the way uptown, and I was just there a few hours ago. Steering clear of Lexington sounds like a good idea to me. But then again . . . free pizza.
“I don’t feel like walking or taking the train. Can we cab it?” I ask, the soles of my feet aching from making the miles-long journey and subsequent exercise in worn-out sneakers earlier. I’m due for a new pair, but I’ve been too swamped with work and new clients to take the time to do some proper shoe shopping.
Wren shrugs. “Yeah. Sure. Enzo, go get your shoes on.”
Chauncey’s pizzeria is situated halfway between Midtown and the Upper East Side. From the outside, it looks like an Irish Pub, complete with an emerald green awning with Finnegan’s Pizzeria scrolled across it in gold lettering. Irish bagpipe music plays on a loop inside, and the menu consists of the most ridiculous pizza offerings like Bram’s Corned Beef and Cabbage, Quinn’s Potato Leek and Bacon, and Mrs. O’Flannery’s Shepherd’s Pie.
He said when he first opened this place, fusion restaurants were all the rage, and he’d never seen an Irish-Italian fusion done quite like this before, so he took a chance. And he got lucky. Because this place is never not busy.
“Hey babe.” Chauncey comes out from the back room dressed in khaki slacks and a gray button down. He wraps his arms around Wren, his face lit like the Griswold’s house at Christmastime. He never kisses her in front of Enzo out of respect, which is yet another thing I love about Chauncey. “What a surprise. My favorite girl. My favorite guy.”
He reaches down, ruffling Enzo’s thick, dark mop.
“And my favorite future sister-in-law,” he adds, giving me a wink.
“Your only future sister-in-law.” I’ve heard this joke a million times, and for some reason it never gets old to him, so I punch his arm playfully and do my part because he’s Chauncey and he means well.
“Saved you guys a table in the back.” He motions for us to follow him, and I spot a “reserved” sign at the edge of our favorite booth in the corner. “Best seat in the house.”
We slide into the booth, the green, waxy seats still wet from their fresh wipe down, and I grab a drink menu from behind a parmesan shaker.
“You’re drinking tonight?” Wren asks.
“Is that a problem?” I arch an eyebrow.
“It’s just not like you to drink on a Monday night,” she says.
“Still a little rattled from that asshole earlier,” I say.
“Why’d you let him get to you? Screw him.” Wren’s face pinches.
“I told myself I wouldn’t,” I say, flipping through the drink selection. “I know people like him aren’t worth it. It’s just like, when you try to do something nice for somebody and they’re a giant ass, it’s hard to shake that off.”
“Nothing you can do about it. Can’t control the way other people act, Aidy. All that matters is you had good intentions.”
“Damn right, I did.”
“What happened?” Chauncey asks.
“You know that journal she found last week?” Wren says, pointing at me but looking at her fiancé. “She went to return it today and the guy was a total you-know-what. Said he’d never seen it in his life. Accused her of stalking him and wanting an autograph.”
Chauncey laughs. “Probably some Internet-famous, delusional jerkwad. City’s full of ‘em. Don’t let it ruin your day, Aidy.”
“Can we get pepperoni?” Enzo asks Chauncey.
“Would you like your very own Enzo-sized pepperoni pizza?” Chauncey asks.
My nephew nods, wagging his tongue like a dog.
“You girls want the usual?” Chauncey asks.
“Yes, sir,” I say, pointing to the drink menu. “And bring me an Irish Rose, pretty please with sugar on top?”
Chauncey leaves, flagging down a server to handle our orders, and then returns to the back, disappearing behind two swinging doors.
“He’s a hard worker, that guy.” I say to Wren.
She smiles, head tilted as she spins a red pepper shaker in front of her. “He’s a good guy. I think I’ll keep him. Enzo, should I keep Chauncey?”
Enzo nods enthusiastically.
“Hey, you never told me how your interview went with that reality star.” I reach across the table and tap the top of her hand.
She shrugs, lips flat. “It was okay. She was a bit of a snot. One of those who think they’re more famous than they are, you know?”
“Aren’t they all like that?”
“She had me take off her makeup and redo it,” Wren says. “It took a good fifteen minutes to get everything off. I mean, her face was spackled