8
DAISY
By the time Friday rolled around, I somehow rebranded Caleb’s dinner invitation as a ‘teacher meeting.’ You know, the sort of meeting that a concerned parent (or, in this case, emergency custodian) arranged with a sympathetic teacher (in this case, me) to discuss the academic future and developmental well-being of their precocious child (in this case, Emmy).
During my tenure at Bellamy Day, I have played the role of sympathetic teacher at plenty of these dinner meetings. I’ve listened compassionately as housewives fretted about their child’s pending admission to prep school. I’ve soothed absentee fathers who wondered why their kid had turned into a playground bully.
These meetings usually took place somewhere sterile and uninspired; over bento boxes on Lexington Avenue, or bodega sandwiches nibbled on a bench in Central Park. These ‘meetings’ definitely did not take place in a Michelin-star rated restaurant, and definitely not over a bottle of Jacques Selosse champagne that cost more than my monthly share of the rent payment back in Williamsburg.
As soon as I reached the doors of the NoMad Hotel to meet Caleb, all of my carefully crafted convictions of this being a strictly-business ‘meeting’ arranged to discuss Emmy’s well-being at Bellamy went straight out the window.
As soon as I saw him waiting, hands tucked into the pockets of a sleek black slim-fit suit, face illuminated in the glow of a street lamp, I realized that it was, indeed, a date.
And I was screwed.
Caleb reserved a table for us in a dimly-lit corner of the NoMad Hotel’s restaurant. The restaurant was full of the chatter of fellow diners, but our little corner felt blissfully private. I was the sole object of Caleb’s attention.
And sitting there, under the intense scrutiny of his gaze, the memory that I had tried so hard to suppress all week -- the memory of our kiss -- was suddenly on the forefront of my mind.
“Are you nervous?” he asked me after the waiter pours our champagne and scurries away.
“Not at all, Mr. Preston,” I fibbed, hoping he doesn’t see the way my heart was pounding furiously against my rib cage.
“I insist you call me Caleb,” he said, almost sternly.
“Mr. Preston,” I repeated stubbornly, intent on holding my own in this conversation. “I prefer to keep things professional with the parents of my students.”
“Miss Wright,” Caleb said, trying out my name and smiling, like he was savoring the taste of it on his tongue. “Let’s drop this charade. We wouldn’t be sitting here if we hadn’t already crossed that line.”
“That was a mistake,” my cheeks turned hot pink. “A lapse of judgement.”
“Was it?” Caleb asked, raising a doubtful eyebrow. “The way your heart’s about to burst through your blouse suggests otherwise.”
I flicked my eyes down to the low neckline of my black silk blouse, an item I borrowed from Raven’s closet when my own wardrobe failed to provide anything suitable for my not-a-date with Caleb.
He took a coy sip of champagne, reveling in watching my nerves simmer.
“Why did you agree to meet me tonight?”
“I was under the impression that we could clear the air, Mr. Preston, share a professional meal and discuss how this transition is going to impact Emmy’s performance at Bellamy.”
I hated the sound of those words as they came out of my mouth. It was the same kind of canned, generic phrasing that the administration at Bellamy just loved to use when discussing a “problem child.” I hated that kind of talk, and it was obvious from the disdain on Caleb’s face that he hated it too.
“Drop the act, Daisy,” Caleb said sharply. “If I wanted a parent-teacher conference, I would have barged into the headmaster’s office already. We both know that I’m not here to play the role of whiney Upper East Side parent, alongside the fact that you’re not here to play the mousy little teacher.”
I gulped on my champagne, forcing myself to swallow and breathe. If anyone else spoke to me that way, I’d be furious. Growing up in Brooklyn, I learned early on to stand my ground. But I did not feel an ounce of anger then, simmering in the heat of Caleb’s stare. I felt wildly turned on, like my entire body was engulfed in the energy between us. And while every instinct I had told me to resist, my brain could not stop my panties from growing wetter or my heart from hammering harder.
Caleb Preston was different tonight. This was not the same Caleb that sat in my office a few days ago, or the one that served Ramen noodles and watched a Disney movie with his niece. He was in his element. Powerful.
“So why are we here?” I asked, forcing myself to match the intensity of his tone.
“You already know the answer to that, too.” He moistened his lips with a quick flick of his tongue, and I remembered how he tasted that night.
“You should know that I don’t date,” I said firmly.
“Good,” he smiled. “Neither do I.”
“And I don’t do,” I paused, struggling to find the right word, before finally settling on, “whatever this is.”
“This is just dinner,” Caleb said, flashing an innocent smile.
Before I had a chance to protest, the waiter intruded to take our order. I hadn’t even opened my menu yet, but Caleb ordered for us both, and my mind was racing with so many flustered, conflicting thoughts that I barely listened as he did.
“I’m surprised that you picked this place.”
“Why?” Even with one word, one syllable, his voice had a way of challenging me. Issuing an unspoken dare. He had made his point loud and clear. We were on his territory now, and he was the one in charge.
“It’s a hotel,” I said, taking a sip of champagne and making a mental note to pace myself. My body already feels drunk on Caleb’s presence. I did not need my head to go, too.
“Isn’t a hotel the perfect place for a d-” he paused, for dramatic effect, eyeing me coyly before finishing: “Dinner?”
I don’t bother pointing out that my usual dinner selections are limited to microwave meals and PB&J sandwiches. I certainly did not frequent five-star hotels and restaurants.
“Maybe it’s because I grew up in hotels,” he speculated, his eyes wandering around the moody little restaurant now. “But I’ve always found something so sensual and exciting about them.”
“Really?”
“People aren’t themselves in hotels. They’re strangers exploring a foreign land, and that somehow inspires them to become someone better, a more exciting version of themselves. They dress up, they order room service, they upgrade to the junior suite, they pay extra for a bottle of champagne instead of prosecco. And the best part is, that if two of these fascinating strangers meet and the mood strikes, pure bliss is just a room key away.”
“I thought only junkies rented hotel rooms by the hour,” I said defiantly.
I know what you’re trying to do, Caleb Preston. But I was not falling for it.
“Besides,” I added, pausing for a sip of champagne, “What you’re describing isn’t sensual. It’s just so empty.”
“How so?” he frowned.
“Fake people having fake conversations with other fake people in a hotel bar, until they’ve mustered enough fake intimacy to have some fake sex in a fake hotel room?” I scoffed. “It sounds completely contrived and meaningless.”
“Life is contrived and meaningless,” Caleb said deeply. “And you want to talk about fake? Relationships are fake. Intimacy is a lie. Love dies, marriages break apart, people cheat, people hurt each other, people abandon their families. But connecting with another human, even if it’s a stranger, even if it’s only for a few fleeting moments of passion in a hotel room, that’s real.”
My heart was pounding through the veins of my neck and I was not sure if it’s Caleb or the champagne, but my head was spinning.
“I disagree.”
“Why?”
“Intimacy means different things to men and women.” My own cynicism was the only thing keeping me grounded now, and I took a deep breath before continuing. “Sex isn’t fulfilling to everyone. I think women need more than that, to feel true intimacy. I think women need love.”
“Sounds like you haven’t been having sex with the right kind of people,” Caleb eyed me intently.
...or at all, I wanted to add, but I bit my tongue, determined to keep a level head through dinner. I sat back in my chair, and tried to clear my head. I tried to remember why I thought this was a good idea.
“Aren’t hotels like this technically your competition?” I asked, trying to change the conversation.
“All the more reason to come,” Caleb shrugged. “There’s plenty of room in the sea for different kinds of fish.”
“I’m not sure that’s how the analogy goes.”
“No?” his eyes twinkled up at me, challenging me again. “Remind me, then, how does it go?”
I felt my stomach twist and my heart hammered against my ribs, and I could feel the effect of his intense gaze all the way down to the slick heat growing between my thighs. It was becoming all too easy to soothe my nerves with champagne, and I know that I should stop.
“The saying is that ‘there are plenty of fish in the sea.’”
“But surely not all the fish are the same,” he added, raising an eyebrow like it’s a question that I’m supposed to answer.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, there are little fish: minnows, guppies…” his eyes flickered meaningfully, but he not smiling anymore. His words weren’t just a challenge anymore. They were a warning. “And then there are big fish. Sharks.”
It was obvious what he wanted me to ask next, and I could not stop myself from indulging him.
“What kind of fish are you, Mr. Preston?”
His eyes flashed darkly and he smiled, then he takes a long sip of champagne.
“The kind you should stay away from.”