The soles are cushioned enough for me not to need gel inserts. Since the shoes are already such a statement, I keep the makeup light and natural.

In the lobby, I’m rewarded for my efforts with a long stare at my lower legs and two raised brows as I walk down the hall to meet Richard.

I smile. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” Richard says. “Fancy dinner near the beach?”

“Couldn’t think of a better place.”

If May in New York is mild, in California it’s already summer. I don’t have much time to enjoy the warm evening breeze, however, as we hop in a cab right outside the hotel.

Richard gives the driver the name of a restaurant and we zip off into traffic.

“You know why Indira picked a hotel in Santa Monica when the gala is downtown?” he asks.

I suspect it was her idea of a joke. The beach being more romantic than skyscrapers.

I pretend to be clueless. “She said no one comes to LA to sleep downtown.”

Richard doesn’t ask me any other questions, and I’m too on edge to spark a conversation. The protracted silence makes the journey seem even longer. By the time the driver pulls over, we could’ve traveled from New York to Philadelphia for all I know. But I guess LA has a different spread than Manhattan. Everything seems broader here.

The driver kills the engine. “Sorry, but you’ll have to walk from here. The boardwalk is pedestrians-only.”

I step out of the cab, breathing in the sea air. Our destination looks a lot like the pan shots they do of Venice Beach in movies, even if I’m sure we’re in Some-Other-Name Beach. Wooden buildings litter the concrete promenade on one side. On the other, it’s tall palms, then sand, and finally the ocean where the last sunlight is sinking below the horizon.

Richard leads the way to… oh, no. No! A steakhouse. Story of my life. Guys love meat, and I’m a vegetarian. Maybe we’ll skip the whole why-don’t-you-eat-meat-oh-I-could-never-live-without-bacon drill. I’ll order the one pasta dish on the menu, politely decline Richard’s suggestion of bone-in filet or New York strip, saying I’m not in the mood for a steak, and I might get away with it.

That chance shatters five minutes after we’re seated when a server arrives at our table parading a tray of bloody cuts and starts explaining the various merits of the differently sliced cadavers.

The sight of raw meat makes me slightly nauseous, so I sip some water to stop my stomach from heaving.

Richard notices. “Are you okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” I mutter, staring away from the tray of death. “Could we skip the visual presentation, though?”

The server gives me the I-know-what-you-are-you’ll-order-the-cheap-pasta-and-cut-my-tip-in-half evil eye, but he takes the hint and shuffles away.

Richard blinks. “What’s the matter?”

“I sort of… don’t eat meat.”

“Like ever?”

No point in circling around it. “I’m vegetarian.”

Richard scoffs. “You should’ve said something. We could’ve switched places. I thought vegetarians were supposed to tell you.”