By 7:30, Jenna had worked herself into a frenzy of anticipation. It had been years since she planned a dinner party, but she realized that she’d retained muscle memory. She also realized that she no longer had a budget. So, in a twenty-four hour period, she called in several favors and abused the one credit card she allowed herself.
Jenna reached out to her old caterer, Jilly Demarco at Jilly’s Eats, and planned a gorgeous Frenchy menu: Belgian endive salad, Coq au Vin and potatoes au gratin for dinner, and, for dessert, croquembouche (she’d always been such a loyal client, that Jilly provided her services on credit). Her outfit was perfection—an authentic 1920’s tango dress that Philip Lim modernized for her as a 33rd birthday present, complete with satin gloves. She’d donated it to Darling’s archives, where it was displayed in a glass case in the lobby—but she’d pulled a couple of strings to liberate it for the night. Then, she had Elodie’s ex, Guy Donazo, an art director at Grey Advertising, make a custom designed place setting for each guest in lilting, gold filigree calligraphy. She’d even called Hermes’ publicist, who she’d always had a great relationship with—and they lent her an extraordinarily rare, vintage private label dinnerware set. She even charged a breathtaking, too-expensive side chair and throw pillows, which she agonized over for forty-five minutes at Roche Bobois. Diptyque Baise candles were burning, and Adele was crooning about setting fire to the rain. Even her help for the night, a pretty Peruvian aspiring actress named Lula, was impeccable (Jenna was paying for her services by referring her to two top agents that Brian had built houses for). Lula was preparing appetizers, wearing a lovely ballerina bun and a simple black DVF dress of Billie’s.
She’d thought of everything. Most importantly, she’d made Billie and Elodie swear not to mention her and Eric’s make out session. Billie agreed, but Elodie laughed (“Forget? How? The sight is emblazoned on my brain in lights.”) So, Jenna in-boxed them contracts she drew up, forbidding them to speak on it—no signature, no admittance.
Jenna might’ve overextended herself on posh details she couldn’t afford, but it felt worth it. Orchestrating this beautiful night was soul-affirming, which was what she needed.
This would be a Pinterest-perfect party. An elegant backdrop for an elegant evening of clever conversation, exquisite food—and possibly meeting her husband.
Jenna perched herself in her new armchair with her hands folded, awaiting her guests. Only a half an hour before the magic began.
As promised, Eric was the first to arrive. As he stood inside her doorway, effortlessly crisp in a navy sweater and dark jeans scrunched around wheat-colored boots, he was trying to quell his mood—which was intense annoyance.
He’d been nervous enough, bringing his most unpredictable friend to Jenna’s house. Making it worse? Tim took it upon himself to invite his tacky girlfriend, Carlita, even though Eric expressly asked him not to do this. Carlita was inappropriate at ratchet parties, so he could only imagine how she’d behave in a swanky situation—which was what Eric knew Jenna’s dinner party would be. And once he got a look at her beautiful apartment, he realized he’d been correct.
Did it always look so fancy? he wondered. Or just for tonight?
He and Tim had grown up surrounded by upper middle class trappings, but their reality as adults was far grungier. They were about seedy underground clubs and after-hours pizza. And he was certain that Carlita had never attended a dinner with place settings. He prayed they both chose benign, non-controversial things to talk about, like the pleasant fall weather.
“Hiiii, Eric! So happy you’re here,” exclaimed Jenna. She ushered the three of them into her house, beaming. “You must be Tim and Carlita, please come in! Carlita, your bangs are adorable.” Carlita was one of those women who, no matter her mood, always looked fed up. The stripper—who was saving her money for dental school—was club-ready in a neon green, microscopic tube dress from Strawberry’s. Her nails were covered in newspaper print decals, and her bouncy black weave was freshly cut in Cleopatra bangs. She looked like Princess Tiana reimagined as South Beach’s surliest exotic dancer.
Carlita raised her chin at Jenna. “Girl, you did your thing on Project Runway. You know Michael Kors?”
Eric squelched his exasperation. “She was a judge on America’s Modeling Competition.”
“Oooh, what’s Tyra Banks like?”
“That’s America’s Next Top Model,” said Jenna. “But I do know Michael. He’d love you. He’d fall over himself to get you in some camel suede jodhpurs.”
And then Carlita did something unusual. She smiled, sort of. Tim, a wiry sprite in an ascot, took Jenna’s hand and kissed it.
“Enchante.”
“Enchante, yourself!”
“It’s our distinct pleasure to have been invited to your abode,” he said. “Did anyone ever tell you that you give off an Olivia Pope vibe?”
“Kerry Washington? Bless you.” She squeezed his hand. “Can I get you all something to drink?”
“You got the drink with the leaves in it?” Carlita looked hopeful. Eric rubbed a temple.
“A mojito! Excuse me, I’ll go give Lula your drink orders.” The second Jenna disappeared, Eric lit into Tim.
“What did I tell you about the ascot? Take it off.”
“Carlita, I told you this shit was wack.”
“Don’t blame your scarf struggle on me, nigga. You wanted to look fancy.”
“Me? You’re the one who almost wore that fluffy, Easter Sunday dress,” said Tim. “E, I was like, are you going to your First Communion? You about to meet Kate Middleton?”
“Just take it off,” hissed Eric.
Tim slipped it off his neck and looked around the room. “I gotta say, there’s a disconnect between this broad’s taste and her neighborhood. This block is a fucking slum. She’s living in a studio-plus, but has Hermes dinnerware? Like, it’s both confusing and titillating.”
Eric’s head was pounding. “Just stop talking, Tim. Do not embarrass me tonight. Don’t call her Olivia Pope, and don’t use Jenna and ‘titillating’ in the same sentence. Just…be normal.”
“I am normal!”
“We normal, E! Chill,” said Carlita.
Jenna came back with a breathtaking Lula, who handed out the drinks. Then, she pulled Eric to the side.
“So what do you think?” she asked. Jenna looked like a deb on the morning of her Sweet Sixteen. She grabbed his hand and dragged him over to the table. “So pretty right? Look at the little brown paper bags on each plate…I had the menu written on them and there’s a delicious gruyere cheese biscuit inside! Couldn’t you die?”
“I’m dead. I love it,” he said, looking around. “Everything’s dope. And you look…” He stopped himself from going too far. “Pretty. He’s lucky.”
“Thank you.” Jenna smoothed down her dress, and then raised her drink to Eric. “Here’s hoping he isn’t a troll.”
He clinked his glass to hers. “So where is he?”
“He should be here any minute—perfect timing. First hors’ d’oeuvres, cocktails and conversation, then the three-course dinner, then aperitifs and dessert. Then everyone leaves and I watch Clue in my pajamas.” She was standing with Eric, but talking to herself. She started counting things off on her fingers. “Okay, Lula already heated up the appetizers, so those are fresh, and then…”
“You’re so intense.”
“I’m in hostess mode,” she said, wringing her hands. “I just want it to be perfect.”
Just then, her front door bell rang and she buzzed up Billie, her husband Jay, and Elodie. Promptly, Elodie stomped over to Eric and gave him a strong, breasty hug.
“Heartbreaker!”
“Kimora Lee Simmons!”
She leaned into his ear and said, “It’s hard to recognize you without your arm halfway up Jenna’s dress.”
“Jenna said she made you sign a contract,” whispered Eric. “You think I’m scared of that girl? I can’t act like that night didn’t happen. I’m just happy you two are cool now. All her angst over you was making me anxious, and getting worked up about anything besides my mutual funds fucks with my spirituality.”
“Hi Eric, I’m Billie!” She edged past Elodie and hugged him, too. “So lovely to meet in person. I’ve heard tons about you.” And then, Billie, who actually did honor Jenna’s contract, said, “Um… no I haven’t. I don’t know anything about anything.”
Jay Lane, a ruggedly handsome forty-two-year old, was both a passionate community activist and one of America’s leading literary poets. He’d managed to retain a healthy hint of rough-around-the-edges toughness from his street background. The combination resulted in a complicated intensity that made Fordham’s female students come to his Voices of the Diaspora class in smokey eyes and deep-V tees.
He sized Eric up, gave him a pound and said, “The future of American cinema! I did some research on you. I like you, man. You’re young, but you have gravitas.”
“Gravitas? Wow. I like you, too, professor.” If it were possible for Eric to blush, this would’ve been the moment.
Eric introduced Carlita and Tim to the group, and everyone said their hellos. Then the buzzer rang again, and everyone’s head swiveled toward the door. Jenna pressed her buzzer, and seconds later The Guy emerged.
“Hiii,” everyone said, in unison.
“Well hello,” he said, a little overwhelmed by the cluster of seven people, inspecting him like he was under glass.
“Welcome! I’m Jenna,” she said, shaking his hand.
“I’m Jimmy Crockett,” he said, and actually tipped his hat. Which was a fedora. An attractive caramel-skinned guy with salt-and-pepper hair, he was wearing, as Billie promised, artfully scuffed Chucks, black skinny jeans (skintight skinny jeans) and a faded, red-and-navy striped,
Linus-esque tee that was either vintage or from Urban Outfitters.
Jenna’s first thought was, He’s fifty and dresses like this?
Then, her mind plummeted into the “what if” set-up spiral.
What if this works? Will my friends love him? Will he understand that, after 10pm, I have little to no sexual stamina and will tap out after ten minutes? What will we look like together? At what point will the things I like about him become the things I loathe? Can I love him enough to get to the part where I like him again? IS HE THE ONE?
Jenna shook off her stream-of-consciousness musing, and introduced him to the room. He was polite and gave firm handshakes, looking everyone in the eye. But when he got to Eric, he stopped and pointed at him.
“What have you got, there?”
Eric realized that he was still holding the wine bag he’d picked up from his local liquor store. He had no idea what vintage, type, or brand it was—he just picked out the most special-looking bottle. “Red wine.”
“Can I see that?”
Shrugging, Eric pulled the bottle out of the bag. Jimmy inspected the bottle. He nodded. “Beringer Napa Valley. Not bad, young man. Vanilla bean and blackberry undertones. Great starter wine. I prefer something a bit more refined, more savory. You’ll have to try the 2005 Guiseppe Mascarello Borolo I brought.”
Eric was too taken aback to say anything but, “I’ll do that.”
“I’m sorry, I own a high-end spirits shoppe”—he said the word with such flourish that it sounded like it was spelled the French way—“so wherever I am, I always laser right in on the wine selection.” Jimmy chuckled and reached up to slap Eric on the back. “You did a great job, young man.”
Jimmy made his way back to Jenna’s side, and they launched into a private conversation.
Eric looked at Tim. “Son.”
“I believe he was trying to clown you, young man,” said Tim. “You want me to get Carlita to beat his ass?”
“I’m supposed to help her close with that pretentious dick?” Eric said, thoroughly disgusted. “Jimmy Crocket. How am I not gonna call him Jiminy Cricket?” Tim laughed, loving this.
“I need a drink,” said Eric.
Everyone was seated in Jenna’s living room, while Lula made the rounds with a tray of prosciutto-and-mint wrapped asparagus. They party had broken off into smaller groups, with everyone embroiled in separate conversations. Jenna and Jimmy stood together by the new side chair; Billie, Jay, Tim and Eric were on the couch, and Carlita and Elodie shared a love seat.
As Eric chatted with Billie about the upcoming presidential election, keeping one eye on Jenna and Jimmy. He was supposed to be on matchmaking duty, but it was all he could do not to pelt that asshole with asparagus. But he had a job to do. This night was about helping her bag the second date. So, he excused himself and walked up to the pair.
“…so yes, I’ve almost completed transforming the basement of Brews & Bottles into a gallery,” Jimmy was saying. “Upscale and rustic, but with warmth. Like a man cave in Milan. Actually, ‘Milanese Man Cave’ isn’t a bad name for the space.”
“Wonderful idea,” said Jenna. “Brooklyn is such a hotbed of talented artists looking for exposure.”
“Indeed. For my grand opening, I’m showing my friend’s arfe paintings. You know what arfe is, right?”
Jenna groaned inwardly. Jimmy was one of those oh-so-plugged-in New Yorkers who asked if you’d heard of something before just telling you about it—thus putting you on the spot, making you feel like silly if you hadn’t.
“Arfe? No, I can’t say that I’m familiar.”
“They’re paintings created using coffee. It’s a blend of the words art and café. Arfe is a portmanteau, which is when two words combine to make a new one. Like jazzercise.”
Jenna looked like she wanted to cackle and cry at the same time. Eric was intervening at the perfect moment.
“Hey,” he said to the pair.
“Hi!” Jenna was so grateful to see him. “Eric, did you know that you and Jimmy are both Guyanese-American?”
“Oh, word?”
“Yes,” said Jimmy. “Can you speak patois?”
“No, but I understand it. Everybody’s grandma was Guyanese in my neighborhood when I was a kid.”
“How often do you visit?”
“I’ve never been, but I’ll get there one day. I hear it’s beautiful.”
“You’ve never met your family on the island? Don’t you value your roots? Eric, you haven’t lived until you’ve physically laid down on the ground in the land your people come from.”
“I don’t know anyone in Guyana,” said Eric, mildly. “My people come from Brooklyn, dude. I’m not laying down on Nostrand Ave.”
Jimmy looked at him with sadness and pity.
“Sooo Jenna,” Eric said, changing the subject, “I don’t know what’s in these hors d’oeuvres. But I think we need more, they’re delicious?”
“Indeed,” Jimmy said. “What’s your recipe?”
“Oh I didn’t make them! The one time I tried to cook for a party I stir-fried pork in Pine Sol.”
Eric laughed. Jimmy didn’t.
“Wait,” said Eric. “You can’t just leave that there. Explain.”
“I reached for what I thought was the Olive Oil, but it was Pine Sol. I swear the bottles looked exactly alike.”
“So, you poisoned your guests.”
“That girl is poison…” sang Jenna.
“Never trust a big butt and a smile, Jimmy,” said Eric.
“I only have one-half of that equation, so everyone’s safe.”
Eric and Jenna chuckled to each other. Jimmy watched their two-person skit, generally confused.
“Jenna, you’re not living well if you’re not cooking well.”
“But she sings BBD songs in sequins,” said Eric, helpfully.
“Who wouldn’t find this woman irresistible?”
“I’m hopeless in the kitchen,” said Jenna. “And it doesn’t help that I have the palette of a kindergartener.”
“You may think you do,” said Jimmy. “Surely you just haven’t been exposed to different cuisines.”
“No, I’ve traveled the world, tried everything. But I always come back to chicken fingers,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh.
“Unacceptable. I’ll take you to Queens, and introduce you to the Indian, Malaysian, Serbian and Ethiopian restaurants there. You need someone like me to transform you into a proper foodie.” Jenna smiled haltingly. She always wished she were a more adventurous eater, but she just wasn’t. She didn’t need a man to ‘transform’ her.
Eric grimaced. This set-up was so awkward. If he didn’t want to smack Jimmy with his fedora, he’d feel almost as bad for him as he did for Jenna.
“So,” he said, changing the subject again, “you own a liquor store?”
“Upscale spirits shoppe.”
“Yeah, you did say that. Jenna, have you been there? You love a good cocktail.”
“She should visit my new shoppe, near my condo in Williamsburg. Really, if you live anywhere else in the borough, you’re not a real Brooklynite.”
“You always speak in absolutes,” said Eric. “You have a rule for everything?”
“Without rules, the world slides into chaos, young man,” he said, and then turned toward Jenna. “Anyway. I’m in a high rise on the East River. I sit on my terrace with a glass of Bouzeron Aligate and my first edition of Walt Whitman’s Crossing Brooklyn Ferry and just vibrate. You must see this book, Jenna. You may think you’ve read masterpieces, but you haven’t had an elevated reading experience until you’ve laid your hands on this.”
“You know, I do remember a Guyanese word,” said Eric.
“Cunumunu. Excuse me, I’m gonna get a refill.”
And then he bailed.
“What does cunumunu mean?” Jenna asked Jimmy. He looked at her, his lips pressed together tightly. “Fool,” he grumbled. “It means fool.”
After Eric refilled his drink, he wandered toward Tim. Carlita and Elodie discovered they had a love of cooking, and they’d plopped down on the love seat together. Jenna and Jimmy had joined Billie and Jay, where they began an earnest conversation about wealth and their lack of it.
“How will I ever make enough to own real estate again?” asked Jenna. “I don’t even have any investments!”
“Who does?” asked Billie. “We live in the most expensive city in the world.”
“Fidelity.com, Jenna,” said Jay. “Put a tiny bit into funds every month. The real estate situation is tougher. If you didn’t buy years ago, you’re almost ass-out.”
“Real estate isn’t emphasized in the black community,” said Jimmy.
“It’s true,” said Jay. “Hasidic Jews indoctrinate their toddlers in the value of owning the space they live in. They own Brooklyn. Billie, I’ve been thinking of doing inner city seminars about mortgages, loans, etc. Maybe to at-risk seventh graders.”
“Honey, can we get through appetizers, first?” asked Billie.
“Jenna, what are you looking at?”
She leaned in close to Billie, whispering, “Listen to Eric and Tim.”
They were waving their phones at each other and having the world’s most animated debate about… well, it wasn’t clear.
“Nah, I won,” said Tim.
“I won,” said Eric. “You can’t beat me at Zelda, fam. You’re forgetting how I relieved you of your LeBron P.S. Elites?”
“They’re garbage anyway. Check the Jordan 11 Breds.” Tim pointed out his spic-and-span clean kicks. “Fire.”
“Lightweight fire.”
“My followers need to witness this crispiness,” said Tim, angling his phone in front of his sneakers for the perfect shot.
“All eighty-nine of your followers,” snorted Eric, snapping a pic of his boots. “When you get seven hundred and thirty-two likes off your reflection in a puddle, I’ll entertain you.”
“Selfie your waves and see who’s winning. Waves on swim.”
“Your birth mother’s half-Mexican. Your waves are disqualified.”
Jenna looked at Billie, her eyes wide.
“What are they even talking about?” she whispered. “A video game?”
“Yeah, Prisoner of Zelda’s a classic,” said Jay. “And incidentally, I’d murder them both.”
“We’re discussing investments,” said Jimmy, “and they’re photographing their shoes.”
Jay chuckled, listening to them. “It’s crazy, the whole world wants to be those two. I just did a reading at the Sorbonne, and the Parisians have a saying, ‘Tres Brooklyn.’ The sneakers, the slang, the swag; it’s so aspirational. Madison Avenue markets directly to the hip-hop generation. They don’t know their own power.”
“I love youth energy,” said Jimmy. “That’s why I’m a silent deejay at warehouse parties in Greenpoint.”
“I’m sorry,” said Billie. “Silent what?”
“It’s where the revelers wear special headsets, and I deejay directly into their ears. The whole room is dancing in total silence.”
“But why go out?” asked Jenna. “Why not just listen to music alone in your bedroom?”
“Because…there’s no one to witness your movement expression,” Jimmy said with a healthy amount of ‘duh’ in his tone. “It’s so rad.”
“Well, radness is its own reward.” Jenna downed her Pinot and wondered if she’d ever had sex again.
On the other side of the room, Carlita and Elodie discussed the organic revolution.
“I’m very organic,” said Elodie. “Grass-fed everything. Farm-to-fork.”
“I try to cook healthy, but that shit’s expensive. Why I gotta pay more for food that has less in it? No nitrates. No gluten. No fat.”
“Carlita, you are a motherfucking philosopher.”
“My cousin used to say I was like Yoda. Like, I’d just say nothing for mad long and then bust out with a gem. One Thanksgiving, I announced that since my veins were green, it must mean I have Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle blood.”
Elodie laughed. “I took my niece to see the original movie, like twenty years ago. I thought Michelangelo was so sexy.”
“He is. I love Michelangelo. And Blasians.”
Elodie raised an eyebrow. “Well, aren’t you a flirty little nugget.” Tossing her hair behind her shoulders, she whispered in Elodie’s ear, “Hashtag, me and Tim ain’t even that serious and I’m bisexual.”
“I see.” She raised her chin in the direction of Carlita’s long, Times New Roman printed nails. “I thought you lady lovers kept short nails. For obvious reasons.”
She waved her fingers in the air, bit her bottom lip and purred, “Press-ons.”
Elodie grinned, and then looked around to see if anyone had overheard. That’s when she saw Eric across the room, shooting Jimmy murderous glances.
“Hold that thought,” she said to Carlita, and went over to Eric.
She inserted herself between him and Tim.
“God,” said Tim. “If I wasn’t taken, I’d say we should go somewhere and molest each other until we bleed.”
“You come up to my belly button, sir.”
“And that’s a problem, why?”
“I need to chat with Eric. Go see about your girlfriend. She misses you.”
“My Achilles heel is hypersexual-but-needy women,” grumbled Tim, heading off.
Once he was gone, Elodie said, “You don’t look happy.”
“I hate that dude so very much. He’s so many levels of offensive.”
“Yeah, I have no patience for aging hipsters. If you’re going to dress like One Direction, you can’t have grey hair and paunch.”
“Tell me I didn’t overhear him say he’s a silent deejay. How reprehensible is that?”
“It is, but our opinions don’t matter. It’s about Jenna’s.”
“But…he’s talking over her, he’s pretentious. He keeps telling er shit, instead of listening to her. She can’t be with a guy like that.
I just want what’s best for her.”
“You sure that’s all it is?” She brought her voice down into an even lower whisper. “You don’t realize how you look at her, do you?”
Eric cringed, drawing away from Elodie. He read her expression to see if she was serious. She was.
“It’s not even like that. Jenna’s my homie. I don’t appreciate it when any of my friends get disrespected. That’s all.”
“Okay, babe,” she said, sighing. “Just do me a favor.”
“Yeah?”
“If that’s the case, fix your face.”