A wave of humidity hit me as I stepped out of the dorm room. August in New York City was still hot and sticky, but I loved it. Walking down the steps I heard my name called. It was Eric. He was jogging quickly towards me.
Stopping in front of me he ran a hand through the back of his hair and bashfully said, ”Sorry about earlier, Laura is a…friend…I was just visiting.”
I smirked at him, hopefully with a look that asked if he thought I was stupid, and started walking down the path towards the entrance gates. “It’s no problem,” I said over my shoulder.
“Have you had breakfast yet?” he asked hopefully, hustling to catch up to me.
I stopped. I suddenly remembered I hadn’t eaten since I had a peanut butter sandwich yesterday morning. My stomach chose that moment to embarrassingly voice its protest.
“I take that as a no?” he said with a laugh. “Can I take you to my favorite café down the street?”
I thought for a moment. I wasn’t interested in dating, especially with someone who would flirt with one girl while outside the door of another girl’s room whom he had just finished sleeping with, but I was interested in making friends. I also didn’t know if my food card was activated yet to work in the dining halls since orientation didn’t start for two more days.
“That would be lovely,” I finally replied.
“Awesome,” he said, shaking his fist in what looked like an adorable kind of fist pump. I smothered my grin with a hand and waited for him to lead the way.
A five-minute walk off campus landed us at a charming café. I hadn’t been to an actual restaurant even before I lived with the Andersons since the foster family before that could barely afford their rent, let alone taking us out to eat. We were seated by a very attentive waiter on the patio under a large yellow and black striped umbrella.
“What can I get you to drink?” he asked, staring at me with a strange smile.
“Umm”, I looked at Eric, not knowing what to order.
“The mocha lattes are really good here, and the orange juice is fresh squeezed,” he answered helpfully with a smile.
“I’ll get those,” I replied to the waiter.
“Sounds good,” he said, turning to hurry off.
“Dude, are you going to get my order?” Eric asked the waiter, annoyed.
Red-faced, the waiter turned around, “Of course, sorry about that,” he responded.
After taking Eric’s order he once again hurried off, looking back at me once more and almost running into another waiter. Reddening further, he turned around again and walked around the corner out of sight. I turned my attention back to Eric, “Thank you for taking me to breakfast, this place is amazing,” I told him.
His eyes softened. “It’s my pleasure Eva, I come to this place all the time,” he said sweetly. “You need to try their French toast. It comes with sweet butter and a caramel syrup, it’s what they are known for,” he exclaimed.
I had been perusing the menu but I quickly closed it, that sounded wonderful. Mrs. Anderson had given me oatmeal or corn flakes when she did bother to give me breakfast, and I was pretty sure I would never want to eat either ever again. “I definitely want that,” I said grinning.
Over the most amazing food I had ever tasted, Eric attempted to ask me questions. I didn’t want to talk about my past so I tried to turn the questions back to him. He told me he had grown up in South Carolina (thus the reason for the twang I heard occasionally). He had moved to Massachusetts to attend boarding school in his freshman year of high school. His dad owned a lumber company, but was an avid football fan, and had wanted him to play in college desperately. Since Rothmore was the best, that was where he had to go. His prep school had been one of the top high school football programs in the country so transitioning to Rothmore had been easy.
“I love it here,” he told me after eating the last bite of his French toast.
Seeming to realize I had kept him talking about himself the whole meal he asked, “What were your plans today before I kidnapped you for breakfast?”
“Finding a job,” I replied, looking around at the café. “I wonder if they are hiring here.”
“Why do you want a job,” he asked, looking bewildered.
I flushed. What was the right way to tell someone most likely extremely rich, that you were dirt poor I wondered?
Probably noticing how uncomfortable I looked he quickly attempted to cover up his question. “You would kill it anywhere, but you should get a job at Moxie,” he replied. “It’s the ‘it’ restaurant of the moment, and very pricey, which should mean good tips. My dad’s an investor in it, I’m sure I could get you hired there,” he stated confidently.
“You would do that for me?” I asked, feeling a rush of hope and excitement.
He smiled, looking off, and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “You have no idea what I would do for you.”
At that moment the waiter stopped by, for what seemed like the millionth time of the meal.
“We’re ready for the check,” Eric stated, definitely annoyed at the waiter by this point.
“It’s on the house,” the waiter replied, at the same time slipping a folded piece of paper beside my hand. “Call me,” he winked, rushing off after hearing a growl come from Eric’s direction.
I unfolded the note. In neat block letters was the name Sam, followed by a number. Eric snatched it out of my hand and put it in his pocket before standing up and grabbing my hand.
“That guy was a creep,” he said angrily. “I’m going to complain.”
“Oh please don’t,” I said anxiously. “It was such a nice meal, let’s just leave.”
Staring at me for a moment, he tugged my hand and began to walk down the sidewalk. “Come-on, let’s go to Moxie and get you that job,” he said.
I grinned and began to walk along beside him.