The second part of my plan is that I would have quit my job running the All Saints clothing store downtown and finally branched out on my own, opening my own clothing boutique.
That hasn’t happened. In fact, my dream has never seemed so out of reach. I’m scared of taking the leap – securing rent, signing a lease, doing all my own buying, my marketing, my promotions, my hiring. Even though having my own store has always been a dream, the thing that I’ll do when I’m older, it seems that the older I get, the scarier it is to finally do something about it. Daydreams become dollar signs and a million ways you can fail and still have to pay for it.
I don’t want to fail. But I can’t keep coasting along in life like this either.
I’m out in the kitchen, brewing a huge pot of coffee even though I know in my hungover state I’ll only get through one cup, when my cell rings. I answer it quietly and on first ring, just in case it wakes the slumbering ape.
“Hey old lady,” Linden’s charming accent comes in over the phone. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Ugh,” I say, even though I’m smiling. “I feel like a piece of turd.”
“I figured you might,” he says. “Speaking of turd, who the hell was that guy you were with last night?”
I sigh and place my forehead in my hand, leaning over the counter. “I wish I knew. He’s in my bed at the moment, sleeping like I fucking drugged him.”
There’s a pause and then Linden says, “What happened to ‘no more sleeping around’ and ‘twenty-six is the whole new me’?”
“Well what did you do last night? If I seem to recall, you had your tongue down some tiny chick’s throat half the night.”
“Tongue in the throat, cock in the cunt, it’s all the same,” he says while I make an exaggerated sound of disapproval at his choice of words. Truth is, it always sounds sexy coming from him. Call it Scottish slang or whatever. “Besides, when it was my birthday I never made such foolish claims as you.”
That’s true but then again, Linden has never needed to change anything about his life. He now has his helicopter pilot license and is working on a contract for a local charter company. His parents are wealthy big-shots and I know they bought him his apartment on Russian Hill, where he lives alone, and he’s never once said that sleeping with chicks is a problem for him. In fact it seems not sleeping with chicks seems to be a problem.
“Anyway,” he says, “want to get a wee bit of breakfast? Brunch? Lunch?”
“Sure,” I say, quickly calculating how fast I can get ready. “I can be ready in a half-hour but I’m not sure how fast I can get rid of the dude.”
“Leave that to me,” Linden says and then hangs up.
Ah shit. I fear what Linden has planned. He’s been diabolical on more than one occasion.
I make my way over to the bedroom and peer inside. The guy is still sleeping and snoring lightly. I grab a pair of black jeans and a long, studded t-shirt and head into the bathroom. When I get out of the shower, I comb my wet hair back into a bun and do a light dusting of makeup on my face. I still feel like crap but at least my cheeks and lips have color.
When I step back out, I’m surprised to see the guy standing in his boxers and looking out the window to the street below. He turns around and smiles at me in surprise. He’s cute, I’ll give him that, but not cute enough for me to want him to stay.
“Oh, hey,” he says. “Great view you have.” He gestures to the window.
I frown. My window looks across at a rough-around-the-edges Mexican restaurant and a rusted bicycle that has forever been chained to a utility pole.
“Uh, thanks,” I tell him, totally conscious that I don’t know his name.
“You were quite something last night,” he says with an eager smile and takes a step toward me.
“Like a hot mess?” I supply, taking a step back.
“Like a hot fuck,” he corrects.
Charming.
“How about round two?” he asks, reaching out to grab my hand.
Aw, hell no.
“Honey I’m home,” I hear Linden’s voice break through the moment and I give a small sigh of relief. The guy frowns in confusion just as the door to my bedroom opens and Linden appears.
“Wow, who is this one?” Linden asks, smiling as he looks the guy up and down. His tall build, broad chest and wide shoulders overwhelm the doorframe as he leans against it, looking casual but completely masculine in his black t-shirt and dark jeans. As usual, the Keds are on his feet.
I look to the guy, waiting for him to fill in his name since I can’t.
“I’m Drake,” the guy says, glancing between the two of us. He’s scared. It doesn’t help that Linden is a lot bigger than him.
“Drake,” Linden repeats then turns to me. “So, are you done with him? Is it my turn yet?”
“What?” Drake spits out, total fear rippling through him.
“Yeah,” Linden says, folding his arms. “See, Steph and I have this thing where we like to share. She has a go and then I have a go. You don’t mind, do you?”
The guy turns beet red and stammers, “Uh, uh, I think I should go.”
Linden raises his palms. “No, no, stay. We can both have you at the same time if that’s easier. As long as you don’t mind being on the bottom.”
Now Drake is grabbing his jeans and yanking them on. He doesn’t even go for his t-shirt, he’s panicking that much.
“Linden,” I warn and Linden grins, stepping to the side as Drake scurries past him and into the hall. I hear him grab his shoes and the front door shuts behind him.
“Rude,” Linden says. “The wanker doesn’t even say thank you.”
I roll my eyes. “You know, I could have gotten him out of here just fine.”
“Aye, but where would be the fun in that?”
The funny thing is, Linden rarely has to do anything to scare away the men in my life other than just show up. A lot of the guys I’ve dated had big, serious issues with Linden being my friend. They just couldn’t comprehend how we could be so close and yet never have anything happen between us.
I can’t really explain it either, other than the fact that I went out with James first. Although I worked with Linden, I only really got to know him through James and well, once you know your boyfriend’s best friend, they stay in that box. Even now, with the years between me and James’s demise, pursuing Linden would be wrong.
And of course, he’s my friend and I don’t think of him that way. Just the occasional ogle, remember?
“So where to?” I ask him when I’ve grabbed my purse and chucked Drake’s t-shirt in the garbage.
“Did you feel like taking a helicopter ride?”
I cock my head, caught off guard by this idea. “Are we going to call James, because if we don’t, he’s going to be really hurt.” James is always complaining about how Linden hasn’t taken him up in the air yet. He hasn’t taken me either but it doesn’t feel right to do it without James. We’re the three amigos, though lately it feels like it’s been splitting into two.
“He’s working, baby blue,” he says lightly. “You know he always is. It’ll just be you and me.”
I wish I could bury the fluttering in my heart. I clear my throat. “Okay.”
An hour later we’re in Marin County where Linden flies from. Unfortunately, we’re grounded. There are no choppers available at such a last minute notice, so we end up at seaside bar in Sausalito. I admit I’m a little disappointed at not seeing Linden in action first hand, but I’m happy just to nurse a Bloody Mary with great company and a beautiful view.
“You know when we’re married,” Linden says after we’ve sat there for a while, watching the waves lap the shore, the city skyline in the background, “I’ll take you up into the sky anytime you want.”
I can’t help but smile. “Oh, are we still getting married?”
“Thirty is coming up soon.”
I glare at him. “Hey, I just turned twenty-six. Give me a break.”
/> He shrugs. “Just reminding you. A pact is a pact.”
“Right,” I say, taking a long swig of the Bloody Mary. I wish the rest of my life followed such a pact. I give him a sidelong glance. “You’d take me up anytime I wanted?”
“Of course,” he says. “You’d be my wife. And you’re bound to love a C&C.”
“C&C? Like the sailboat?”
“Chopper and cock,” he says. “Cock in the cockpit. Blow job while flying. Can’t be beat.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve already had this done before,” I tell him and I cringe at the thought of him getting head by some bimbo in the air.
He reaches across the table and pats my hand. “You’ll be the first.”
“You’re so romantic,” I say dryly to which he laughs.
Here goes another year.
CHAPTER TWO
27
I think I’m in love with Owen Geary.
In fact, I know I’m in love with Owen Geary. Even the sound of his name does this thing to my blood, boils it up a little, makes my head feel all swimmy.
Twenty-seven is going to be the best year yet.
It’s mid-October and San Francisco is going through yet another heatwave. I’m wearing black leather shorts to my job at All Saints, trying to ignore the small traces of cellulite that appear on my upper thigh in the wrong light. I’m still in my twenties, life is still good. I can get past the fact that my own fucking skin is turning on me.
Sometimes I wonder if I need to become a vegetarian, maybe eat more kale and nuts and less cupcakes and fruity cocktails. When I turned twenty-seven yesterday, I made the conscious decision to start using night cream and serums and fancy sunscreens. My father may have darker skin because of his Mediterranean heritage, but I knew I wasn’t exempt.
I also decided I needed to start doing yoga and training for marathons. The city’s one was a few weeks ago and all the fit, lean ladies were doing their effortless runs through Golden Gate Park or their sprints up the stairs to Twin Peaks. I used to be able to coast through life without lifting a single weight but now my body is starting to add extra fat to my thighs, stomach, and boobs. The boob part I can live with, but I feel like if I don’t do something soon, I’m going to be a blob. A blob with big boobs.
Part of me wants to just keep on keeping on, as I always have. But I can’t do that. I have goals. Sure, I’m still a manager at All Saints, but I feel like my own store is just within my reach. And my love life is finally where it should be.
Of course there are things about Owen that aren’t perfect. He’s an accountant at a major firm downtown, so he’s extremely successful but he works long hours and he doesn’t really have that dreamer’s mentality about him. He’s handsome in that clean-cut all American boy way, and it’s great, though his ears are a little bit big and pointy. And he loves to talk about golf when I’d rather him talk about hockey.
Despite all of that, it’s hard to find fault. I mean, other faults. Plus he’s good enough in the sack and we have plenty of things to talk about. Most of all, he’s dependable and dependable is what I need right now, especially when the rest of my life is kind of hanging in the balance.
My parents are separating and probably getting a divorce, another blow to the past year and a total surprise. I always thought of divorce as something that ripped apart my friends’ families in grade school, and that had lasting effects in high school. But I never imagined that it could happen beyond that tumultuous realm of adolescence. Yet suddenly, or at least it seems sudden, my father decided he wanted to be free of my mother. He packed up and moved to Oklahoma.
I still don’t know why. My mom doesn’t know either, or so she says. I’ve asked her if dad fell in love with someone else, I’ve asked my dad if he found someone else but the answer is always the same: change. He needed change.
I just don’t see how you can be married to someone for thirty-five years and then suddenly need change. Why at thirty-five? Why not thirty? Twenty? After everything my family had gone through with my brother, Nate, and the years and years of having to cope and move on…why now?
So now I spend my weekends with my mother in Petaluma, out of guilt. My father rarely calls or emails. Maybe he feels guilt too. I hate seeing how sad my mom is, how empty the house is, how jaded she’s become about life.
Maybe that’s why I really hit it off with Owen – to show her that I could have someone and make it work even if she couldn’t. The dependable men, those are the ones that stick around, the ones you marry. Not the playboys. Not the dreamers. Not, apparently, someone like my father.
Besides, it doesn’t matter what she thinks. I love Owen Geary.
Since I started dating him a few months ago, I’ve seen James and Linden less and my friend Nicola Price more. I actually went to grade school with Nicola, though we were never friends back then, and reconnected when we both went to the Art Institute for a year, both of us in fashion merchandising. Owen likes Nicola; he doesn’t like James or Linden. James, I’m going to assume, because he’s my ex-boyfriend, and Linden because he’s a guy who’s close to me. And he’s Linden.
But finally, finally, because it was my birthday, I was able to makes plans for dinner with them. I get through my shift – only four hours today, most of it sorting out the clothing on the racks and flipping through paperwork – and then rush right home, glad that I drove instead of taking the bus.
Owen is already at my apartment pouring himself a glass of straight vodka. I’m not sure why he drinks it like that – a glass of straight vodka has to be the shittiest drink ever – but he’s thirty-three and I guess you know what you want by that age.
He’s wearing a pinstriped shirt, slim-cut pants, and shiny shoes. It’s all designer, it all looks good on him. He’s on the thin side and seems to be getting leaner as I get fatter, but at the moment we’re a nice balance. I’ve toned down my tendency to dress edgy and I find myself covering up my tattoos on my wrists (my brother’s name on one, the word “believe” on the other) more with long sleeves. We look like a good couple, especially now that my hair is dyed a nice auburn brown that nearly matches his.
We are good. We are dependable.
I slip on a silk tank top over my shorts and fix up my face just in time for James and Linden to come to the door. I don’t realize how nervous I am until I gasp at their knock. I wish my roommate was coming with us, or was at least home. Kayla has this way of diffusing the tension and I have a feeling things are going to be a bit awkward tonight.
Or a lot awkward.
And it is, at least from James and Owen. James comes in and gives me a curt nod, wishes me a happy birthday and then nods at Owen. His jaw is tense and he’s acting a lot like Owen is, full of antagonistic suspicion. They eye each other like two lions over the remains of a meal and I’m kind of surprised to see that coming from James. Usually James is a subdued figure in the background.
Maybe it’s because James looks like he has this antagonistic way about him to begin with. He’s got shaggy black hair, tattoos, a slim, pale build and a few piercings. He’s not as tough or rebellious as he appears to be – in fact, he’s a giant softie who cares deeply about what everyone thinks – but you have to get to know him to know that.
I’ll admit, that’s what attracted me to James in the first place – the person I thought he was. The reality of us didn’t work so well together.
Linden, though. He bursts into the room and scoops me up into a giant bear hug, holding me tight. He smells like sage and woodsy stuff. His arms feel like hot steel. He feels so unbelievably safe that a part of me suddenly mourns the fact that I haven’t seen him for a long time.
“Happy belated, baby blue,” he murmurs into my neck and I briefly close my eyes. When we break apart, I’m aware of James and Owen both staring at us. The suspicious looks have only deepened.
“Thanks,” I tell him, clearing my throat as if I’ve briefly come undone while he strides over to Owen with his hand out.
“Nice
to see you again, aye,” Linden says to him. It takes Owen a moment to react and shake his hand right back, quick, light and impersonal.
“You too,” Owen says, then his lips clamp into a hard line.
We go to a speakeasy in Japantown. Linden apparently “knows” the hostess and was able to secure us a reservation when we would normally have to wait for weeks. We find the unmarked door beside a dingy diner full of green lighting and sad faces. There is no secret knock but there is a phone number you’re supposed to text.
A few minutes with the four us standing around outside rather awkwardly while a few homeless men trundle past with their shopping carts full of blankets and beer cans, the door finally opens. There is the hostess in all her tall, leggy glory.
“Hi Linden,” she says, batting her heavily made up eyes. The makeup is done tastefully though, so it looks sultry, not slutty, and I don’t know why that bothers me more, or why it even bothers me at all.
Linden looks her up and down with that gunslinger squint of his, that half-cocked smile. “Emily,” he greets. “How are ya?” I love the way his “R”s roll off his tongue.
She puts a hand on her hip, showcasing the cut of her dress over her slim thighs. No cellulite on her. “I’ve been just fine. Not waiting for you to call me or anything.”
I rub my lips together, supressing a smile. Who actually says shit like that?
Apparently Emily does. Linden only grins at her. “Well, does this count as me calling on ya?”
Emily narrows her eyes, not impressed. “Come this way.”
She leads us down a dark, narrow hallway that goes on for so long that I start to think perhaps this was all a clever ruse on her behalf, a way to attack Linden with her feminine wiles, until we hear muffled chatter and low bass. To the right of us a small rectangle of a room opens up, all gold skulls and low white velvet benches and young, steampunk-ish bartenders slinging brightly colored drinks.
Not at all like the classic speakeasy I had in mind, but it’s still pretty cool.