Plus ONE

Kimbra As the Midtown breeze blows between the tall buildings, I brush strands of hair that have escaped my workday bun away from my cheeks and freshly painted lips. Shielding my eyes from the early evening sun, I gaze up at the giant limestone building in front of me. In a few minutes, I'm supposed to meet my best friend and roommate on the top floor at one of the newest, swankiest restaurants in Manhattan, Gaston's. Everyone is talking about this place. Gaston's boasts the best panoramic view of the city from its rooftop patio. The service is supposed to be unrivaled, and the chef is world-renowned. And those are only some of the qualities I've heard. With its recent grand opening, getting a seat at the bar, much less a reservation, is only for the elite. That's why as I stand on the busy sidewalk and gaze upward, I can't help but wonder what in the world I'm doing here. What is Shana doing here? A place this nice isn't our normal stomping ground. While the glow of the setting sun and the warm spring breeze give me the promise of summer, I continue to formulate questions. How in the world did Shana get a table at Gaston's? And more importantly, why didn't she give me more notice so I could dress properly? As it is, I came straight from work, responding to her surprise text message. Not having a chance to go home and change, I'm still wearing the gray sheath dress and black pumps I donned this morning. They're fine for the pharmaceutical logistics company where I work, but knowing what I've heard about this restaurant, I anticipate I'll be a little too blasé for the likes of Gaston's. At the very least, if I'd known I'd be going out to dinner in a place like this one, I would have brought some fun accessories. I'm a fan of brightly colored necklaces, earrings, and even shoes. Shaking my head and running my palm over my dress, I make the decision to stop worrying about my attire and instead enjoy this unexpected night of fine dining. Just as I'm about to step into the large glass revolving door that leads to the marble lobby, my cell phone vibrates and chirps. Taking a deep breath, I open my purse and move out of the crowd's way. Pressing myself against the giant limestone wall, I hit the call button and place my phone to one ear. "Hello," I say without reading the screen. The whoosh of wind and traffic and murmurs of others rushing around me drown out the voice on the other end. Turning toward the building, I cover my other ear and speak again "Hello?" "Hello!" my mother's voice yells. "Can. You. Hear. Me?" I shake my head and speak louder. "I hear you." Passers-by look my direction as if I'm yelling at them. "Kimberly Ann?" she asks, her volume still louder than necessary. "Mom? It's me. Is everything all right?" "Can you hear me?" "Yes, Mom. What's wrong?" "You know," she says, dragging out her words in a way that tells me this isn't a quick call. "You never call me anymore." I don't have time for this. "That's not true. We spoke just last week. Is Dad okay?" "We'll find out soon. He has that appointment." I rack my brain trying to remember what appointment my father has. "The appointment?" "With the urologist. They're going to—" I cut her off. Not because I don't care about my dad, but because the streetlights are brightening and the sun is sinking near the horizon. Shana's reservation is for six o'clock. I don't want to make her wait in one of the best restaurants in the city. "Mom, sorry. I'm about to go to dinner with Shana. Can I call you tomorrow?" "Yes, just don't forget. You know how you are. First..." I hold my breath, wondering what could possibly be so important. "First," she goes on, "can you tell me Timothy's jacket size, waist measurement, and pant length?" I press my other hand over my free ear tighter, certain I've misunderstood her question. Timothy and I dated months ago. More accurately, we broke up months ago. Why in the world would she care about his suit size? "Mom, why?" "Kurt's friend from California broke his leg. It was a skiing accident. From what I heard..." Kurt...my mind searches for Kurts. The company where I work has one who is employed here in New York and also one at our Chicago office, but that wouldn't make sense. "... three places," she continues. "Can you imagine? Kurt's heartbroken. And you know how Scarlett is. She has six bridesmaids and it wouldn't be right if Kurt only had five groomsmen. Thankfully, the tux shop said he could get another size and your aunt asked if Timothy would mind. As you know, Kevin is already in the wedding and then there's Jimmy..." The wedding! The figurative light bulb above my head illuminates. Kurt is my cousin Scarlett's longtime boyfriend and fiancé. s**t. Their wedding is coming up soon. How soon? I'm afraid to ask. "...happy that you're dating someone, anyone. The entire family can't wait to meet Timothy. Everyone is so excited that you have a plus-one." My temples pound as I slouch against the building. I never told her that Timothy and I broke up because I didn't want to hear about how I'd never find a man, how I should move home, or mostly, how Darrin McKinney from my high school class is still single and owns a shoe store in Cartersville. The only shoe store. It's the only one because the town has one stoplight and one grocery store. Why do they even need a shoe store? "Mom...go...will...Tim...tomor..." I speak between taps of my fingernail on the microphone of my cell phone. "What was that dear? You're breaking up." "Bad...problem..." "Kimberly Ann?" she asks, back to yelling. I disconnect the line. No, we didn't have a bad connection. The fingernail against the microphone is an old trick, one you'd think she'd figured out by now. I inhale and exhale as I look around, reminding myself that I'm in one of the biggest and most exciting cities of the world. I'm about to have dinner with my best friend, and I love my life. I won't let thoughts of my perfect cousin's wedding, or my need to tell my mother that Timothy isn't able to attend, or my eventual admission that I no longer have a plus-one, ruin my night. Maybe I could make up an accident like the one Kurt's friend had. Would two ski accidents be too coincidental? As I ride the special elevator up to Gaston's and tap my finger against my chin, I contemplate possible stories. Perhaps in a series of unfortunate events, Timothy stepped off the curb and got hit by a car. I practice the story in my head. "It was so sad. He never saw the taxi and it didn't see him. You know how traffic is in the city..." A smile forms as I add gory details: broken leg, arm, and maybe a rib or two. That could work, but depending when the wedding is, this terrible accident would need to happen soon. My mood lightens as I ponder the consequences of his morbid demise. No, not demise. Just an injury. The pieces start to fall in place. Timothy's make-believe accident could be more beneficial than just saving him from the wedding. It could also save me. After all, what kind of a girlfriend would I be if I left my nonexistent boyfriend alone to recuperate from his pretend accident? As the elevator doors open, a smidgen of relief fills me. Just as quickly, the thoughts of my cousin's wedding and ex-boyfriend's injury fade away into the chic ambiance of Gaston's. Stepping into the dimly lit foyer, I'm enthralled with the decor. High above, the ceiling is filled with small, twinkling lights mimicking a starry sky. Near the entrance the hostess stands in a pool of blue light. The couple who rode the elevator with me moves ahead and speaks to her. Not only must guests clear the sentry on the first floor, we also must make it past this woman to get inside. As I wait, I gaze toward the wide archway leading to the prize—Gaston's. My breath catches as I take in the beauty. Beyond the array of tables covered in linen and lit by flickering candles, the walls don't exist. Instead, they're made up of floor-to-ceiling windows filled with the most beautiful view I've ever seen. Through the glass, the sunset's final orange and purple blush beams from the horizon, illuminating the restaurant and showering it in a bronze glow. Outside, the windows of Manhattan's buildings blaze in radiant glory. Even after nearly three years, I can't help but marvel that this is where I live, that the grandeur of New York is all around me. "Miss?" The hostess brings my attention back to my mission at hand—getting inside the archway. "Yes, I'm here to meet Shana Price. I believe we have a six o'clock reservation." After a quick search of the electronic tablet, the hostess smiles. "Yes, I see the reservation. Let me show you to your table. Ms. Price is already seated." I follow the petite hostess as she weaves between tables. Even at this early hour, most of the seats are filling with happy patrons. Their hushed murmurs add to the posh feel as I think about Shana. We've been roommates since we both moved to New York. It was a lucky match. Both recent college graduates and from small towns, we were paired by a realtor site when we both followed our dream jobs to the big city. My job is with Buchanan and Willis Pharmaceuticals while hers is with Saks. Yes, Saks Fifth Avenue, as in the one on the actual Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. Though if you saw Shana, you would swear she looked like a model, her dream job is being a buyer. When she's not in New York, she's flying to fashion shows and inspecting textile companies. After receiving her text earlier today, I texted back and asked why we were going to Gaston's and how in the world she got a table. Her answer was that we're celebrating and money talks. I've heard that before about money; however, as I gaze around the upscale surroundings, I'm pretty sure that even if all my money got together and shouted, it would barely make a whisper compared to the monetary clamor of the other patrons. Near a large window filled with the majestic skyline, I spot Shana. When our eyes meet, her perpetual smile grows and her arm pops up as she waves my direction. "Your table," the hostess says as she pulls back my chair. "Thank you." The hostess's response is a quick nod—maybe only the movement of her chin, it's hard to be sure—and a pivot as she disappears into the maze of tables. "I'm so happy you could meet me," Shana says with her blue eyes sparkling. I shake my head as I lift the satin napkin. "What in the world happened? Did you win the lottery?" I lean closer. "I didn't know you even played." "I don't, but I did." "I'm so confused." "Well, it was kind of like winning the lottery and we need to celebrate." The word celebrate brings back memories of Scarlett's wedding. I push the thought of my mother's call away and concentrate on Shana. As I do, the slippery napkin escapes my hold. Quickly, I slide from my seat to retrieve it. "Excuse me," a deep voice says as black leather loafers stop precariously close to where I'm now kneeling to rescue my napkin. Seeing the shoes, I look up and suck in a deep breath. Towering above me are long legs covered in tailored trousers. As I follow them up, they lead to a trim waist, a black belt, and a white shirt that buttons over a broad chest. I barely swallow the lump in my throat as I recognize the wide shoulders covered with the matching suit jacket. Seizing the napkin, I stand, suddenly face to face with one of the owners of the company where I work. My face burns with embarrassment as his shimmering green eyes narrow and head tilts. Inches away from me is one of the handsomest men I've ever met. He should be on the cover of GQ, not gracing the halls of Buchanan and Willis. His firm lips form a tight smirk and cheeks rise in amusement. "Miss Jones." Staring into the sea of emerald, I try to pretend I wasn't just on my knees in a chic restaurant in front of Duncan Willis. "Mr. Willis," I respond, my voice cracking. Nervously, I take a step backward. As if the moment weren't awkward enough, I wobble, teetering precariously on my high heels. Swiftly, he reaches out, grabs my elbow, and steadies my footing. Though he just saved me from making an even bigger fool out of myself by falling face-first into what I can only imagine is a hard, defined chest, my mind is suddenly consumed with the electricity of his touch. The energy heats my skin as his grasp lingers. When I finally tear my gaze from his, I notice the woman behind him, Jennifer Miller. She is a recent Buchanan and Willis hire who currently works in marketing. Being in human resources at Buchanan and Willis, as I have been since I came to New York, there isn't an employee at our New York office who I don't know by name and face. There also isn't a name from our satellite offices I don't know. Though my mind is filled with the warmth of his touch, I immediately make the assumption that Miss Miller's agenda for this evening includes doing whatever she can to climb the corporate ladder. Rumor has it that no one tells Mr. Willis no. Then again, I'm not sure why anyone would. "Mr. Willis. Ms. Miller," I say with a nod, freeing my arm and filling the silence. Jennifer appears as uneasy as I feel. She's right in thinking that HR just caught her out with the boss—though that will be a thought for me to ponder at a later time because right now I'm too overwhelmed by the jolt from Mr. Willis's skin against mine. "Have a nice dinner, Miss Jones." "And you, too." I hug my napkin to my chest as I ease back into my chair. After they're gone, Shana leans forward. "Was that...that's the Duncan Willis you've told me about?" I shrug nonchalantly. "I may have mentioned him a time or two."