“Now about that drink,” he says, slapping a hand on my shoulder. “I was thinking we could go up to The Deck.”
I nod in agreement as I look around for Maggie.
He rubs his round belly and laughs. “They also just so happen to serve the best clams . . .”
While he’s discussing his food preferences, my head swings around, still searching for Maggie. She is nowhere to be seen.
What the fuck?
She left without so much as a goodbye?
With my blood boiling, I turn my attention back to Austin, whose own head seems to fit directly upon his chest without the benefit of a neck.
An hour and a half later, I find myself raring to leave despite the enlightening conversation and the floor-to-ceiling windows in front of me that provide one of the best panoramic backdrops of the Hudson River and the Lower Manhattan skyline.
Perhaps because of the three scotches Austin insisted I drink, I break one of my golden rules of business and pull my phone out during our meeting to check and see if Maggie has called or texted.
An apology is what I expect to see.
While Austin’s pudgy fingers dip his cocktail fork into the slimy confines of a clamshell, I swipe my finger across the screen and pull up my phone log. Nothing new. Next I pull up my text messages.
Nothing from Maggie, but there is a text from Sarah.
212-567-0987: Your brother told me you were back in town. I’d like to meet up with you for a drink and catch up like old times. I miss you. Call me. XOXO Sarah
Sarah is the friend I guess I’d call my go-to girl. We went to grad school together, and although I never considered her to be my girlfriend, she was about as close to one as I’ve ever had.
After my father died, though, I found myself so caught up in trying to get ahead, in trying to prove to him that I was the man he knew I could be, that she fell by the wayside. I’m not proud of the way I treated her, and I do owe her a call.
“You sure I can’t interest you in any?” Austin asks, pointing to the bowl of steaming clams.
I hold my palms up. “No, I’m fine, but thank you.”
Squeezing another lemon off the pile, he begins to talk again.
Unable to focus, I return my gaze to my phone. First I type a text to Maggie.
Me: I’ll be at the bar at the W on time. I’d like you bare under that skirt you have on by the time I arrive.
I return my attention to Austin.
“ . . . and so, my friend, this is the long and short of it . . .”
Tapping my fingers on the table, I wait for a return text. And wait. And wait. And wait.
Nothing.
Austin wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Now Keen, I’ve always prided myself on being a careful man; taking unnecessary risks is not something I find attractive in business . . .”
Not exactly agreeing with him, I nod anyway and listen to his years of experience. Soon he’s digging into another clam, and that’s when I allow my attention to shift back to my phone.
Nothing.
My fingers hover over the keyboard on my screen as I consider sending another text, but then reconsider. She’s meeting with her mother on Simon Warren business and maybe like me, she doesn’t think it’s appropriate to have her phone out during meetings.
Unlike this meeting.
As the empty bowl in the middle of the table fills with clamshell halves, Austin never stops talking or eating.
With my concentration blown, I use this time to text Sarah back.
Me: Hi Sarah, I don’t think meeting up is a good idea. I know I’ve been a shitty friend and want to apologize for that. Hope you are doing well. Take care.
Dear John letter it is not, but I should have done that long ago. Stringing her along wasn’t exactly stand-up of me.
Before putting my phone back in my pocket, I set the alarm to notify me when it is time for me to leave, and set my attention back on Austin, who I’m not certain even noticed I’d ever taken it out.
Austin continues on about his years in the business and I find my eyes drifting to the clock over the bar.
It’s not like I’m counting down the minutes until I see her.
It’s not like I’m counting down the seconds until I taste her.
It’s not like I’m counting down the moments until I’m inside her.
Really, it’s not.
Maggie
People always accuse me of being overly dramatic.
But this is not one of those times, I swear. It’s true. I’ve been sucker-punched—twice in one day—and I’m still trying to catch my breath.
The white-clothed table is cluttered with half-drunk glasses of Chablis and littered with crumbs from a basket of hard French rolls.
The Bull & Bear at the Waldorf Astoria is filled to capacity. The lights are low. Votive candles flicker on tables, illuminating tiny bud vases of sturdy red carnations.