied up mentally.” He gave Lindsay what he hoped was a meaningful look, because his feelings were pretty well sorted out at this point.
“Makes sense,” she murmured.
“Right. Good night, Lindsay. I’ll see you sometime.” There. Let that just be in the universe. He could only chase her for so long; she needed to come to him next.
“Of course. Good night, Brad.”
Brad nodded and turned to walk home before he could change his mind.