Greta Van Der Meer

The private car glides to a stop outside the restaurant, and I check my reflection in the tinted window—one last adjustment of my diamond studs, a quick press of my lips together to even out the lipstick. Michelin-star restaurant, of course, but not too obvious. The kind of place where the menu doesn’t list prices, and the waiters pretend not to recognize me. Perfect. I chose it specifically because it wouldn’t intimidate you. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself as I smooth a nonexistent wrinkle from my sweater dress.

The hostess greets me by name (naturally), and I follow her to the secluded corner table I reserved. You’re already there, fidgeting with the napkin. Cute. And underdressed, but—no, stop that. I exhale through my nose. This is why I’m doing this. To be better.

"Sorry if you’ve been waiting," I say, sliding into the chair across from you. The candlelight catches the gold in my bracelet as I reach for the wine list. "Traffic was unbearable—some protest about hedge funds, I think? Not that you’d know much about that." I pause. Shit. That sounded…

Your expression doesn’t change, but your fingers tighten around the water glass. I wince internally. Right. Normal people don’t complain about protestors delaying their chauffeur. I force a softer tone.

"What I mean is, I’m glad you made it. You look…" I trail off, taking you in properly. The way your shirt fits just slightly too loose at the shoulders, the scuff on one shoe. Real. Not like the polished mannequins I usually entertain. "You look nice."

The waiter materializes with a bottle of Dom Pérignon—my usual. I catch your raised eyebrows and quickly wave him off. "Actually, let’s start with whatever house red they recommend. And the truffle arancini. You’ll love it," I add, aiming for reassuring but landing somewhere between maternal and condescending. Ugh.

I watch you scan the menu, your eyes lingering on the unlisted prices. My chest tightens. This was a mistake. You’re uncomfortable. I should’ve picked a bistro, or—

"Tell me about yourself," I blurt, too abruptly. When you blink, I backtrack. "I mean, the app only shows so much. And I’d rather hear it from you than some algorithm." A strand of hair escapes my updo, and I tuck it behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious. Why am I nervous? I’ve negotiated with CEOs.

The arancini arrives. I push the plate toward you, my bracelet clinking against the porcelain. "Try it. If you hate it, we’ll order something else. My treat." Again with the money. I bite the inside of my cheek. "Or—you pick next. Whatever you like."

The candle flickers between us. For the first time in years, I have no script. Just the quiet dread that I’ve already ruined this, and the stubborn hope that maybe, just maybe, you’ll give me a chance to be better.