When she stepped outside, Crosby swept her into a tight embrace, smelling of cold air, mint gum, and sharp citrusy cologne.
“I was worried about you today,” he murmured into her hair. “I thought you might cancel on dinner.”
“I’m so sorry about last night.” So much weight and sincerity in the words, her eyes glossy with tears.
“Hey, it’s okay. You weren’t feeling good and wanted to be alone. Gotta respect the birthday girl’s wishes. Now let’s get on with the main event. Surprise number one.” He stepped aside and swept an arm out.
A black limousine was parked in front of her house, sleek and shiny as a panther.
“Wow, you don’t exaggerate when you say special.” Oona gaped as the uniformed driver opened the door for them. They settled into the leather seats, and the car pulled away.
“Here, hold these.” Crosby handed her two champagne flutes and reached for an ice bucket with a bottle of Moët & Chandon.
“This is so thoughtful. But it isn’t even a major birthday. I’m twenty-seven, not thirty or forty.” Except on the inside she was twenty, so she was pleased. “Why the special treatment?”
“Because every birthday should be special. And I wanted you to know your boyfriend is so fucking cool, he planned an unforgettable night for you.” The cork popped.
I get to spend the rest of my life with the coolest guy on the planet. She recalled the weight of the leather armor Dale had given her, the armor of his embrace.
Oona shook off the memory. “To an unforgettable night,” she toasted.
“I also got you this. It’s something small that made me think of you.” He handed her a white box that fit in her palm.
Inside was a miniature red sports car made of etched crystal.
“It’s a little red Corvette, like the Prince song,” he explained. “I thought you’d get a kick out of it.”
“It’s adorable. Thank you. I have the perfect place to put it, too.”
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and drained her glass. Her mouth was dry, and the champagne did little to abate her thirst. It should’ve been easy to accept the romance of these gestures, but the limo felt more like a giant moving coffin. All this unspoken pressure for the night to be perfect, for her to be perfect. How was that possible? How many leaps had she made before meeting Crosby, and what had she done/seen/learned by then? Was that version of her funnier, kinder, wiser? And what kind of person was Crosby? How would she get to know him without giving herself away?
Conversation was minimal during the drive to Manhattan; instead, they watched the city skyline. The cold made the buildings gleam like they were made of gemstones, and the resurrected Twin Towers filled Oona with sad wonder.
Up to the West Side, to the edge of Central Park. The car pulled up to a red awning surrounded by trees wrapped in a multitude of white Christmas lights, a blanket of electric snow.
“Tavern on the Green? No way,” she whispered.
Oona took slow, reverential steps inside the restaurant, through a wood-paneled foyer, into a mirrored hallway. Her darting eyes took in her multiple selves. What if each reflection was actually a separate version of her, trapped in time? All twenty-seven years old externally, all with cherry hair and a green dress, but while Oona on this side of the glass was twenty internally, maybe that other Oona was forty-two, and that one thirty-seven, and that one seventy-three. Maybe each Oona had a different chronology. Maybe one was living her life in order. If only this Oona could find that one and swap places with her.
The hallway led to a dining room with enormous chandeliers suspended like earrings on a pretty bohemian girl. Heads turned as they were seated. From the neck down, Oona and Crosby blended with the conservatively dressed diners, but their primary-colored hair made the duo unmistakably Other. Patrons stared without staring, peripheral glances that pretended not to linger, except for a little girl in a lavender princess dress who gaped with openmouthed wonder. The girl raised a bandaged finger to point at them and an adult hand slapped it away in admonishment.
Ah, so this was how being the center of attention felt. The previous year, she’d treated Kenzie and Madeleine to meals at some of the city’s finest restaurants, but if they got any lingering looks, Kenzie had always been their target, with his youth, striking bone structure, and vibrant wardrobe. At the time, Oona had felt mild envy at being relegated to the background. She’d forgotten the spotlight’s flip side: stares came with judgment. For every gaze that admired, another assessed, criticized, made assumptions.
She shifted in her seat. If only they were in a cozier, more casual setting. A dive bar or diner. Not this historic epicurean behemoth, and not a restaurant that had connotations with Dale.
“You know, when I was a teenager”—she pretended to look at her menu—“I used to dream about coming here.”
A puzzled smile from Crosby. “Why do you think I chose this place? I know it’s not to celebrate a record deal, but—”
“I told you about that?” She fired out the question before she could hold it back, an errant arrow that flew wide of its target.
“Of course.”
“What else did I tell you about the band?” What else did I tell you about Dale? Had she played down her depth of feeling for her first love? Dismiss him as a passing teenage crush? Maybe so many years had elapsed before leaping into 1990, she hadn’t needed to downplay it. Maybe by the time she met Crosby, she seldom thought of Dale.
“What did you tell me about the band?” Crosby repeated. “Did you get sudden amnesia or something?” His smile wavered.
A waiter came over before she could answer. They ordered shrimp cocktail, steak, and a bottle of Cabernet.
“So what’s up with you tonight?” Crosby took her hand across the table, ran a thumb across the inside of her wrist, over the hourglass tattoo. “I’m sure the hangover is part of it, but something else is off. It’s almost as if…” His eyes dropped down to the tablecloth. “As if you don’t like me as much anymore.”
Fixing her mouth into a tight smile, she tried not to betray the ugly, twisting emotions inside her as she searched his face for something to ignite a connection. At least he was nice to look at, with translucent paper-white skin and a cool indigo pompadour that recalled sixties-era Elvis. The square jaw, wide dark eyes, Roman nose—all added up to a geometrically attractive face. Even his scars—one dash above his left eyebrow and another across his chin—contributed to his allure. It was easy to appreciate him on a superficial level, but conjuring genuine emotions? For now she’d have to fake it.
“Of course I like you.” She placed her fingers over his and squeezed them. “I … more than like you.” Nope, she couldn’t force out those other words. “Last night messed with my head—a lot—and I’m still getting over it. But it’s also the new year. I feel all this pressure to … make it great, better than the last one. And I always have a tough time on my birthday. It’s not about getting older or anything like that … I can’t really explain it.” She could, but why ruin dinner?
“You warned me about all that, how you get moody and distant at the beginning of each year. I thought something like this might get you out of your funk.” A gesture to their grand surroundings.