A few days later, Brett woke with a knot in his stomach the size of a watermelon. This was it. The day he took over as general manager of Gianelli's. And there was nothing on earth he was looking forward to less. Jerry was going to be there on and off for a week longer to ease him into the transition, but then he'd be uptown with Carlos nearly every day, getting the new restaurant ready for its grand opening.

Brett arrived at two o'clock to go over the financials and the alcohol delivery schedule with Jerry. It was one thing to manage the restaurant when customers were there, but managing the business side of things was a whole new ballgame. Bars operated on a very tight margin, and he needed to be certain he stayed on top of things. Gianelli’s was primarily a drinking establishment that served food mostly to offset the alcohol and feed customers’ munchie attacks, so its menu was more limited than a restaurant’s. Thank God. If Brett had been expected to deal with a full-blown restaurant kitchen, he was sure his brain would explode.

Around four o’clock, the kitchen staff showed up, and shortly after that, the wait staff and bartenders arrived for their shifts. Andrea showed up, then Dan. Jerry had hired a new bartender named Greg, and he was already at his place behind the bar. But when Brett opened the door at five, Paul hadn’t shown up. Brett was in the kitchen when he finally arrived twenty minutes late.

"Hey, Mr. Manager," he said, holding his hand up to Brett for a high‑five. "Ready to run the show?"

Brett slapped his hand and said he was, when what he really wanted to say was, Why are you late? But twenty minutes wasn't worth hard feelings, particularly on day one, so he let it go. Paul put on an apron and headed into the dining room, where he charmed a table full of ladies who hung on every word he said. He was a good waiter when he put his mind to it, sucking up tips like a vacuum cleaner. Brett just wished he’d put his mind to it more often. Jerry had always let Paul's bad behavior go, and Brett figured it was because good waiters were hard to come by.

Balance. That was the key. Brett knew he had to make sure things didn't get out of hand, but a few minutes here, a few minutes there…did that really matter?

* * *

“There's a problem,” Brett said a few days later, as he and Kelsey lay in bed.

Kelsey’s heart skipped. “What's that?”

“All we do is have sex.”

Her heart sank. So there it was. He’d zeroed in on the problem, just as she had. Of course they didn’t belong together, because even Brett had to admit that after a while, no matter how good the sex was, it just wasn’t enough. For a long-term relationship, of course there had to be something more. But what? If they had nothing in common, which they didn’t, then sooner or later—

“How about a date?” Brett asked.

“Huh?”

“A date, Kelsey. D-A-T-E. I know I asked you out once and you told me to go to hell, but—"

"I did not tell you to go to hell."

"Yeah, you kinda did."

"Well, okay. But I thought you were messing with me."

"Forget that. We're starting over. Let's go out."

She frowned. “You mean, like dinner and a movie?”

Brett laughed. “My God. You should see your face.”

“I can't help it. Reflex action. You have no idea some of the horrible dates I’ve been on.”

“No. It’ll be great. Just leave it to me.”

“No way. What kind of a fool would I have to be to—“

“Kelsey.”

“What?”

“I’m not asking you to swim the East River with me.”

“No. Forget dates. No dates. What would we say to each other?”

He grinned. “Did you just hear yourself?”

Kelsey sighed. Brett was right. Her aversion to dating bordered on the pathological. Maybe—just maybe—it was time she broke the cycle.

"Okay, fine," she muttered. "We'll go on a date."

"Don't worry. If you don’t like it, we’ll go back to just having sex. See? Either way, you win.”

* * *

Kelsey knew that if Brett had been like any other man, he would have taken her to a movie theater, where they would watch whatever male-oriented blockbuster was out that week, and then they'd go to a restaurant of some kind to exchange mundane conversation over a meal before returning to their apartment building that they never should have left in the first place.

But no. Brett never did anything like other men. Instead, he took her on the subway for a good twenty minutes, dragging along a bunch of stuff in two shoulder bags, after which they climbed the stairs back up to street level and began to walk. And walk. And walk.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I told you it’s a surprise.”

“When are we going to be there?”

“Knock it off. What are you? Five years old?”

“We’ve walked six blocks since we got off the subway.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m getting tired.”

“You’re getting tired? I’m carrying all the stuff.”

“What is all that, anyway?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

After another block and a half, Brett came to a halt on a street corner. Kelsey watched as he opened one of the over-the-shoulder bags he was carrying.

Canvas folding chairs?

He set them up near the curb, facing a large concrete planter. Then he pointed to one of the chairs. “Sit.”

“Here? On the street corner?”

“Yes, Kelsey. Here on the street corner.”

She closed her eyes. “You’re going to embarrass me again, aren’t you?”

“This is New York. You have to do something crazier than this to embarrass yourself.”

Finally she sat. He sat in the chair beside her, then dug through the other bag he’d been carrying. A bus passed by, its deafening rattle setting Kelsey’s teeth on edge. The engine jerked and groaned, then belched out a cloud of exhaust‑filled air. Sucking in a lungful of carcinogens made this experience even more delightful.

“Okay,” she said. “That was fun. Date’s over.”

“Nope. It hasn’t even begun yet.”

“We’re sitting on a street corner.”

“Uh-huh.”

“If I saw me sitting here like this, I’d arrest me.”

“On what grounds?”

“Public weirdness.”

“Get out the penal code. Show me that law, and we’ll leave. In the meantime…” He pulled two small red Solo cups out of the bag and handed one to her. Next he brought out a Thermos and unscrewed the top. “Hold out your cup.”

“What’s in there?” she said.

“Wine.”

“Alcohol? This isn’t the Vegas Strip. There’s a law against drinking in public.”

“That’s why I put it in a Thermos.”

“That doesn’t make it legal.”

“Come on, Kelsey. Live a little.”

“Fine,” she muttered, holding out her cup. “I might as well anesthetize myself. But I don't really like wine.”

“No. What you don't like is cheap, crappy wine. Try this.”

She put the cup to her lips and sipped, and it was as if there was a flavor explosion in her mouth. “Oh,” she said, and that was all. Just oh. Because her mouth was too full of wonderful to say anything else.

“I told you so,” Brett said, as he poured himself a cup. Then he held it up for a toast. “To first dates.”

Kelsey tapped her glass with his and took another sip. Then another. And another. Pretty soon she felt pleasantly lightheaded. Hmm. Why she hadn’t considered drinking wine on a street corner before? Maybe because she would have felt a little too much like a bum in the gutter, but bums didn’t drink really good wine, which this clearly was. Who knew just how good good wine could be?

She turned to Brett. “So now what?”

He checked his watch. “We wait.”

“For what?”

“Will you be patient?”

“That’s not one of my virtues.”

“This gives you a chance to work on it.” Then he nodded toward a group of people piling out of the subway. “Ah. Here we go. The show’s about to start.”

Kelsey stared at the people, wondering what he was talking about. Then a tall, dark man with a wild afro streaked with gray emerged from the pack and walked to a spot along the brick wall they faced. He opened the case he was carrying and pulled out a guitar, looping the strap over his shoulder. He lay the open guitar case in front of him, seeded it with a few crumpled one dollar bills, then sat down on the brick ledge. When he put his fingers to the strings, Kelsey couldn’t believe what she heard.

The man sang a soft, gentle song with a strong, clear voice, piercing the frantic pace and pandemonium of the city and falling over Kelsey like a warm, cozy blanket. Suddenly she was transported back fifteen years to a time when one of the only things in her life that was good and calm and relaxing was the sound of an acoustic guitar and the warm, kind, sparkling voice of a person she imagined was singing just for her.

“Oh, my God,” Kelsey breathed. “He's amazing.”

In the next several minutes, the man sang one love song after another, his music alternately haunting and beautiful, melancholy and upbeat. Something about the soothing, gentle music the man played in the midst of the New York chaos made people slow down, stop, and listen. But thanks to Brett, the two of them had front row seats, and pretty soon Kelsey didn’t feel silly or self conscious at all. She just felt glad to be there.

“How could you be sure he’d show up today?” Kelsey whispered.

“I used to live in this neighborhood,” Brett said. “The guy’s like clockwork.”

"How did you know I'd like it?"

"The night we danced in my apartment, you said you really liked guitar music. I thought you'd like to hear more.”

God, yes. The music had been wonderful that night, and it was even more wonderful now. Brett put his hand over hers, a gentle touch that felt wonderful. She turned her hand over and twined her fingers with his, finding it hard to believe he’d actually listened to her. Found out what she liked and what she didn’t. Even that first night when she’d assumed he only wanted to get her into bed, he’d been listening. How could she have been so blind about how wonderful this man really was?

They sat there together, enjoying one song after another. All the noise and dissonance of the city surrounded them, but it was as if the man and his guitar were there only for them. When he strummed a final chord, then pulled out a bottle of water to take a break, Kelsey looked at her watch and realized forty five minutes had passed. It felt like five.

Then out of nowhere, Kelsey thought about Kiki, and those woo-woo shivers started all over again. Could Brett actually be the man she had talked about? Her Mr. Right who was right under her nose?

She didn't know. But what she did know was that there was no way Kiki could know something Kelsey didn't. Things like astrology were stupid. Numerology was moronic. Psychics were all charlatans. Superstitious people were missing a few intelligence genes. She believed all that from the bottom of her heart. So why was she even wasting thought on what that clearly crazy Jamaican woman had said?

Because she felt so wonderful, and Brett was there, and life was good. She knew tomorrow she’d come back to her senses, but right now, with the wine and the concert and Brett’s hand on hers, she could believe almost anything.

They had a little more wine, and by the time the man finished another set, afternoon was edging into evening. Brett grabbed a twenty from his wallet and dropped it into the guy’s guitar case. “Nice concert.”

The man nodded his thanks. Brett packed up their stuff, and they started back toward the subway. When they hopped aboard, for maybe the first time ever, Kelsey didn't notice suspicious smells, strange people, or trash flung from one end of the car to another. All she noticed was Brett, and the only thoughts that filled her mind were good ones.

Once they were back in their neighborhood, they stopped at the coffee house down the street from their apartment building. She'd been to this particular place hundreds of times, but suddenly the scents of scones and pastries and fresh-brewed coffee seemed more enticing then ever. For at least an hour, they sipped their coffee and chatted about nothing in particular.

It was the perfect end to a perfect day.

By the time they arrived back at their apartment building, the lobby lights shone through the dusk. Once they were in the elevator, Brett grabbed Kelsey and trapped her against the wall. When he ducked his head to kiss her, for once she didn't cuss the old elevator for moving as slow as a geriatric snail.

"Your place or mine?" Brett murmured.

"You choose."

"How about we flip a coin when we get there? Or maybe just see who can get their keys out the fastest."

"You're on."

"We'll have to make it a quickie," Brett said, "because I need to take Boomer out. I bet I can have your clothes off in fifteen seconds."

"Works for me."

"But after that, we can move as slow as we like." He kissed her on the neck. "As often as we like." He nibbled her ear. "And then—"

Just then the elevator dinged and the doors opened. A woman sat on the bench near the elevator. As they stepped out, she stood. The moment Kelsey saw her, she stopped short, an icy feeling trickling down her spine, one that told her this wonderful day had just gone straight to hell.

"Mom?" she said. "What are you doing here?"