I decide to burn through my last twenty and take a cab to the restaurant. It’s raining lightly when I arrive, but I don’t care. I’m beaming. This is the first night of the rest of my life. I feel it. I smooth a wisp of hair, then give my name to the hostess. I look around the dining room. Ryan isn’t here yet. That’s OK. I’ll wait for him at the table.
“I’m sorry, miss,” the tight-lipped hostess says. “There’s no reservation under Wellington.”
“That’s strange,” I say. “There must be some mistake. My boyfriend and I are having dinner here tonight. His name is Ryan Wellington.”
She stares at me, emotionless.
“Maybe he made the reservation in my name. Ada Miller.”
She scans her clipboard, then shakes her head. “Nothing for Miller either.”
“Oh,” I say, glancing back at the door. Ryan will show up soon and sort this all out. He always does.
“What would you like to do, miss?” the woman asks. She sounds a little impatient. “I can put you on the list, but we’re booked until nine thirty.” I glance at my watch. It’s only six. “Or I can seat you at the bar. I think there are a couple of spots left at the counter.”
I’m disappointed. It isn’t exactly how I’ve envisioned my marriage proposal happening. But what does it matter? It will be just as joyous a moment at the bar as it would at a table with a pressed white tablecloth. “Yes,” I finally say. “That’ll be fine.”
She escorts me to the bar, and I sit on an uncomfortable stool. I feel like my dress is too short, so I tug at the hemline to pull it lower on my legs. I order a glass of white wine and look down to the end of the bar, where I suddenly see the guy Jessica was making a fuss over at the briefing today. James, I think his name was, from the New York Times. He must recognize me, because he smiles and lifts his glass at me. I nod and quickly turn back to my wine. I sip slowly, but a half hour passes, and then an hour. When the bartender asks if I’d like a refill, I nod and check my cell phone for the ninth time to see if I’ve missed a call from Ryan. I haven’t. I decide to call him, but the phone just rings five times and clicks over to voice mail. “Hi,” I say flatly. “I’ve been sitting here for an hour. Where are you? I miss you. I thought we were having dinner tonight. Anyway, I’m at Jean Georges. I love you.”
I hang up the phone just as Ryan appears at the entrance to the restaurant. He’s wearing a heavy overcoat. I watch as the hostess points to his jacket, offering to check it, but he shakes his head. I wave to him from the bar, and he walks over to me.
“Hi,” I say, kissing him. His face is unshaven and he’s wearing jeans. I would have expected him to dress up a little, but all that matters is that he’s here. I pat the barstool next to me. “Somehow they didn’t have our reservation,” I say. “But that’s OK. It’s actually kind of cozy up here.”
Ryan doesn’t sit down; instead he rubs his forehead nervously. He looks awful. Something’s happened; I can see it in his eyes. There’s been a tragedy in his family, maybe. His father’s plane—did it go down? “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Look, Ada,” he says. “Shoot, I don’t know how to say this.”
That pesky guy from the New York Times is looking at me again. I try to ignore him. “What is it?” I say. “Honey, you can tell me anything.”
“That’s what I love about you, you know?” he says. “You’re such a good person. It’s just that I—”
I lean back. No, this is not happening. Is this really happening?
“I just see our lives going in two different directions,” he says.
“Oh.” I feel like I’ve been hit with a Taser. I am stunned, in every way possible. “You’re breaking up with me.” I have to say the words to make sure that this is real and that I’m not imagining it.
“You don’t hate me, do you?”
“No,” I say robotically. “No, Ryan. I could never hate you.”
“Good,” he says, the smile returning to his face. He picks up my wineglass and takes a big gulp. “I have to go.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Keep in touch?”
I fake a smile. “Always.”
And then he is gone. I bury my face in my hands. I don’t know how much time passes, but at some point, the bartender taps me on the shoulder. “Miss,” he says, “the gentleman at the end of the bar sent over this bottle for you.” It’s white, something French. I don’t know what to say, so I glance down toward the end of the bar, but he’s gone.