He looked back at me while handing over a wheel of Brie. “What, like paintings?”
“No, it’s an abstract exhibition—a photographic study of New York City trash cans juxtaposed with large-scale plastic installations, designed to represent man’s overarching reach toward industrialization, and its impact on the environment with its waste.”
The entire line had fallen silent, as had Oscar’s team, listening to what I was saying with confused looks on their faces.
“It’s garbage art?” he asked, looking beyond skeptical, then noticing that the line had stopped. “Here’s your cheese,” he grumbled, handing over a package and putting the line back in motion again.
“I can’t describe the work as well as the artist; you’ll have to ask her for her explanation.” I sighed, rolling back and forth on my ankle.
He instantly spotted it. “Why are you nervous about going to see garbage art?”
“Because the artist is my mother,” I squeaked.
“You want me to meet your mom?”
“And my dad? Is that too weird?” I said, pulling at my apron.
It was weird, it was totally weird. Why was I doing this? This was too much too soon, and it was suddenly very warm in this stall.
Oscar studied me carefully, and I wondered what he was thinking. Would he say yes? Would he say no? Would he order me out of the stall? Would he run screaming in terror at the idea of meeting my parents? What the hell was I thinking? I never did this!
“Okay,” he replied, turning back to his customers. “What do you want?” He always accentuated the you, making it sound like the customer was somehow putting him out.
“Wait, so, you’ll go?” I asked, breath moving back into my lungs.
This was happening—this was really happening! The budding panic was gone the instant he said yes, and I realized how very much I wanted to introduce him to my world and my family. This. Was. Happening.
He turned toward me with a grin. “Sure, no big deal. Not sure I have anything to wear, though. I didn’t bring anything fancy.”
“We can go shopping after we’re done here!” I squealed, giddy over the idea that my boyfriend and I would be stepping out on the town tonight. “I can call Barneys or Bergdorf’s and have them set some things aside for you—”
“Can we go to Macy’s? The one that has the parade?” he asked, his face lighting up. “We always watched the parade every year, before the football games started up. I’ve always wanted to go there.”
He was smiling. Even at his customers. And between orders, he actually began to . . . whistle.
Macy’s it is.
We took the subway to go shopping, something he’d never done before.
“We can just take my truck, no biggie,” he said, gesturing to where it was parked behind the stand.
I shook my head. “It’ll be faster this way, and we won’t have to worry about parking. Besides, no one drives in the city.”
He looked around at all the traffic with raised eyebrows, then turned to me with a “tell me that again” expression.
“Seriously, look again at those cars. They’re all cabs, Uber guys, or private drivers. It’s much faster to move underground,” I replied, taking him by the hand and leading him toward the station on Thirty-fourth Street.
They had a helluva men’s department at Macy’s, and within an hour we had him outfitted in a nice oxford shirt, a new tie, and a jacket. He refused to buy new pants, though. “Jeans are fine. I always see guys in jeans in those fashion magazines,” he’d said.
And I agreed. He looked damn fine in jeans.
Back on the packed train afterward, we stood front to back with the other Saturday shoppers, our bags and bodies jostled about with everyone else. I spied someone with a Brannigan’s bag, and I realized now was as good a time as any to give him my good news.
Turning to face him in the tiny space I’d created, I beamed up at him, tucking into the spot below his arm, where he was holding tight to the bar above. “I have news for you, mister.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” he asked as he looked down at me.
“Ever hear of Brannigan’s?”
“Sure. Gourmet food store, expensive food for fussy people. They just opened a new store in San Francisco.”
Stifling an eye roll, I leaned up on tiptoe to press a kiss on his chin. “I wouldn’t call Bailey Falls Creamery fussy, would you?”
“I don’t get it,” he said, confusion on his face.
“I know the woman that heads up their marketing, and I touched base with her a few days ago. I might have mentioned a certain creamery in the Hudson Valley that was making some pretty great cheese.”
“Oh?”
“I also might have sent over a sampling of my favorites to their offices.”
“Oh.”
“And she might have sent me an email this morning telling me how batshit crazy everyone went over your cheese, especially the Brie.” I smoothed out his jacket, patting his chest as I went. “And you know how I feel about your Brie.”
He was silent.
“So anyway, she asked me who was in charge of your marketing, and I told her that there was a very good-looking farmer who handled most of that, and if she was interested I could put her in touch with you, and—”
“Wait, hold up. What did you do exactly?” he asked, his face not angry but not happy, either.
“I didn’t do anything, other than put someone with the fastest-growing gourmet foods franchise in the country in touch with one of the best local cheese makers I know.”