“What is the right age, really? Is there an age that’s wrong?” he asked, but he kissed my forehead. “I’ll do it when the time is right. Okay?”

Well, didn’t I feel stupid. “Okay.”

“I want the moment to be when we’re not freezing our asses off in the dark. Don’t worry. It’ll be perfect.”

My heart felt weird. Happy weird, or disappointed weird? “I mean, now that we’re talking about it . . . you could just . . . ask.”

“No. I want it to be really romantic. Not on a night so cold my balls are retracting.”

“Got it.”

In case there was any doubt that my plan sucked, those dark gray clouds opened and a cold rain started to fall.

“I’m gonna pass out if I don’t eat soon. Want to grab something, then go back to my place and fool around so we can salvage this night?”

“Sure.”

Feeling like a dolt, I followed him to the stairs that led to street level.

Alexander’s phone chimed. He studied it, then looked up. “Shit, babe,” he said. “I have to go up to Boston. That idiot Patriots player is pitching a fit over a painting of himself that was supposed to be hung on the ceiling over his bed, and the designer put it on the wall instead. What time is it? Damn. I’ll have to drive up tonight.” He looked at me. “Want to come? We could grab some fast food on the road and stay overnight. A suite at the Mandarin with some spa time tomorrow, maybe?”

That was the thing about Alexander. He was so thoughtful. But my feeling of ineptitude lingered.

“I think I’ll just go home. I have a painting due Sunday.”

“Gotcha.” We stood there awkwardly. “Want me to drive you home?

“Subway’s faster,” I said.

“Okay.”

“Well. Drive safely.”

“I will. Talk to you, babe.” He kissed me quickly and strode off.

It really was cold. I started walking toward Eighth Avenue to catch the subway. Soon, I’d be home. Maybe I’d take a shower to warm up. Order Thai food and work on that blue-and-white “like Van Gogh except not as swirly” painting I’d been commissioned to do. Bitter sigh, followed by the reminder to be grateful that I had these gigs at all and wasn’t living in a paper bag.

Just then, my phone rang. Juliet, who almost never called me. “Hi!” I said. “How are you?”

“Listen, Sadie,” she said, her voice strange, and instinctively, I stopped walking, my free hand covering my ear so I could hear her better. “Dad had a stroke. He’s in surgery at UConn, and it’s pretty bad. Get here as soon as you can.”

CHAPTER TWO

Barb