-

Courtney resembles a real-life Disney princess, and Jack is a surly bastard who looks as if he eats gravel for breakfast. Yet, they work together, she all blond and curves and he all ebony and straight lines. They're both freakishly tall, too.

And...Courtney does not look pregnant. At all. Antonia had said she was pregnant, right? Then again, I, of all people, should know that pregnancy doesn't look the same across the board; some women just don't show.

They sit on my sofa, pressed up against each other even though my sofa is large enough to accommodate six people. Courtney's blond head is jutting out from her neck like a chicken as she surveys the rings laid out on the silk-covered coffee table. Jack's elbows rest on his knees, and though I can tell he's trying to remain focused, it's painfully obvious that he'd rather be anywhere but here. I can't blame him: I don't want him here either. 

But because he'll be the one filling my wallet, I have to continue playing the perfect hostess. I say to him, "Jack, would you like another glass of champagne? I also have mineral water and fresh-pressed orange juice."

He doesn't even look at me. "I'll have a mineral water, thank you," he says.

"Courtney, what about you? Anything else you'd like?"

She briefly glances up at me before returning to the rings. "I'd actually love some more of these cookies, they're delicious," she says. "Did you make them?"

I grab his glass and her plate. I tell her where I'd gotten them, from this tiny gourmet bakery in Hell's Kitchen where I had trekked to and waited in line for earlier this morning. I don't tell her that, in any other circumstance, I would never do such a thing for tiny overpriced cookies that taste like sugary sand. 

She perks up. "Oh, is it Silver Lining Bakery?" 

"It is," I say. 

"I've been wanting to try them. They're so good!" 

"I'm glad you like them," I say. "I'll get some more for you, Courtney, as well as that mineral water for you, Jack."

I get up from my seat and pad over to the kitchen. I place the used glass and plate in the sink and take out new ones from the cabinet. As I open the fridge and take out the carafe of mineral water, I can hear Courtney and Jack murmur to each other. From the corner of my eye, I watch as she points at one of the rings, and he studies it with a pinched look. I contemplate spitting into his glass; I have a lougie in the back of my throat, it would be so easy...

I top his spit-free glass with mineral water and place the carafe back in the fridge. I grab the topped glass and a fresh cloth napkin and set them both aside. Then, with my stainless steel chef tongs, I carefully pick out three cookies, each a different color and flavor, from their box and line them against each other on the new plate. I grab another cloth napkin. Once I'm done, I place everything onto a small filigree tray and carry it over to the couch. 

"Here you go, Courtney," I say sweetly. I set the tray onto the table, a good distance away from the rings, and hand the plate of cookies to Courtney. 

"Thank you, Erin," she says. With long manicured nails, she picks up a cookie, the pink one, and nibbles along its edge. She reminds me of a chipmunk, eating like that, and I have this sudden urge to grab the cookie from her hands and force her to swallow the whole damn thing. 

"Here you go, Jack," I say. 

He jerks his chin toward his plate of cookies that are untouched. "You can put it there."

I should've spit in his glass. Instead, I relish in the mental image of my stabbing his eyes with my tongs, the metal gleaming as I bring them up and jam them into the gooey, slimy flesh, blood spurting and washing away the arrogance on his face. 

My smile is genuine as I settle back into my seat. "So, what are you two thinking? Do you have any questions for me?"

"All these rings are so, so gorgeous," Courtney says. "I'm torn between these two."

I follow the movement of her finger. She points between the ring with the Asscher cut diamond that I had gotten from Isaac last week and the ring with the emerald cut diamond that Doc had noted yesterday. I pull on my white cloth gloves and gently free the rings from where they sit in their velvet cushions and hand the first one — the Asscher — to Courtney.

She slides it onto her ring finger; the fit is perfect, I can tell. She angles her hand this way and that, and the square diamond sparkles brilliantly. The band is solid platinum with that single gem set high above it. She faces Jack, her hand held in front of her face. "What do you think?"

"Anything looks good on you, babe," he says.

Translation: I do not give a fuck, let's hurry up and leave.

She giggles. She slides off the ring and hands it to me. I place it back into its cushion and hand her the emerald cut ring. She slides it on. The diamond in the center is flanked by two small baguette diamonds, one on each side. The band is 18K yellow gold. Against Courtney's pale complexion, the yellow gold doesn't shine, but the cut of the diamond itself elongates her slim finger. I already know what she's going to say, why she's torn between the two, but I let her fill in the blanks.

"So," she begins, "I love the platinum, I think it complements my skin tone better as I'm cool-toned, but I really love the emerald-cut. I just don't quite know how I feel about the baguettes on each side; I feel like they look clunky against my finger...or vice-versa? But I do love how the gold plays off the diamonds. I wish I could look good in gold."

I nod. After years of being in this business, I have learned not to take anything personally. "All very fair," I say. "Thank you for sharing. For the baguettes, I was thinking about Jack's engagement ring — yes, I haven't forgotten about you, Jack." That elicits another giggle out of Courtney and a caveman grunt from him. My God, what does she see in this guy?

Among the ring boxes I had laid out on the silk sheet, I grab the one with the single baguette diamond set horizontally across the width of the 18K gold band. I take it out from its cushion and present it to Jack as if I'm the one proposing; I try not to shudder. He stares at it and, after a beat, takes it from my fingers and slides it onto his own. Jack Chung runs warmer-toned than his fiancée, so the gold looks like it belongs on his finger.

Courtney squeals. "Jackie-boo, that looks amazing on you!" She squeezes his arm.

His lips curve into what I think is a smile, and it looks so much worse than I imagined. "You don't like the gold, babe," he reminds her.

"I don't," she says, defeated.

"Not to worry," I say. I present to them another ring for Jack that is made of solid platinum and courts a line of two-carat baguettes channel-set into the band. "Try this one."

Jack tries it on. Courtney squeals even louder. "Ohmygod! I love this one!"

"Jack, what do you think?"

He's nodding. "It's not bad," he says.

Not bad? It's fucking perfect, you motherfucker. I clap my hands. "Yay!" I say. "Alright, Courtney, then for you, I can create an emerald-cut diamond with a solid platinum band and no baguettes on the side—." 

"Could you do one without baguettes and one with? With the emerald-cut? If that's not too much?"

"No problem," I say graciously, even though she must know it's rude to interrupt someone when they're speaking. "Would you like the diamonds to be high-set?"

"Which are these?" she asks. 

I go through each ring, pointing out which ones are high-set and which ones are low-set. I take one out and hold it up to eye-level so that they could visually see the difference as well. 

"Okay, yes," she says as I place the ring back into its cushion. "Would you be able to make both high-set and low-set options with these two designs?"

She wants me to make four new rings? I attempt to widen my smile. "Which one draws you in more?"

She thinks about it. "High-set."

"Great," I say. "I can make two rings with the emerald-cut, one with the baguettes and high-set to match Jack's ring, and one without baguettes and high-set. And then, if you'd still like to see how low-set feels, we can adjust from there. Does that sound like a plan?"

"Perfect," she says. She reaches over and grasps one of my hands. It's still in its glove, but the coolness of her palm seeps through the fabric. "Erin, you are a genius, a true artist. Thank you so, so much. I cannot wait to continue working with you."

With confirmation that I now officially have two new clients on my roster, I allow myself to laugh in delight. "You're too kind, Courtney. Thank you for being so enthusiastic — it's clients like you who make this worth it."

They gather their belongings, and I walk them out to the elevator in the hallway. The hall is silent; a quick peek at my watch reads that it's 10:22. I air-kiss Courtney on both cheeks and shake Jack's hand. His grip is firm, too firm, as if he's testing me, and I look him dead in the eyes and shake just as firmly back. Amusement and a sliver of respect flashes across his features.

"By the way," I say to Courtney, "Antonia told me that you're expecting and looking for an obstetrician. I actually work at an OB/GYN office full time, and Dr. Adam Moretti is wonderful and has openings for new patients, if you're interested. No pressure at all, of course, but here is his contact info." I hand her the business card that I had nabbed from the front counter before I'd left early yesterday.

She takes it, her eyes wide. "Oh!" she says. "Thank you so much! I'm actually not pregnant yet, but Jackie-boo and I are planning it. After the engagement."

I knew it! I pretend to look mortified. "Oh my goodness, I am so sorry! I didn't mean to assume."

"Oh my gosh, girl, you're totally fine," Courtney says. "Not the first time it's happened. It's a rumor that's been going around, actually — you know how people on social media can get."

"Okay, in any case, you have his info, so we can schedule you in anytime, whenever, if you decide to go with us," I say. 

Courtney peers down at the business card again. "I've heard of Dr. Moretti," she says. "Does he really look like a Roman god?"

I give her a wink. "You'll have to find out for yourself."

She laughs. "You're too good, Erin! Thank you, my dear." She blows me a kiss.

I wait with them for the elevator and then wave at them one last time as the doors slide shut. Immediately after, I whip out my phone from my back pocket and type out a message to Antonia: COURTNEY ISN'T PREGNANT.

-

He's rambling. Men — they can never get enough of themselves.

We sit across from each other at Madame Bi's. The restaurant is moderate-sized, and every table is filled tonight. The dark wood paneling on the walls are lined with vintage frames of Vietnamese motifs, such as hand-held fans and lotus flowers. The corners of the space are decorated with fresh pink and red peonies; continuing the theme, a single peony in a glass bulb vase, along with a tiny candle, adorns the center of each table. White orbs of light descend from the ceiling on thin black wires and emit a soft glow across the darkened space.

The appetizers had been cleared, and the waiter had come and gone, depositing our entrées. I gather steaming rice and fragrant lemongrass chicken onto my spoon and nod for the fifteenth time at the gibberish that is coming out of Liam's mouth.

"Anyway," he says with a small chuckle. I watch as the little flame from the candle flickers from his breath. "Enough about me. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What prompted you to New York?"

"Birth," I say.

He blushes. "Right, of course. Have you ever wanted to live anywhere else?"

"Like, Brooklyn?"

He laughs; I stare at him. "No." He clears his throat. "I mean, have you ever wanted to move to California or Canada or, I don't know, Europe?"

"Why? Manhattan's got all I'd want."

He nods thoughtfully, though I can tell he's slightly disappointed by my answer. "That makes sense." He shifts in his seat.

I want to grin at his discomfort. For our date, he's wearing a sleek white button-down, and his sandy brown hair has been styled in a way that looks just slightly, but purposefully, messy. The face of his Rolex gleams in the candlelight. I catch the time: we've been here for thirty minutes.

Because I'm so kind, and, more importantly, I haven't yet done my good deed for the day, I decide to throw him a bone. "I do love traveling, though."

His features brighten. "Oh, yeah? Where have you been recently?"

"Florence," I say. "Tuscany, specifically." It was for a brand trip with Antonia, and I had spent the entire week mainly by myself sightseeing and stuffing myself with panzanella and pappardelle al cinghiale while she did who knew what, carrying around her camera everywhere as if it were some sort of curse. "Have you been?"

"I have! Twice now: one with family and one by myself," he says. "Have you tried Paolo e Paola?" He's referring to the family-owned trattoria named after the original founder's two Bolognese dogs who both lived up to 96 in dog years.

"Of course," I say.

We devolve into the kind of conversation that is easy but forgettable. Soon, like with any boring first date, the conversation peters out. We both sit with our empty plates in front of us. I check the time on his Rolex: an hour and ten minutes have passed. He opens his mouth, and I decide to mess with him a little bit more.

"Do you want to get dessert?"

"Ready to go?"

His features fall, but he schools them into what he probably thinks is a warm smile but resembles more like a coil of barbed wire straightened out. "Yeah, why not." He cranes his neck for the waiter to bring the check over.

As he fills out the bill, I take out my compact from my purse. The dim lighting makes my makeup look 1950s Hollywood movie-like, all smooth with shining eyes. I apply another swipe of lip gloss and lightly smack my lips. From my periphery, I see his hand speed up. I shut my compact and drop it back into my purse. I turn to him just as he closes the bill and give him a beatific smile; I reach for his hand across the table but don't quite touch it. "Thank you so much for dinner, Liam," I say. "You were right: the food is delicious here, and the company wasn't so bad either."

His blue eyes crinkle, and his smile is so wide and open that, for the very first time, I notice that it's all gums. Oh, no. No, no, no. "I'm so happy to hear that, Erin," he says.

I get up then, even more eager to get as far away from him as I can. How had I ever thought he was attractive? I want to vomit, but I hold it in as I scooch my way past the other tables and make my way toward the exit, its neon red letters like a beacon to safety.

I slow to a stop outside the restaurant because as much as my heels want to scurry away, I'm not uncouth enough to leave a date without so much as a goodbye.

"It was lovely to see you, Erin," he says. He leans in for a hug. "I'd love to do this again sometime."

I politely tap his shoulder, leaving a gap between us. "The dinner was lovely, thank you," I say, echoing my previous words. I step out of the hug. I don't respond to his request for a second date because as soon as I leave here, I'll be deleting his number.

"Text me when you're home, alright?" he says.

I give him another smile and a small wave. "You have a good night, Liam," I say.

I turn on my heel and walk about two blocks to digest some of the food before I call an Uber. "What the fuck?" I exclaim as I take in the exorbitant prices. I close out of the app and come out onto the curb, close enough to the traffic but not enough to get run over, and raise my hand for a taxi. Within seconds, a large yellow cab pulls to a stop at my feet. I open the door and give him my directions, and we're off, flying through the streets as if both of us got nine lives.

The cab drops me off in front of the entrance of my apartment complex. I open up my texts and type out four letters as I enter the building. Home.

His response is immediate. Amazing! Again, had a great time tonight with you. Let me know if you'd be up for a second date — would love to take you out again soon.

I stare at the message for a beat. Earlier, I'd planned on deleting his number, but now, I'm not so sure that that would be the smartest idea. Who knows? I might be craving Vietnamese again next week.

I heart the message.