Perfect Match (12 page)

Harper nodded, but chose not to elaborate.

“Cool,” Trevor said. “So, this portrait of you and Noodles—”

I looked at my watch. Crap! It was already seven-thirty. I was going to have to book it if I wanted to check in on Amory before she and Phil went inside the theater.

“Actually, I've really got to run. Harper, tell Trevor about your Great Dane. I think that's a puppy portrait waiting to happen. Have fun!”

I ducked out of the café quickly, leaving them both with sort of stunned looks on their faces. But it would probably be a lot easier for them to talk if I wasn't there directing the conversation, right?

On my jog over to the Provincetown Playhouse on Macdougal, I pulled an SBB and went just a little bit undercover. I wanted to catch a glimpse of lucky couple number two without Phil recognizing that I was spying on him. Even though Alex was down with my project, I didn't want any crazy-Flan stories getting back to him. So I slapped on the biggest pair of black D&G sunglasses I'd been able to pillage from my mother's accessories trunk, and pulled a feathered fedora over my head. Not total incognito, but if I stayed far enough away, I figured no one would recognize me.

Luckily, when I spotted Amory and Phil, they were way more at ease with each other than Harper and Trevor had been. Amory looked like she was doing her impersonation of Hillary Clinton, and Phil was cracking up. Awesome—they were totally picking up where they'd left off at the bowling alley. My work here was done!

I decided I even had time to run to the bathroom before I dashed over to Charles Street to Mary's Fish Camp to observe Camille and Saxton. But just as I
was coming out of the bathroom, I saw Phil heading to the men's room. Amory must still be waiting outside. I dropped my eyes, grateful for the fedora's cover.

“Flan?” he asked. “Is that you? Are you joining us? Great hat, by the way.”

Whoops, maybe my cover wasn't as good as I'd thought it was.

“I forgot you two were coming here tonight,” I lied, unconvincingly. “I just stopped in because I, uh, really love the fountain sodas they sell at the concession stand. But I'm on my way to meet a friend for dinner. Enjoy the show!”

“Wait,” he grabbed my arm. “Before you go, I have a confession to make.”

Huh?

“That note you got the other day from a secret admirer? I know you thought it was from Alex, but ever since I met you at the premiere, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you.” He looked deep into my mortified eyes. “My cousin goes to Thoney and I had her slip it in your locker.”

“But—” I stammered. “You're Alex's friend. And Amory's my friend.”

“And she seems perfectly nice, but if you told me I had a chance with you—”

“No way! No!” I practically shouted. What was happening? This guy was definitely trouble.

Eventually, I'd have to break the news to Amory, but I could still see her waiting outside the theater for her dream date to come back from an innocent trip from the bathroom. The only thing I could do right now was get out of there. I looked at Phil. “Let's just forget this whole conversation ever happened, okay? I have to go.”

“Flan—wait!” he called, but I was already dashing for the back door.

Out on the street, I did a few of the calming breathing exercises that SBB swore by before an audition. I was still a little shaken up by the time I got to Mary's Fish Camp, but in order to focus on lucky couple number three, I tried to put the whole Phil fiasco out of my mind.

Come on, Camille,
I thought as I peered through the window of the tiny fish shack for her long mop of hair.
Please be your charming self so I can feel like at least one date is going right.

Finally, I spotted her and Saxton sitting at the bar and sharing a plate of mussels Provençal. She'd taken my advice and looked like a total bombshell in her green leather pencil skirt. Whoa—and was that Saxton's hand I saw on her knee? Normally Camille
played the prude card for at least three dates. But on-the-rebound-Camille looked down at his hand and even gave him an encouraging smile.

Well, I guess it was finally a score for Flan the Matchmaker. This was by far the date I'd been most wary about, but incredibly, it looked like Cupid had finally touched down. I decided not to jinx it by sticking around any longer and turned south on Seventh Avenue for my final check-in of the night.

During the five-block walk to Bedford Street, my racing around finally caught up with me. I was exhausted, and although I'd been watching other people eat a lot of food, I hadn't had a chance to eat a thing myself. Assuming my checkup on Morgan and Bennett went off without a hitch, maybe I could give Alex a ring and see if he wanted to meet me for a late dinner at Tartine, our favorite French place on West Fourth.

Rejuvenated by my plan, I sped up to tackle my last order of business. The restaurant Moustache was the preferred Middle Eastern joint among city foodies and right up both Morgan and Bennett's alleys. As I turned west on Morton, I expected to find the two of them waiting in line for a table outside and making hesitant introductory conversation.

Then again, I wouldn't have put it past Bennett to
suggest they make a quick stop at some of his favorite (i.e., dusty and disgusting) West Village comic book shops. I shuddered, remembering the way my allergies always acted up in those dingy basement shops he loved so much. Then again, Morgan might be much less allergic to superhero comics than I'd been back in the day.

But when I reached the meeting spot for lucky couple #4, what I saw stopped me in my tracks.

My ex-boyfriend Bennett and my ex-boy-hating friend Morgan were leaning up against a lamppost—totally making out!

I froze, then quickly ducked behind a parked car. I didn't want to look at them, but for some reason, I couldn't turn away. Bennett was doing that thing where he ran his fingers through her hair and—whoa, why did I feel really nauseated? Suddenly, meeting up with Alex for dinner was the very last thing on my mind. My heart was racing and my palms were slick with sweat. What was happening to me?

I couldn't possibly be
jealous
… could I?

After a night of maddening, stressful dreams in which I was on one never-ending date with Alex, who kept turning into Phil, then Trevor, then Saxton, then finally Bennett, I wrestled myself out of bed. At least in my nightmare, I had looked like a goddess in a long, flowing dress and tiara. But when I looked in the mirror, I recoiled at the reality. My eyes were puffy, my skin looked washed out, and my hair was a tangled mess on top of my head. I didn't even know where to begin.

After my unexpected Bennett breakdown outside Moustache, I'd fled the scene and made for my bed as quickly as humanly possible. I'd put my phone on silent, even though I'd sworn to my friends earlier that I'd be available all night for postdate recaps. Now I had four unheard voice messages, most of which I didn't think I could bear to listen to. I wasn't ready
to hear whether Amory had found out about what happened with Phil, and I definitely wasn't ready to listen to Morgan gush about what an excellent kisser Bennett had been.

When I noticed the phone vibrating on my nightstand now, I quickly prayed that it wouldn't be her. Luckily, when I looked at the screen, it was SBB. Phew. She seemed like the most likely candidate to take my mind off the weirdness of last night.

“Flan, I need a favor,” she said immediately when I picked up the phone.

“What's up?” I asked, trying to avoid looking in the mirror.

“I need your opinion on something,” she said. “But I'm at an undisclosed location. I've arranged a helicopter to bring you to me. You'll pick it up at the Chelsea Piers lighthouse in half an hour.”

Normally, I might have asked SBB for a few more particulars, like why the trip required a helicopter—when she said undisclosed location, she could mean anything from Central Park to Cairo—but today I just dotted on some Prescriptives undereye cream and started rooting through my closet for a pair of clean jeans. This was one of those days where someone else's drama was going to be a welcome distraction.

By ten thirty-five, I was shivering on the dock
outside the lighthouse by the Chelsea Piers, wondering whether I'd gotten the wrong information from SBB.

Just then, a dark-haired man in tight white pilot pants approached me.

“Flan Flood?” he asked, showing a perfect chin dimple when he smiled.

“That's me,” I said, smiling back.

“I'm Rich, and I'll be escorting you to your friend.” He was very tan and very Hollywood, as all of SBB's “helpers” had a tendency to be. She'd probably met him on the set of that air force drama she'd been shooting last month.

He gestured to the helicopter that had been hidden from view until a large ship pulled out from in front of it. I felt a bolt of excitement. I'd ridden in helicopters a couple of times before, but never in the front seat, and never next to such an absurdly good-looking pilot.

Rich helped me into the passenger seat and soon we were lifting off into the crisp blue Manhattan air.

“I hope you're not afraid to fly,” he said over the roar of the propeller.

“I hope it never ends,” I shouted back, holding my hair out of my face and away from the wind. The view
of the city was breathtaking, and I soon figured out that we were heading due east. I thought about asking Rich where we were going, but there was something about the mystique of it all that made the ride so thrilling.

Soon, we were crossing over the East River, so I ruled out all Manhattan destinations. I wondered just how far away we were going. …

But Rich began to lower the helicopter just behind the giant Coca-Cola sign that marked the allegedly up-and-coming neighborhood of Long Island City, Queens. I'd never really been over here before, but I had seen it showcased on a home makeover special with my mom last week, right before she jetted off to the mineral springs at Ojo Caliente.

SBB was waiting on the roof of a brand-new high-rise building, and when we touched down, she started jumping up and down.

“Hooray,” she shouted, throwing her arms around me. “You're here! What do you think? Wait—don't answer that, you haven't even seen what I'm talking about. Close your eyes!”

We waved good-bye to Rich, and when SBB had positioned me where she wanted me, she took her hand away from my eyes. “Voilà!”

As I took in my surroundings, my jaw dropped. We
were standing in a massive empty loft with floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the East River and the vast Manhattan skyline behind it.

“Oh. My. God.” I said, taking in the high ceilings, gorgeous hardwood floor, and immaculate kitchen against the wall facing north. “What is this place, SBB?”

“Mine,” she gushed. “All mine after last night. Well, mine and JR's too. Isn't it heaven? It's ten thousand square feet of pure real estate bliss.”

“You own this?” I asked incredulously. “What are you going to do with it? Are you moving out here?”

“Duh.” She shook her head. “I could never leave my town house. How would you survive without me as a neighbor?” It was true. SBB had moved into the town house diagonally behind my family's a few months ago and I loved having her literally a cell phone's throw away.

“No,” she continued. “My vision is to turn this place into a supertrendy socialite center. I want to have a restaurant, a lounge, a catwalk for friends to showcase their new lines; of course JR will need a poker table, maybe a spa …”

“Wow, SBB, that sounds incredible,” I said. “It'll be like the YMCA, except for the young and famous!”

“I don't know what the YMPA is, Flannie, but if
you think this is a good idea, I'll feel way better about the investment. There's just one problem.”

“What could possibly be a problem?” I asked.

“The landing pad on the roof only parks two helicopters at a time, so getting here could be a logistical disaster. You're realistic, Flan. Do you think people would really be likely to take a helicopter ride out just for dinner or a game of cards?”

“I think a lot of your friends take helicopters like the rest of the city takes the train—but if you're worried about it, you know, there's a subway stop right outside.”

“There is?” SBB sounded honestly stunned. “I have a confession to make. I don't actually have any idea where we are. Are we still in America?” She lowered her voice to a whisper, like insurgents might hear us or something.

I started cracking up. “SBB, this is Long Island City.” She still looked entirely confused. “Queens? Ever heard of it? It's part of New York City. You can take the subway. It's super easy. I'll show you on the way home.”

“That won't be necessary,” SBB said, waving her hand dismissively. “But I'm so glad to know about this subway development in case of emergency. Flan, how did you get so resourceful? And so good at geography? Queens, huh? Who knew?”

“I'm going to start calling you the Princess of Queens,” I joked.

“Ooh, and you can invite the Prince of New York to visit my faraway palace next time. How is Alex, by the way? And how did all your friends' blind dates go last night? Step over to where the future lounge will be and tell me all about it!”

We plopped down on the hardwood floor. While we munched on pita chips that SBB pulled out of her massive Lancel tote bag, I told her the good, the bad, and the ugly details from last night's date-a-thon.

When I got to the part about Phil's crush confession and Trevor's overactive interest in painting a portrait of me with Noodles, SBB clapped her hands and laughed.

“It's just sooo fitting that all these silly little boys would fall in love with you, Flannie. Here you were trying to help out your friends and it all backfires. If I wrote screenplays, I would—”