A/N: Today is my birthday, so I thought I'd give you a "surprise" update. Enjoy the chapter!
Catching a cab in the city is a quintessential New York experience - like gobbling down a hot dog from a cart, getting hopelessly lost in Central Park, and emptying your pockets on Fifth Avenue: mandatory, unexpectedly enjoyable, and more than a tad bit stressful. Which is why I looked up "how to hail a taxi" on Google before strolling out into the simmering daylight on my own.
When I walk out of the hotel, I feel like I've inserted myself into a conversation that's already in full-swing. Everything swirls around me thickly - the mass exodus of people hustling past with purposeful strides; the streets, choked with bright yellow taxis, squat buses, and the occasional sleek luxury car; and the humid air, pressing down on the commotion like a lid on a boiling pot of water. Only the noises of the city escape, drifting upward as high as the skyscrapers and echoing down the boulevards. Of all New York City's nicknames, "The City That Never Sleeps" is probably the most accurate. No one could with all this chaos - but it's a familiar, spellbinding one. I have a feeling that if it stopped, the silence would be the loudest, most unsettling noise of all.
I take a deep breath and summon some courage. A yellow chariot isn't just going to materialize out of nowhere and whisk me off like a princess in a carriage. Vince and his chauffeur services belong to Jason this afternoon, and calling an Uber isn't part of my Ultimate New York Experience for the day. So I sidle up to the curb, thrust my arm into the air, and yell, "TAXI!" at the top of my lungs.
Moments later, I leap back with a shriek to avoid being crushed by the three taxis that come to a screeching halt in front of me.
The first driver leans over to manually roll down his window, eagerly winding the lever, and yells, "Where to, miss?"
I shield my eyes from the sun and duck to his level. "Um, Saks Fifth Avenue."
He whistles, glancing out at the stagnant traffic and then back at me. His eyes give me a head-to-toe scan and, considering where I've asked him to take me, he must think I have enough money to waste other people's time. Still, he tells me charitably, "That's a little ways from here. It'd be faster and cheaper on the subway. Or you could walk."
I appreciate his goodwill. Most cabbies would probably suffer through traffic to rack up the fare of a long drive. They're used to it anyway. But it's sweltering out here and I'm wearing wedges. I'd rather not get blisters today.
"I figured that," I say to him. "But my boyfriend doesn't want me taking the subway by myself. I don't - " I stop myself, about to say that I don't know my way around the city well, but this might be too much information to share. This driver is nice, nicer than New Yorkers are made out to be, but I don't want to end up in an alley.
"Want to worry him," I finish.
My innocence charms him once and for all. "Good boyfriend," he notes. "Hop in, sweetheart."
I smile gratefully and plunge inside the vehicle, shutting the door just as my driver executes a pretty daring move and darts into traffic, abruptly cutting someone off. The cab lurches away from the curb, throwing me against the seats and making me curse when the backs of my thighs hit the searing leather.
"Sorry about that, miss," my driver apologizes, finding my gaze in the rear view mirror. "Have to be aggressive if I wanna get you where you're going."
"Thanks," I mutter, planting my fingertips and sliding my butt to the edge of the seats. They're worn in some places, white stuffing bursting from ripped seams, and it smells like an armpit that didn't get enough deodorant. I try to suck it up and call it part of the experience, but the questionable spots on the carpet and near the seat belt lock taunt gross explanations. I'll just say it's water damage.
"So," the cabbie says casually, resting his wrist on the steering wheel. We're nestled in a narrow strip of the street, bumper-to-bumper with other taxis, and we're not moving anytime soon. "Saks Fifth Avenue, huh? You gonna do some shopping?"
No, I'm going to go deep-sea diving in a world-famous department store. "Yes. It's my first time in New York and I had to see Manhattan for myself."
"Let me guess - your boyfriend gave you his credit card and turned you loose? I let my wife do all the shopping, too. Not on Fifth Avenue, but still." He chuckles.
"Something like that," I say delicately, not knowing whether I should be offended or not. "The shopping is for him, actually. He needs some suit and tie sets. Do you have any recommendations?"
"Oh, I wouldn't know. Where you're going is a little out of my budget, sweetheart."
Now he's just making me feel guilty. I'm not even a part of the crowd he obviously is wary about; instead, I'm only trying to do something nice for my boyfriend and have the resources to do so. I even tried to tip the hotel maid earlier today, when I ran into her when I got out of the shower, but she just turned red and apologized excessively for being in the room - she thought no one was here. It's not like I'm a queen and she was a peasant offending me with her presence. But she dashed out before I could thank her for the fresh sheets.
"But for a special occasion," I press my driver, politely. "Like an anniversary dinner with your wife. Where would you go?"
"She likes Italian. You said it's your first time in the city - are you looking for some good restaurants? Now that I could tell you."
I blow a lock of my hair out of my face before it can stick to my forehead, prickled with sweat. My laugh comes out as empty as his attempt at sarcasm. "I meant where would you go for a suit."
He considers my question as the car inches forward. "Hmm. Back in my day it was all about Brooks Brothers. Quality stuff, real classic and old-fashioned. Ready to wear straight from the rack. I don't know what the kids are wearing these days."
He must not think we wear quality stuff, apparently. "Retro stuff is in. And Brooks Brothers is perfect. You think they'd tailor pieces even though my boyfriend isn't with me? Do men's clothing stores do that? I looked at one of the suits he already has and wrote down his measurements. I know it's all about the fit, and he was stressed about making a good impression. I only want to get top-notch pieces for him. A guy would appreciate that, right?"
My driver takes his eyes off the road to look at me in the rear view again, and this time there's no apology in his gaze. He just chortles and shakes his head in a sort of disbelief.
"I think you should stick with your first choice, sweetheart," he advises me, turning down another crowded block. "You seem to have it all figured out."
I frown and finally sink down on the seats, realizing that he's making fun of me. I might have been talking a mile a minute and sharing a first-world problem, but I really did want his opinion. I figured a grown man would know a little something about a good suit - at least more than me. He just thinks I'm a silly girl blowing my boyfriend's money.
"Could you turn up the air?" I ask the cabbie, brushing it off. "It's a little stuffy in here."
He notices the emphasis I put on the word, referring to his attitude, and doesn't say a word to me for the rest of the ride.
About forty-five minutes later we arrive in the heart of Manhattan, which has a completely different atmosphere than the one we drove through. It's still hot and crowded here, but the people are aloof, unaffected by the heat, sipping iced lattes and gliding their countless shopping bags past each other with ease. The air is different, too - the smell of salt, fumes, garbage, and concrete dissolves into rich aromas of foods and heady perfumed drafts. My driver deposits me at the corner of Fifth, where I grab a cold drink before strolling down the strip and into Saks.
The first thing I notice is the blast of air conditioning - it's a welcoming slap in the face, as well as the intoxicating smell of perfumes wafting from the fragrance counter. Bright white lighting illuminates the pristine glass displays, glossy tiles, and lifelike mannequins, luxurious rose-gold tones reflecting all around like a prism. The store stretches back as far as I can see and advertises every high-end brand name I can think of with bold signs hovering above their sections.
I gaze longingly at the Michael Kors collection of bags as I pass it but focus on my mission, drifting to men's formalwear. I find myself in a masculine and elegant area with shelves of silky ties, crisp shirts, and polished dress shoes lining the walls. Pulling out the slip of paper I scribbled Jason's measurements on, I walk around for a while, sifting through sharp, sexy blazers and wanting to grab everything I can picture him in, before figuring I could use some guidance. I'll be in here forever and probably buy a whole line of suits if I don't. Should I go with solid, pinstripe, or tonal? One-button or two? Cotton, linen, or wool? What's the lowdown on inseams? And how do men's European sizes work...?
I give up my search and look around for assistance. The clerk is busy helping someone else, and besides, he looks intimidating. I'm kind of scared to ask. Who can I call? My mind immediately thinks of Khalil, who was always clean and dressed to the nines. Damn, I miss him. Forcing down the lump in my throat, I drag my headphones out of my bag, plug them in, and FaceTime Za. His big friendly face appears on the screen after a minute or two and I can't help but smile.
"You've reached the Trap Hotline," he says officially, stroking his chin. "Please state your name and reason for calling."
"Trap Hotline?" I laugh. "I thought you'd want something more secretive than FaceTime. Phone calls from burner phones with voice distortions, or something."
He clears his throat and says in an unconvincing deep voice, "This is my direct line. I like to see who I'm doing business with. What can I do for you, little lady?"
I giggle. "I need some fashion advice. I'm in the store trying to get a couple suits for Jason. He probably doesn't want me dressing him, though, and I have no idea where to start. All I have are his measurements and an idea of his style, but you probably know better than me. You're a guy and you dress well. Think you can help?"
"You shopping for my boy? Damn, that lucky son of a bitch."
"You mean spoiled," I mumble, but judging by Za's grin, he heard loud and clear. He rubs his hands together and I flip my phone around so he can see the clothes.
"Stay away from black," he advises. "And wool - unless it's a wool-silk blend. It's summer. Cotton and linen are the move. In light, neutral colors. Beige, taupe, grey. Navy and different kinds of blue looks fresh too. And paisley ties. Those shits are clean."
"Wool-silk blend? Taupe?" I laugh as I take his direction. "Wow, Za, I'm impressed."
"My dad taught me how to pick out a suit. One of his lessons to a young black brotha in today's world."
"He taught you well," I compliment, holding up a steel-toned blazer as he nods in approval.
"What kind of ties they got?" he wonders. "I could see a sky-blue silky with that, boy - "
"Excuse me, miss? There's no taking pictures of the merchandise."
I whirl to see the department clerk I spotted earlier walking toward me with a pleasant smile. He's a dapper dude, dressed in an ash-grey three-piece, with a tape measure strung around his neck.
"Oh, I'm not," I tell him, returning his smile. I hold up my phone. "I'm FaceTiming my friend."
"Oh, I see. Still, it looks a certain way, and I don't want you to get in trouble."
"Right." I look at my phone. "I've gotta go, Za, but you gave me a good start. Thank you."
"Fo' sho, Tess. Don't let ol' sales dude trick you into buying any tacky accessories."
"Never," I laugh, and then hang up. The clerk watches me with a patient smile, but doesn't leave. Am I still doing something wrong? I glance down at myself and realize he's looking at my drink. They must have a no food or beverage policy. I give him an apologetic look and try to put it in my bag, awkwardly.
"It's okay," the clerk says - his name tag says Dixon. "You can finish it. You're already getting away with murder."
"Sorry. I didn't know."
"Don't worry about it. Can I help you with something?" He eyes the hefty load of potential pieces I have hanging over my arm.
"Actually... yes." I explain my dilemma to him and hand him Jason's measurements. He nods and listens the entire time like a caring friend.
"This definitely helps," he acknowledges, holding up the slip of paper. "But if you want your boyfriend to be completely satisfied and get the best fit, he should be here. If you want, I can pull the pieces you've picked out and hold them for a tailoring appointment. That's what most of our customers do."
This kind of bursts my bubble, but I know he's right. Maybe this is what my taxi driver was trying to tell me - but Dixon is saying it much more politely.
"Thanks, Dixon, that'd be great," I tell him. "But only if you're the tailor. I'm Tessa, by the way."
"Nice to meet you, Tessa. Your boyfriend is a very lucky man." He takes everything I have hanging over my arm. "Can he be here Friday at two o'clock?"
"I'll make sure he is."
"Excellent. I don't want you to leave emptyhanded, though. Does your boyfriend wear cuff links?"
"Does he," I say with a smirk, thinking of the ones I clipped on this morning.
A little while later, Dixon is fetching a Guiseppe belt and a few Armani ties for me when Jason calls. I answer brightly, not wanting to ruin the surprise but excited by what I've gotten for him.
"Hi, babe - "
"Thank God," he hisses at the sound of my voice. "Where the hell are you?"
Guilt crosses me - but only a little. "I'm in Manhattan. You seemed stressed about what to wear this morning, so I wanted to do a little shopping for you - "
"Manhattan? By yourself? Without telling me? You're supposed to be resting today, TK."
"I was bored," I whine. "And I feel fine. You didn't answer when I called, so I just thought I'd step out. I'm really not that far away."
"You don't have to be for someone to hurt you. And what am I supposed to do, sit here twiddling my thumbs and wait for you to get back?"
"That's what I was doing earlier."
He groans and checks himself. Exasperation colors his tone, suppressing the anger in it. "TK... What did I tell you about running off without telling me where you are? You can't do that here. You don't know this place. And we're in danger right now. You had me worried when I walked in the room and you were gone."
"I understand that, Jason, but don't put me on a leash. If you're gonna be out for long periods of time, I want to enjoy the city, do something for you while you're busy, help out with McCannics - anything. You can't expect me to stay in the hotel all day."
"I can if the doctor told you to rest. And if it's where I know you're safe."
"Well, then, maybe you should tell Vince to play dragon and guard your fragile, helpless princess in her tower. Then you can come and visit me when you're finished with your day."
"TK - "
"Oh, and when the time is right and you feel like it, you can whisk me away, and court me with expensive dates and sweet nothings, trap me in your gentlemanly love, and never set me free because I'm your damsel in distress - "
"I don't think you're helpless!" Jason snaps.
I exhale and pull back my tirade like a tidal wave receding. That came over me like a rush. "Then treat me like it. Don't you think I've worried about you when you've gone out the past few days? But I know you can take care of yourself. I don't get what the big deal is when I do the same."
"The big deal is Tony. And you're out there without protection."
"You mean without you," I correct him. "Leave Vince with me if that's the case."
"So you can bitch about me going out without a bodyguard, too?"
"Bitch?" I repeat, flabbergasted. "Is that what you think I do? Jason, what's your problem? You're being a hypocrite."
"Whatever. I'll see you when you get back. Whenever that is."
I roll my eyes and throw my phone in my bag as Dixon returns to ring me up. I debate telling him to put it all back and cancel the tailoring appointment. I don't, since I'm not petty, but I am pissed. I try to do something nice for Jason and he wants to come at me with bullshit. He's overreacting, and I don't think he expected my resoluteness. I was serious about him accepting that I can handle myself and trusting my assessment of certain situations. If I didn't feel right about coming out today, or sensed any danger, I wouldn't have left the hotel.
When Dixon is done checking me out, I thank him again and leave the men's department. On my way out of the store, I pass the display of Michael Kors purses I was salivating over when I entered. The rows of sandals and wedges beside it are equally tantalizing and pull me like gravity. Bags and shoes - those are my weaknesses. What if I just... picked up a few things for myself, too? Jason can sit in the hotel and brood. I'm fine with staying out long enough for him to really miss me.
Making up my mind to treat myself, I set my eye on a pair of metallic gold wedges and find an assistant to grab my size. She takes them to the back with her and I plop down on a white chaise, bending to remove my own shoes. Absentmindedly I set them in the empty space the Michael Kors left. Moments later someone scoops them up, confirming how stylish I am.
I twist to address them. "Excuse me, those are - " I stop abruptly when I see who I'm looking at.
"Hailey?" I exclaim.
Hailey Michaelson, one of my best friends from high school - from San Diego - looks up and recognizes me immediately. Her jaw drops. "Tessa? Oh. My. God."
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