Gavin

*meet me at the st regis 3 pm*

I squinted at the text message before me for the umpteenth time although I now had it memorized. The over-cushioned high-backed chair made sitting feel almost as awkward as standing, but doing so would have destroyed the air of nonchalance I was working so hard to evoke. I shifted in my seat, tucked the loose strands of damp brown hair behind my ears, and once again glanced nervously at the lobby’s entrance. It was hardly the first time I’d felt out of place since stepping off the plane at La Guardia, but this took the cake. The New York of my friend’s friend’s cousin’s cramped but clean Brooklyn pad was not the New York I’d stumbled into somewhere between the 59^th Street Subway station and the steps of the St. Regis.

It wasn’t the finery that I found unnerving; I was as familiar with elegance and basic social graces as any other girl who’d been raised in the no-man’s land between the upper middle and lower upper classes. My nanny had let me practice my manners at the tea houses of San Francisco and had dressed me in trendy, well-kept clothing whenever we were out. I’d been pleased with my selection of dark washed Citizens for Humanity jeans, an Anthropologie blouse in white with a smart looking sash and embroidery detailing Koi fish mid-swim, and metallic silver flats from a season or two ago that I still found fitting. I may not have been suited up for the New York Metropolitan Opera, but the ensemble was surely appropriate for a drink with my best college friend’s prep school buddy. At least, it had seemed so until I walked into the St. Regis. Squeaked may be a better description, for I did in fact squeak in on the marble floors in my sodden silver flats after a hellish search for the hotel in late summer drizzle when my poorly given and poorly written directions failed me. My relief upon finding the place withered into uneasiness as I made my way to the first available crimson seat in that ornate and imposing lobby and wished in vain that I could disappear into it. What sort of 22 year old boy has an afternoon cocktail in a hotel that could pass for an antique museum? As the minutes ticked away, I busied myself feigning interest in a floral arrangement, lost in thought until a male voice broke my reverie.

“Are you Cecilia?” Startled, I turned to see a young man standing casually before me, both hands shoved into the pockets of tailored flat-front khakis whose carefully pressed creases fell just over the tassels of his loafers. A map of some place I didn’t recognize marched around the waist of his needlepoint belt, and at his left breast a poor sheep hung from a sash on his neatly tucked, periwinkle polo shirt. Blue eyes scanned me from head to toe then met mine. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and I wished I’d thought to assess the disaster level of my wet nest of brown hair in the ladies’ room. His own brunette locks were combed to precision and set off his pale complexion. He was more distinguished than handsome, by my Californian standards. He put out a distinguished-not-handsome hand, adorned by a large gold ring.

“I am,” I said, and hurried to stand up and shake his hand. “It’s good to meet you Gavin”