Chapter 41…Signs…

I take a sip of champagne. I've avoided thinking about those first moments of meeting him in these last two and a half weeks. Mostly because of the cringe factor; my stomach clenches up in mortification when I do, still. It's also that I can feel the exact place his fingers brushed my ear when he was pulling my hair out of my face—the first time he touched me skin to skin. When it flashes in my mind, my ear tingles. Swear to God, tingles. Like right now.

But even if I don't consciously think about the elevator, much, it's there, just under the surface, along with all the questions surrounding it. In fact, I seem to have a tidal wave of questions about him.

To wit: the natural and automatic response for anyone would be to throw out your arms and try to catch someone falling at your feet, but he didn't. Not then, his arms didn't even move. My arms were made for catching you. Not all the time. Clearly.

He does, or did, chop me down. During my time with Em yesterday, teasing out the words that he used helped air it out a little, but I have only to think of the disdain, the derision, infusing his voice while using those words with Vick and it makes me want to double over: the cringe factor of that, goes way beyond the almost mundane embarrassment of face-planting in his…er…privates—Em's trained me well. It is like a cut, an axe wielded through all the rings around my heart.

Yeah, Washington, for sure.

But then didn't he just—metaphorically, at least—equate me with a place to rest, a place to breathe. Me? Didn't he? I wonder what he's going to think when he sees my bedroom. It's all green and trees. And wasn't he so sweet and funny and kind to me all day? Maybe it was just because it's my birthday. Which, of course doesn't account for all the other times these last couple weeks when he was amiable, even nurturing.

That, right there, that's what I can't rectify, can't map—that dichotomy. And then if I add the rest of our time together into the equation—that first dinner, Philly, the girl (still don't want to even think her name), Fist of Fury, sleeping next to him, the church garden!—forget it! I am lost completely. All I come up with is…crazy-making, head spinning, pendulum swinging, no structure, rootless, no discernable map, nothing at all to follow, to build on, each piece floating out there on its own, no thread connecting them because it's too filled with holes, blank spaces. He's part villain, part hero, and all…What would be the word?...catalyst. Yeah, that's good. Catalyst. With one simple question he even got Bea to open up about an aspect of her past. That is so rare as to be practically nonexistent.

My annoyance grows that being around him awakens this kind of hunger in me to know everything about the interesting character that is Leif. And he is not at all forthcoming. Even worse though, what really gets me is that my boundaries, my resolve to keep him at a distance just dissolves and I am drawn right in to his story, him, the play.

And something else that I'm only aware of now: there's a nagging feeling—blossoming by the second—of, not so much watching a play, more like being played. And I can't seem to grasp onto the why of that either and am becoming more and more piqued.

The last time I've been this frustrated was indeed when I first started Chinese classes, but ultimately I was successful. Perhaps what I did then could inform what I do now: I worked hard. I started over and then worked harder than anyone could, harder than even I thought possible. That's my one strength, that's what got me moving forward in my Mandarin studies. But unlike with Chinese—when I worked maniacally to understand the structure of it—now I need to work hard, harder still, to leave it be. Leave him be. Quit trying to understand him and leave him to himself. Keep up my boundaries and not get drawn in. Because getting drawn in is only going to hurt. I did pretty well this week and I'll start over again and do better next week. In fact, I should start right now.

There is something that I really need to know, though—two somethings, actually—before I have a hope in hell of being successful.

I don't so much stand as fly out of my chair, unable to sit here another minute as a passive observer.

I cast a baleful eye at that map of Lower Manhattan again and all I see is a veritable Maginot Line of boundaries—mine!—erased and overrun. Invaded. Yeah, definitely more a war map. But I am done with this mapping.

I shoot the map a rude arm gesture I learned in, well, every European country I've been to. It is in doing this ridiculous gesture to a poor little inanimate map that leads to two realizations. One, I really need to lay off the champagne, at least until the party starts. It is not helping anything. And two, I should be grateful to Leif—I am grateful. He was a catalyst today for my uncovering a treasure, a memory.

Regardless, keeping my distance is still a good plan. It's the only one I've got.

I stride to the door we've been using and peek down the hall. It's empty. I decide which of the two somethings to find out first, and more importantly, how I'm going to find out. One, I definitely have to ask outright. And the other? Well, maybe it's best if I don't ask at all.

"Exit, stage left," I whisper.

I quickly make my way down the warren of hallways that make up The Rambler. I swear one of these days I'm going to map this place. I wonder how many square feet it is—6000? 10,000? No matter. That's another map for another time. It is an embarrassment of riches and used to be filled to bursting with guests from all over the globe, whenever we were here, and often when we weren't, like some sort of U.N. hostel. Now, all this space just sits…empty.

Our building is in a T shape with Bea's apartment, the elevator and stairs taking up some of the verticle base of the T. Our apartment's door starts near the middle of the base and then spreads out in a giant thick rectangle—the top of the T—from there. The back of it is attached to offices above that parking garage building that fronts the street behind us.

It really should be easy to navigate this space, owing to its overall rectilinear shape, but the myriad meandering halls leading to all the rooms are so decidedly non-linear that it might've been crafted by elves.

Years ago, after watching that first Harry Potter movie with a bunch of other diplomatic children—my grandparents were always trying to set me up on activities with kids my age—in a screening room at some ambassador's residence in Brussels, I'd gone immediately to find them among the adults in the salon of the house to tell them that Hogwarts reminded me of that apartment in New York in a way that the books hadn't. I don't know if I quite understood that it was our apartment, since we were never there. I was probably around ten at the time.

It wasn't as if our apartment was medieval or stone like Hogwarts, in fact, it used to be some kind of textile factory, built around the turn of the last century, before being turned into residences. But it is surprising and magical, with delights around every corner: Hoodoo trees instead of Whomping Willows, staircases to nowhere in place of moveable trick stairs, and hidden storage rooms, which I didn't even know about then, and furniture from other lands and times.

This is my home. And just now, I realize for the first time, it does indeed feel like home. Maybe it's just because I've been here now almost an entire month and my life is fully anchored here; it is not a port I'm just docking in for a day or two.

I call out a tentative "Leif?" just in case, as I poke my head in his room. No, I correct myself…Not Leif's room, it's the Sea God room. That semantic distinction is important to me, even though he is the embodiment of the name. I don't yet know how to gracefully correct that whole his room thing with him, but I'll figure out something later.

It's my room, or at least my family's room in my family's home and I am not a trespasser. Why am I being all namby-pamby about this? And hey! When did I start calling him Leif again? Sometime today, I expect; probably around the time we were dancing around the salon to that beautiful song. He's Vince, dammit. Vince!

I march in, going first to the adjoining bathroom.

Oh, that spicy sea scent is lingering in the air from his recent shower and it feels like a caress. I inhale deeply.

Several times.

He has left nothing of his here, and after a quick peek through the closet door off the bathroom, I see it's empty, too.

Maybe I won't even have to bring it up. I mean, until he appeared this morning, I've not seen him since last Tuesday night, so it's not like he's been clamoring to be here or anything. But…but…I stayed away as long as I could… I couldn't wait until tonight. What? What did he…?

No! I need to be done with this mapping thing. It makes my head spin. I mean, seriously, no lie, it's making me feel woozy. Or maybe it's all these deep breaths I've been taking, trying to soak in the sea scent.

I walk back out to the bedroom and notice that lying across his bed…no, not his bed, the bed—jeez!—is a garment bag, that garment bag from the bespoke tailor's shop we went to today after the nail salon, as well as a duffle bag he must've brought when he showed up this morning.

Everything looks packed and ready to take with him when he leaves. One burning question answered—he has no intention of moving in.

This is good.

But why, if it's so good, do I feel a stab of disappointment? I don't want him to move in. I don't!

I sit on the bed. The garment bag is unzipped. I pull out a sleeve of the guncheck sportcoat, running my fingers over the fine material.

A bespectacled man in his late thirties, wrenched the door open within a millisecond of Leif coming into view of the shop window on the lower level of a dark maroon townhouse in Hudson Square. I didn't know what this place was at first, there was no sign on the door. The man didn't even try to hide his eagerness as he ushered us inside and Leif introduced him as the owner of this tailor's shop, an aptly-named Mr. Miller. After a quick handshake, he moved Leif in front of a three-way mirror and I sat in an old campaign chair behind him that would've fit right in at The Rambler.

"I couldn't wait to see how this looked on you," Mr. Miller said rapturously…yes, rapturously…as he helped Leif into the gray sportcoat and then spent some moments adjusting the collar and pulling the sleeves, smoothing the fabric just so, all the while murmuring tailor's phrases, "yes, these half-rope shoulders work perfectly," "this cutaway on your frame," and "the lavender overcheck with the grey ground, ah yes. Yes, yes." Both of their backs were to me as they looked in the mirror.

"Should we see what your young lady thinks?" the owner said to Leif in the mirror, and no I didn't get a jolt (of pleasure? pain?) at all by the use of the word your coming right there before young lady. Nor that Leif didn't correct him.

When Leif turned to face me, I remember exactly what the young lady was thinking: She wasn't. She was thrust right into the present moment with nary a thought in her head.

No, she wasn't thinking, she was marveling.

She was marveling not because of how Leif looked so stunning in that jacket, well, okay, that was part of it, but most of it was the expression on his face. For that present moment, his face was wide open. For that present moment, there, right in Leif's face, was a boy staring out from the eyes of this young man, seeking approval, my approval. The luscious sweetness of his face in this moment was nearly unbearable.

I still wasn't thinking when Leif tilted his head just a couple degrees to the left and asked, "Yeah?" with such earnest hopefulness and concern in that tiniest of gestures, so solicitous of my good opinion.

That one little precious word, "Yeah?" said in such a way could reach right in and break a girl's heart in two.

It was when I became aware that Mr. Miller, standing next to Leif, had a gleam in his eyes that said without words, "I know this look on a woman's face," and humming with a sort of tailoring satisfaction, moved to some back room, that I became aware that something was required of me to alleviate Leif's uncertainty. And yet I had no words to convey what I was thinking because I wasn't. Too busy marveling and all.

So I displayed my dexterity with languages—yet again today—by raising my hand in the air in a thumbs-up gesture. It was all I was capable of. And this is when my brain gears might've started churning again, albeit sluggishly, because thinking finally entered into this whole scenario.

My first actual thought since Leif turned around? This thumbs-up sign is considered offensive in some places and could get you beaten up in the Middle East. Brazil, too. And maybe Russia, if I recall correctly.

And when he almost sighed with relief, a tentative smile playing at the corners of his mouth and asked, "I know there's no real dress code, but would this be appropriate to wear tonight?" I—again proving my verbal finesse—lifted my other hand in the okay sign to join the thumbs up.

My second actual thought? This 'okay' gesture could get you beaten up in Greece. Definitely Russia. And Spain, too.

Leif smiled boyishly at me then, his eyes crinkling at the corners, having no idea that by virtue of putting on this traditional plaid jacket on his lean, rangy fighter's frame and asking for my approval, tilting his head in the slightest beseeching gesture, he has rendered me bloody and beaten half the world over.

And even now, sitting on his bed—No! The bed, get a grip!—clutching the sleeve of his jacket, I am still in peril.

I tuck the sleeve back in the garment bag.

Where Mr. Miller had disappeared to in the shop was to pull a half-basted black suit from the back room. "Since you're here, should we go ahead and do the second fitting of the tuxedo? It will take all of five minutes. That will only leave the final fitting to do."

Tuxedo? He will not look anything like a penguin in a tuxedo. He will look suave and stunning. Beautiful.

When Leif looked at me asking, "Can we spare a few more minutes?" I lifted my thumbs-up again.

"I'll just be…" I used my thumb—still airborne—to point behind me and got my broken and bleeding self out of that chair and bolted out of the store.

Because, tuxedo? Bloody hell.

Third actual thought: I have yet to offend anyone in Asia and if I were to stay to see him in a tux, even one half done, well…I'd be beaten up nearly everywhere. Antarctica is the only place I'd be safe.

I sat on a bench in front of a restaurant next to the tailor's and immediately, as if it had been waiting for me on that bench, a memory popped in my mind. And this time—not sure why—I didn't shut it down, but stayed with it, letting it play out.

My mom is crouched in front of me warm eyes alight, smiling, asking me a question. I don't know what it was—this memory is like watching a movie with the sound off—but my answer to her is in front of me, in the form of my two little fists lifted in dual thumbs up, dancing in front of my eyes. I can feel my excitement, anticipation, and the light is weird, it slants differently, and somehow I know we're in Antarctica, which would mean I'm six-years-old. And it's summer there… January? February?...but chilly; my mom has a jacket on. Still smiling, she reaches up with her long hands and tucks my thumbs into my fists as she continues talking. And I still don't hear her, but my tiny self starts repeating a word over and over again like a chant, and mother says something else and even though I don't hear it, I feel some fear now, here in the present, in the pit of my stomach, which doesn't jibe at all with my happy self in Antarctica and I can almost catch it—her words and mine—but then I became aware of feet in front of me. Or more precisely, boots. With ships on them. On this New York street and I felt a profound sense of relief to see them and right then I knew we were waiting for a boat to arrive back in Antarctica. I looked up to Leif holding a garment bag draped over his shoulder, watching me. And then a question. And I got up from the bench on slightly wobbly legs and I answered him.

"Yes," and something clicked and then I said, "Si," and as we took a step, I became aware that whatever my mom was saying—I still couldn't hear her—I was answering it with two thumbs up before she explained that in some places it was rude—like a bad word—so perhaps we shouldn't use that gesture and instead I'd been chanting yes, yes, yes, yes, and jumping up and down and then she'd said something else and I'd changed it to si, si, si, si, si. Something in her words touched some dark place in me now, but not then. And I don't know why, but as we took more steps, my eyes went to the ships on Leif's boots and it eased that feeling to where I could stay with the memory. As did the hand I was holding.

And the memory expanded that we were on a dock, waiting for a boat to arrive with mis abuelos—my grandparents. Then we were going to all get on that boat and go…

And go…

A voice intruded, but I almost had it, I couldn't leave Antarctica. Not yet. I walked a couple more steps, but my movement was impeded. More importantly though, the hand I was holding was dropped, which somehow severed the connection with the memory and all of a sudden there were honking horns and people rushing by and shops and restaurants. And Leif in front of me, blocking my way.

Wait, what? The hand I was holding? The hand I was holding?

"Look, I know what you're thinking." I looked up at his face and heard his words and a little bemused snort escaped me because he couldn't possibly know—I barely knew!—before he repeated, "I know what you're thinking and...

"You're wondering why I was such a…what was that word again?... Jerkwad… the first time I came to dinner at your…at The Rambler. When I said those callous comments about Emory wanting to start a clothing business and yes, it was harsh and here I am having bespoke clothes made. I didn't realize it then, but I was test..." He stopped himself, saying instead, "Well, that's inconsequential. I didn't mean what I'd said. And I'm sorry."

I shook my head, coming fully back to the Northern Hemisphere, to the here and now. Now I really saw his face and he looked…guilty. So, so guilty.

And I couldn't stand it. I wanted to erase that guilt in him, ease that feeling in him, or maybe in myself because there was something in that happy memory of my mom that's wrapped up in so much guilt.

"It's okay," I said. "It doesn't matter." His face didn't show any alleviation from that remorse, so I put my hand on his cheek, surprising both of us, I think, and felt the bristle there as his eyes closed. "Besides, that's not at all what I was thinking. I was thinking of…" And suddenly I knew! Back in Antarctica, we were going to see…"Los pinguinos!" Penguins!

Leif's eyes flicked open.

I dropped my hand from his face, but smiled, feeling brave for having gotten it.

"I don't speak Spanish, but I can translate that. You think I'll look like a penguin in that tux?"

Couldn't help it, I laughed. "Not everything is about you, remember? Come let's walk and I'll tell you what I was truly thinking."

As we went up the block, I found that I actually wanted to tell him about it, maybe to make it more real to me, to solidify it in my mind. So I told him. Everything. (Exceptions: no marveling, no broken and bleeding self.)

"It was the gestures that prompted this memory coming out? Surely you've made a thumbs up or an okay sign before now, right? I mean, since then. Since Antarctica."

I nodded. "But rarely as signs and gestures don't necessarily translate between cultures. You have to know these things traveling like we do and especially as part of the diplomatic corps as most of our time abroad was. We always as a family wanted to respect and enjoy the places and people we were amongst and to do that it's best not to start by offending, obviously. You can touch someone on the head in some places and cause serious offense, you can point at a person or beckon them with your finger, like in Japan, and they'll not trust you again, and don't even get me started on all the vagaries regarding gift-giving or eating and the myriad superstitions and well, the list is endless all around the world. So, yeah, it's ingrained in me, so much so that I probably don't often gesticulate in the common American way. And I think what I remembered, with my mom, was one of my first lessons in that."

"Hmm." We walk without speaking for a while. "So it was a combination of things, possibly even the tuxedo added to it?" I walked silently for a moment, contemplating it. "I wondered why you ran out of there. I thought it was…what I said earlier."

That was his guilt talking. For the crap he said about Em's planned business being frivolous and all. Was that our first fight? I think so. Well, maybe fight is too strong a word; argument might be better. But whatever word I assign it, I see now that he was putting what was going on with me through the filter of his own experience, his own guilt for the past when it wasn't even about him.

He then asked, "Have you gotten any other memories of your parents recently? Good ones?"

I knew he meant aside from the traumatic flashes. He already knew about those.

"That first night back from Philly, when you and I were about to go to sleep and were joking about Cinderella, I had flashes of my dad reading the story to me. I somehow knew he read all the traditional fairy tales to…"

When I hear myself in the replay, I have an ugh moment thinking, Why did I have to bring that up? But I see now that in that moment, on the street, I didn't even care. Especially in light of the fact that I just got this memory of my mom. It was right around then I safely tucked the memories of Antarctica away in my mind to come back to later, but unlike how I usually did, this time I put it in the forefront of my mind, not shoved back behind the mental walls.

I risked a glance up at him then and he looked rigid. Was he mad about the bet that Cherie and I manipulated him into—throwing out all those Cinderella cues? He didn't seem upset about it at the time, not really, just a little stunned. Plus, he's made some Prince Charming and fairy tale references since then. I don't have the slightest clue, but whatever: I will never, as long as I live, ever feel guilty for that. Now that I think about it, that might be the first time I ever really truly out and out played anyone. Minor redirecting, doesn't count. Like now.

"Getting back to what you said before. You started to say something about why you did it?" I prompted, to no avail. Silence. I try again. "You've apologized before about saying something you didn't mean, you know. Do you do that a lot?"

We were near the end of the block and I glanced around, truly seeing where we were for the first time since we left the tailor's. How did I miss this until now? We were not heading toward home.

"Hey, we're going the wrong way."

"Did you not hear me when I came out of the tailor's?" he said. "I got a recommendation from Mr. Miller for a seafood restaurant near here. To treat you to a late lunch. You'd said you were hungry."

I did? For the first time ever, I didn't actually listen to Leif, so wrapped up in the past was I. But now, I fully got my bearings and my inner compass engaged, placing which direction we were headed on the map.

Seafood restaurant? What are the chances?

"Mermaid Oyster Bar?" I asked weakly.

"That's the one. You know it?"

Oh, the absurdity of this almost made me want to laugh. Almost. "Yes. I've been there." Recently. Very. And can't go there again. But it was a very timely reminder. "It's good. But, um…" I'd not worn my watch, so I pulled out my phone to check the time—we were fine, time-wise, so I couldn't use that. Instead, I seized on another concept. "Uh…Bea has worked all day, probably last night, too, on all the food for tonight and, uh…"

"Forgive me for not having thought of that. Don't want to make Bea mad."

"She couldn't quibble with a quick slice of New York pizza, though. Especially if we stand at the counter to eat it. Bea says all the time that if you're not sitting down, whatever you eat doesn't count. Of course she's usually talking about calories when she says this, but it would still apply. I know just the pizza place. It's toward home."

My hand, of its own volition, started to reach out to take his so I could lead him in the right direction, and his, I thought, started to reach for mine, but I put a stop to this action, rather awkwardly, and instead switched my bag from one shoulder to the other and took a step to cross the street to the east.

Once again, he was lagging behind and I looked over my shoulder to see a disheartened, frustrated—and stock still—Leif. His expression was so hilarious that I deftly raised the phone in my hand and snapped a photo before I laughingly threw out, "You really are used to getting your way, aren't you! Okay, so, maybe pizza's not befitting a sea god, but..."

He smirk-smiled and said, "But it's not all about me," as he started forward.

That's not what I was going to say then, but something about this idea catches hold now. "It's not all about you." I hear myself whisper. Then louder, "It's not all about you."

That's when I hear another sound and at the same time become aware that I am lying back on the bed—I don't remember doing that—staring at the ceiling… and smiling. I wrench up to a sitting position and see I am clutching the sleeve of Leif's new jacket. Don't remember grabbing that up again, either. I listen and almost immediately identify the sound as Petal's claws scrabbling on the hardwood floor somewhere nearby in the hallway. And that is a timely reminder that while I've really only been gone a few minutes, I better get back before someone aside from our family dog comes looking for me.

I smooth out the sleeve before tucking it back in the garment bag. This time, my hand hits something hard underneath and I lift up the edge of the bag a couple inches to peek under it. When I see what it is, I drop the bag.

And lift it again.

It is a carved wooden box, about eight inches square and three inches high, with some kind of painted design in the middle of the top, although I can't see what that is because a thick red velvet ribbon and bow cover all but the edges of the center design. I lift out the box—definitely feeling like an interloper now—and shake it. There's the barest rattle, both metal and cloth, but it doesn't give me any further clues.

Leif, no…Vince knew all about the rule regarding presents—we talked about it out on the streets. He listed the parameters of the acceptable: handmade, old, something you already had or didn't pay for, etc. If he kept to that, what could this be?

Anticipation and curiosity burn like a flame. Briefly, I wonder if I could untie the bow, peek in the box, and tie it back again, but I curtail that devious line of thought. I find myself smiling at the box.

That is, before I flash back to a different larger box found in a desk drawer and my smile fades.

But it doesn't matter now anyway.

I slide this box back where I found it and get up, straightening out the duvet cover.

I should go get my other question answered.

I slip into the empty salon with no one the wiser for my little fact-finding foray to the Sea God room. I pace for a minute—where is everyone? Something is tugging at me. Well, a lot of things are. But right now I have that played feeling again. It feels like when you can't quite translate a foreign word that you really should know. I mentally search for clues.

It was probably a good thing, a necessary thing even, that just as I was attempting to pry info out of him, to try to understand him better, I got a reminder that he doesn't owe me anything about his life, and I shouldn't expect it. I think somewhere within that interaction on that intersection, I gave up one final time. I let go and after that it was pretty much all play. Back in front of the map, I trace my finger over our route to pinpoint the exact cross street where we were when I realized we were not heading toward home and am surprised to see it was at the corner of Charlatan and Varick Streets. Who knew there was such an intersection? I know directions, but not all the street names. I peer in closer to the map, my nose practically touching it, trying to read these small letters in that old font. No, not Charlatan Street, it's Charlton.

After we turned down the street I led us to, we started passing the designer boutiques that had cropped up in Soho when downtown became cool. He'd said, "My kind of street."

I'd quipped, "I'm surprised you're not dressed head to toe designer, blaring logos everywhere, since we know, definitively now, you do like your clothes."

"That's not what I meant at all. In fact, haven't you noticed? I would never wear anyone's name or initials prominently visible on my body, unless they were my own." I thought back and yes, it was true. I've not seen any designer logos on him. The only name on his clothes had been the patch on his Falk shirt.

We crossed another street. He stopped on the other corner. "This is what I meant by 'my kind of street.'" He pointed up at the street signs.

We were at Greene and…Prince Streets. I met his gaze innocently, trying to suppress my smile. "Greene Street is your kind of street?"

"Not the street named after your favorite color, the other one."

I began walking. "Oh, you mean the one named after mythical men who don't exist in the real world?"

A dark cloud crossed his face and there I went again, wanting his playful smiles back. Up ahead was a banner with a big MK on it, for the designer Michael Kors, whose shop we were approaching. Several girls I knew at school wore those embossed MK t-shirts that probably cost a ridiculous amount of money. For a t-shirt. "So, if your name was, say, Mike Kowalski, you'd wear one of those ubiquitous MK shirts?"

When his face scrunched up in confusion, it was my turn to stop and point up to a sign when we were almost under it.

I watched him catch on: Mike Kowalski – MK. I guess those t-shirts were popular at Penn, too, because he bantered back, "Only if it's bedazzled in gold."

I started giggling, then full out laughing. His curious and comical expression as he watched me was just one big "What?" so, through my chortling, I tried to explain what was so funny when I wasn't sure I even knew. "For one, imagining you being named Mike Kowalski is just…funny. Because you are such a Leif Vincent." That is beyond true. He couldn't possibly be named anything else.

His eyes, I swear his eyes were dancing with humor. "So you cracked your own self up by your little joke?"

"Yeah, I guess I did. But it's not just that." I managed to spit out. "Imagining this chest encased in gold glitter shirt is just…" I reached out, still laughing and put my hand on his chest, shaking my head. "Hilarious! But more than that, that word…bedazzled…" I continue chortling. "I just…just would've never expected it to come out of your mouth. I mean…bedazzled?"

It was when he encased my hand on his chest with his own that I felt his heart beating under my hand and looked up at his mouth and my laughter petered out at his warmly ardent expression.

"There are a lot of words I never expected that want to come out of my mouth."

We stood like that, under the MK banner and I'm sure people were moving around us, but I didn't see them, I'm sure there were cars going by, but I didn't hear them, because I was totally bedazzled by the aforementioned mouth. Slowly…oh so slowly…that mouth curved up in a smile.

I had to shake myself out of that spell. "Which, uh, which way do we go?"

A wry chuckle escaped that mouth then. "I'm not the one who knows of this mysterious pizza place."

Oh, right. "This way." I turned to lead us further down Prince Street after I gently tugged my hand from his. We crossed another street, coming to another expensive designer store—this time Armani A/X—and trying to return to our earlier lighthearted banter, I'd said, "If your name was, say, Amir Xiang, you could shop there!"

I pointed to the A/X sign outside the store. Yeah, even to my own ears this joke fell flat, but I looked at Leif anyway, to gauge his reaction and saw him shake himself out of his state of thoughtfulness and smile at me indulgently.

"Amir Xiang? Where are you getting these names?"

"I don't know. It was just the first thing that came to me. Amir is Arabic and it means…" I pressed my lips together to stop what was going to come out of my mouth, my eyes going wide.

"What?" I shook my head, laughing behind my pursed lips. "Tell me!" He pulled out his phone. "There is this little thing called Google." I grabbed for it and he moved it out of my reach. "How do you spell it?"

"Fine, I'll tell you." When I didn't immediately translate it for him, he lifted his phone again. "Okay, okay! It means…" I rolled my eyes theatrically. "It means 'Prince.'"

His vainglorious grin was—hate to admit it—a thing of beauty. "That was a Freudian slip, if ever I heard one."

"No it wasn't." I walked a little faster, but he kept up.

"What does Xiang mean? Is that Chinese?"

Oh merde! When will I get control of my naocan brain-to-mouth equation? Under my breath, I muttered, "Auspicious."

Why didn't I think to fib? It's not like he would know unless he looked it up later. I should've creatively translated it as Fukua—Prince Pompous. I need to up my play game.

"Sorry, didn't hear that."

I'm sure he did, but I say it again anyway with a droll eyeroll. "It means auspicious."

"Ahh…" I couldn't look away from his self-satisfied face. "So…if I'm to understand correctly, my latest nickname is Prince Auspicious, which is very close, if I'm not mistaken, to Prince Charming." He was laughing. "I got an A in all my psychology classes and that was definitely a Freudian slip."

"Xiang can also mean 'fragrant.'" Among other things. I smiled back at him. "So it could translate to Smelly Prince. Maybe that was your Freudian slip."

"But you like the way I smell, don't you? I'm pretty sure you've sprayed my signature scent on yourself a time or two."

Busted. I did it in Philly how many times? My face flamed up and I went in for the redirect and blurted out, "Where did you get it? I love the way you smell!" While it was true, it was not my best redirect as it kept the subject alive and in play. Really, it was no redirect at all. But, it just doesn't matter anymore. Nor does the fact that he's still referencing fairy tales.

He surprised me by exclaiming, "And I love the way you smell!"

"Really?"

"Yes. It's uniquely you." And I surprised myself by feeling a flush of pleasure at his compliment. "As is the way you dress, which I also love."

"But I can't afford all this fancy designer stuff." I waved my hand to indicate the shops we were passing and noticed that right across the street was the John Fluevog shoe shop where Em probably bought my interview shoes. Will I ever get my shoe? He's had it at least a week! "Unless, something's way on sale or Em buys it, like she did those shoes I ruined on that elevator. I only got to wear them once."

He didn't take the hint. In fact, he barely looked at the store. He asked about the midi dress I was currently wearing and I told him it was the Free People brand that I got on a clearance rack in Palo Alto. The chambray shirt I'd tied over it at the waist was my grandmother's. The colorful leather sandals were from a street market in Muscat, the capital of Oman.

"Those sandals go well with your toes," he'd said. I looked down then, having forgotten about the pedicure. He'd picked nautical-looking stripes with an anchor on the big toes. I'd just told the young woman working on him to do the same to his. To my astonishment and utter delight, he'd let them. His toes were covered by his boots, of course, and probably all smeared by now.

When I stopped us in front of the pizza place, he smirked at the name on the sign—Prince Street Pizza. As he opened the door for me, he laughed when I said, "Oh shut up."

There were only a handful of people in this small place as it was past prime lunchtime. When we got up to the counter the young man behind it winked at me and said, "Couldn't stay away from me, huh?" His cheeky smile faltered when he looked up at Leif behind me.

I stayed facing front, wishing I'd chosen another pizza place. This guy was behind the counter last time I was here, but I would've thought I'd be more anonymous at a fast-paced place like this. Too late.

Over lunch—which, yes, we'd stood at the counter to eat—we'd talked easily about everything. Or rather, I did. I'd told him about running around town with Em yesterday before she left and how I'm trying to curtail her buying me things. And I talked about some of the places I've traveled and…and…and…

Now as I replay it in my mind I see his main contributions to the conversation over pizza were questions to me. Immediately following any question I had of him. The only thing he actually answered was that the only times he'd been out of the States were once when he'd sailed up to Nova Scotia on a fishing boat, and then twice to the U.K. And he commented on how little I ate; he finished my barely-eaten slice after wolfing down two of his own. Oh yeah, and when I'd asked what he needed a tuxedo for, he'd only answered vaguely that there might be some formal events coming up. That barely counts as an answer.

He's like a master redirector. I could take lessons.

And the questions he asked? I replay some of them and that played feeling comes nagging back at me. And I still can't grasp onto why.

The only significant thing that happened afterward was just a few steps toward home from the pizza place. We were crossing the street and Leif came to a dead stop in the middle of the crosswalk. I followed his gaze across the street to another clothing shop. It was only when he said, "It's a sign," and began walking again, that I actually looked at the sign, writ large in gold letters over the black entablature.

The store was called…Vince. Of course it was.

Is that where this played feeling is coming from? Did he know about the store beforehand? No, that doesn't make sense at all as I'm the one who chose the restaurant and led us this way. Besides, he really seemed enthralled by its discovery. We looked in the windows, it had both men's and women's clothes and all of it looked beautiful, modern. And expensive; any sale rack this place might have would still be out of my reach, I was sure.

He practically begged me to go in the store, but I wouldn't. "Did you not hear me say earlier that I can't afford this fancy designer stuff?"

"Let me buy you something," he'd implored. "For your birthday."

"It doesn't fall within the rules."

"Yeah, I know." And he'd listed them before stating, "But aren't rules made to be broken?"

"Did you also not hear me say earlier that I'm trying to get Em to quit buying me stuff? The same applies to you, you know. Save your money. New York is an expensive town." He'd opened his mouth to say something else and I cut him off. "I thank you for respecting my birthday wishes."

I was gearing up for an argument—for him to argue getting his way—but after a moment, he simply said, "Okay. I promise I won't buy you anything on your birthday." And then he smiled at me.

I chuckle aloud in this big room. Because it almost echoes what Bea said earlier before she exited stage right. "I promise I won't tease you on your birthday."

Promises, promises. Is this the only time I ever have any semblance of say in my life? On my birthday?

Where the hell is everyone anyway? I'm supposed to be getting my second vital question answered and instead I'm just watching a play—in my head, this time—waiting passively. Again!

Uh oh.

Uh oh.

My legs make haste for the exit before my brain even catches up.

Because today's not my birthday.