by Alexa Land
She flashed me a smile and said, “Honey, don’t you worry. We already have dozens more coming out of the oven in back. The shelves will start filling up again in just a few minutes.”
Once my car was loaded with cookies, I stopped off at a drugstore and bought a pack of the type of Valentines kids took to school. They were Star Wars themed and painfully corny, which made me happy, and sported slogans like ‘Yoda Best’ and ‘You R2 cool, Valentine’ and ‘I Chews You to be my Valentine’ (that one featured Chewbacca, of course). My favorite had a picture of Princess Leia on it and said ‘You’re my only hope, Valentine.’ I stuck one of the Leia cards to Sharona’s dashboard.
I spent the next couple hours driving all over San Francisco, delivering cookies and Valentines to my friends. I saved a box for Nana and Ollie, which I’d deliver when I went home that night. Until then, those two needed a little privacy.
Next up were the three big boxes. The first went to a soup kitchen and community center for the homeless, where my friend Christopher Robin volunteered. I took box number two to the LGBT community center where I’d met Nana, and where I used to attend a weekly support group. For the final delivery, I drove to SOMA. The busy South of Market district included an eclectic blend of high tech companies, museums, shops, and the city’s huge convention center, and was also home to my friend Christian’s nonprofit.
The Zane Center offered free art and music lessons to the community, with an extensive program for children. I volunteered there one day a week. I had nothing to teach since the center obviously didn’t include classes on rebuilding engines, so I mostly just helped out in the office.
I paused for a moment when I walked up to the building and admired the bright, colorful mural that adorned the entire façade. It made me happy every time I saw it. Christian had painted a whimsical playground and had included kid versions of everyone who’d helped get the center off the ground, including his husband Shea, his best friend Skye, Nana, and even me. A seven-year-old towheaded Jessie was off to one side, pushing a red toy car across the blacktop. Christian had totally nailed it.
The center was hosting a Valentine’s Day open house, and it was crowded. For some reason, I’d thought it wouldn’t be very busy so I hadn’t signed up to work it, but I realized as soon as I walked in the door that I should have. Also, several of my closest friends were volunteering, and I could have just handed them their cookies in person instead of going to each of their apartments.
I paused at the wide front counter, put down the bakery box and took off my jacket. The reception area was sleek and industrial. It was also sunny, thanks to several large skylights in the three-story ceiling. Overhead, a graceful kinetic sculpture of a couple dozen mixed-metal wings spun slowly on the air currents. Skye had really outdone himself on the giant mobile.
Heather, one of the volunteers who worked at the reception desk, smiled and said, “Hi Jessie, glad you could make it. Want me to stash your coat behind the counter?”
I thanked her and handed over my jacket, then gave her a heart-shaped cookie before carrying the box to the long buffet table in the community room. The vibrant space was adorned with framed artwork made by students and furnished with colorful couches, tables and chairs. At the moment it also held a couple hundred people, mostly families.
Christian came up to me and said, “Aw thanks, Jessie, that was nice of you,” and after I put down the cookies, he gave me a hug.
“I should have planned ahead and ordered more. I don’t know why I thought the open house wouldn’t be crowded.”
“I’m surprised at the turnout myself. I thought a lot of people would have plans on Valentine’s Day.”
I took a good look at Christian as he was talking. He’d had a brain tumor and believed he was going to die when he founded the nonprofit, and the Zane Center was meant to be his legacy. Since then, he’d survived experimental drug treatments, brain surgery to remove the tumor, endless rounds of chemotherapy, and had come out on the other side with only a few lingering effects. His fine motor skills weren’t completely back to one hundred percent, but he worked hard in physical therapy and had regained much of what he’d lost.
He’d regained something else as well, and I wondered if he realized it. When he’d thought he only had a few months to live, Christian had lost his spark. He went from being colorful and outrageous to sort of closing in on himself, and his outward appearance had reflected that. But that spark was back and shining like a beacon. One of the most obvious changes was the fact that he was growing his light brown hair into a wild, tousled mane, after losing it during chemo. Even more significantly, the light was back in his big, green eyes. He’d ringed them with guyliner and was dressed like a rock star with lots of silver jewelry, which also told me the old Christian was back and better than ever.
I felt a little prickle of tears at the back of my eyes, and crushed him in another hug. When I finally let go of him, he grinned and said, “What was that for?”
“I’m just happy to see you, Christian.” There was a lot more to that than he realized and he probably thought I was nuts, but that was fine with me. “Now tell me what I can do to help. It looks like you’re short a few volunteers.”
“Dare could use a break, it’d be great if you took over the Valentine table for a little while. It’s set up against the back wall,” he said, pointing to his right. “Shea and I are about to run out and buy some more snacks, we planned for a crowd a third this size.”
“On it,” I told him and started to make my way across the room. My friends’ alternative rock band was playing, and when I waved at them, Dev, the lead singer, gave me a salute. I greeted several more friends on my way to the craft table. All of them were helping out, and I felt like a shmuck for not having volunteered in the first place.
Dare was covered in a fair amount of glitter and seemed happy to see me. After we exchanged hellos, he rubbed his nose, transferring even more purple glitter to it, and said, “It’s pretty self-explanatory. The kids can make cards for whoever they want, most are choosing to make them for their mom or dad. Since the paint and glue needs time to dry, they can hang them up over there if they want to.” He gestured to his right, where three long, red ribbons had been fastened to the wall. Each was lined with clothespins and held dozens of colorful kid creations. The card station had clearly been popular.
After Dare left for his break, I took a seat behind the long folding table and tidied up the supplies a bit. There were watercolor paints and markers and dozens of little pots of glitter, which explained the sparkly tabletop. I gathered up the cardstock and patterned paper into neat piles and outfitted each of the four work stations with a few basic supplies, then sat back and waited. The four yellow chairs lined up in front of the table were empty, but I wanted to be ready in case a second wave of kids descended.
After a while, I noticed a pair of big, brown eyes watching me. A little girl was peeking out from behind a concrete pillar, and when I waved at her, she waved back hesitantly. She seemed really curious about the art supplies and kept getting up on her tip-toes to take a look at what was in front of me, but seemed too shy to actually approach the table. I had an idea for putting her at ease and picked up a pair of safety scissors and a sheet of pink paper. I then stuck my tongue out in a pantomime of concentration, waved the paper and scissors around a lot and made a few wild cuts. The little girl cracked a smile.
I got up, carried my cut-out blob over to her, and knelt in front of her as I said, “I tried to make a heart, but it looks like a marshmallow.” That made her smile again. “Do you think you could help me? Maybe if you draw a heart for me, I can cut it out and then it won’t look so squishy.”
The girl followed me back to the table, then hesitated again. She was wearing a pink knit dress over a pair of flowered jeans, and she twisted the hem of her skirt between her chubby little fingers for a few moments as she took a look at the art supplies. She was a pretty serious kid, which struck me as kind of unusual for a five-
or six-year-old. But what did I know? It wasn’t like I spent much time around children.
When she finally sat down, she picked up a crayon and knit her brows in concentration as she carefully drew a heart on a piece of red paper. When she handed it to me, I said, “Thanks for helping me. I want to make a card for someone special. Is there someone you’d like to make a card for?”
“My daddy,” she said.
I took a look at the paper in my hand and said, “Wow, that’s a perfect heart, thank you. I’m going to cut it out and put glitter on it, and then glue it to this purple paper. What color do you want to use for your card?”
I fanned out the stack of cardstock, and she pushed her long, dark brown hair out of her eyes and thought about it for a few moments before selecting a light blue piece. “Great choice! Blue’s my favorite color,” I told her.
“It’s my daddy’s favorite, too.”
“Is your daddy here?”
She nodded. “I don’t want him to see the card until it’s done, so will you help me hide it if he comes over here? I told him not to because I wanted to make him a present, but sometimes grown-ups don’t listen.”
“For sure. Should we have a secret code if you see him coming, so I’ll know it’s time to hide the card? Maybe you can say pink puffy poodle, and then I’ll throw myself on top of the table so he won’t see what you’re working on.”
That earned me another smile. “You’re silly,” she said.
“Thank you.” Her smile got a little bigger.
We both worked on our cards for the next few minutes. I carefully cut out the heart she’d drawn, and filled it in with a glue stick before sprinkling it with red glitter. Meanwhile, she folded the paper in half and concentrated on drawing a picture with markers. After I glued the heart to the front of a purple card, I wrote a message inside it and fanned it a bit to speed the drying process while idly scanning the crowd.
A tall, dark-haired figure halfway across the room caught my attention. His back was to me, and I admired the view. Tight, black jeans accentuated a perfect ass, and the black t-shirt he wore showed off big biceps, broad shoulders, and a narrow waist. Damn.
When he turned around and I realized it was Trigger, I was startled, but then I took the opportunity to study him as he looked around the room. He really was a handsome guy, with strong, even features, flawless olive skin, and lips so full and sensual they gave me a million bad ideas. In fact, when he wasn’t saying anything, he was damn near perfect.
If I’d had the word ‘perfect’ written on a piece of paper, I would have crumpled it up and tossed it over my shoulder after what happened next. A tall woman with short, dark hair joined him, and I knew in an instant she wasn’t just a friend. There was way too much of a connection between them, something in the way they interacted that gave the impression they just belonged together. His expression when he looked at her was tender, loving. She rested her hand on Trigger’s shoulder and whispered something in his ear, and he tipped his head back and laughed while I considered throwing up in my mouth.
Ugh, I felt dirty. I absolutely hated cheaters. I wanted to go over there and punch him for using me to cheat on his girlfriend, but no way was I going to make a scene at Christian’s event. Next time I saw Trigger though, it was going to get ugly.
I finally tore my attention away from the happy couple, who were taking turns whispering to each other and laughing, and pushed down my anger so I could focus on the little girl sitting in front of me. She was studying her drawing with a grave expression. She’d drawn an adorable picture of herself holding hands with her dad in a field of flowers. “It needs something,” she said.
“Glitter?” I gathered several little plastic containers and lined them up in front of her.
“I don’t want to make a mess,” she said.
“Why not? Making a mess is fun. See?” I scooped a bit of glitter from the tabletop and tossed it in the air. Okay, so maybe teaching a kid to make a mess wasn’t exactly on page one in the Responsible Adult Handbook, but there was something in her big, dark eyes that just made me want to see her smile. I had a feeling she didn’t do nearly enough of that.
The glitter toss earned me a little grin. “It’s in your hair now,” she told me.
“Does it look pretty?” The grin turned into a smile and she nodded. “Well, good. As long as it looks pretty, then I’m glad it’s there. Do you want some in your hair, too?”
She seemed to thoroughly weigh the pros and cons of that suggestion, and finally said, “I better not.” Aw. It kind of bummed me out that she’d turn down glitter.
The girl picked up a red pen and drew a few hearts on the card, then said, “I think it’s done. Do you have a en’lope?”
“I do. What color?” I fanned out the envelopes and held them in front of her, and she picked a blue one.
“I almost forgot to write inside.” She picked up the red pen again and drew some squiggly lines inside the card as she recited, “Happy Val-times Day Daddy, Love, Izzy.”
“That’s a pretty name,” I said. “My name’s Jessie.”
“My real name’s Isabella, but everybody calls me Izzy.”
She put the card in the envelope, drew another squiggly line on the front of it and slid off the chair. “Thank you, Jessie. I liked making cards with you.”
“Remember when I said I was making mine for someone special?” She nodded and I handed her the card. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Izzy. I made it for you.” The big smile she gave me was the best thing ever. “There’s a secret message inside, you can have your daddy read it for you. Do you see him? It’s pretty crowded in here.” She looked over her shoulder, then turned back to me and nodded again. “If you come to the Zane Center to take classes, maybe I’ll see you again. I volunteer here.”
“Daddy thinks I should learn to play a insta-ment. I told him I don’t want to, but we came here today anyway. I’m happy we did, because you’re nice. Plus, there’s cookies.” I smiled at her before she turned and dashed into the crowd. When she ran up to Trigger and handed him the blue envelope, my jaw dropped.
Oh my God, what a sleazeball! He was the worst kind of cheater, one with not only a girlfriend (or wife!) but also a kid. And I was a total moron. Even if I hadn’t known he had a family, I had known he was a jerk, but I’d slept with him anyway. Who knew he’d stoop that low, though?
Izzy opened the card I’d made and held it up to show him the inside. I’d written, ‘Will you be my Valentine? Check the box’ and I’d drawn two squares next to ‘Yes’ and ‘Ewww no, boys are extra super gross and have tons of cooties’. I’d also drawn a funny picture of a bug-eyed cootie.
When Izzy turned and ran back to me, Trigger looked to see who’d been helping his daughter at the card table. His eyes went wide when he saw me, and I scowled at him for a moment as I walked around to the front of the table. The little girl finally reached me, grabbed a pen and drew a big X in one of the boxes. She then held the card up to show me what she’d marked and yelled, “Yes!” I threw my hands in the air, jumped up and down, and whooped and cheered wildly. She laughed delightedly and ran back to her father.
Someone chuckled behind me and a familiar voice asked, “Yes what?”
I turned to Skye, who was balancing a plate of snacks on a red plastic cup, and said, “I just got picked to be the Valentine of the cutest girl in this place. You should be super jealous.”
“Oh, I am.”
Dare joined us and handed me a cup of punch as he said, “Thanks for watching the table. Was it busy?”
“No, just one little cutie.” I glanced over my shoulder as Izzy and her parents disappeared into the crowd. I felt bad for that sweet child. She deserved so much better than an adulterous father.
*****
I stayed for the duration of the open house, helped clean up afterwards, and lingered as long as I could with the last of the stragglers. Skye and Dare took off for their reservation at a romantic restaurant, and Christian and his husband Shea
invited me to their house for dinner, but it was still Valentine’s Day (ugh, would it never end?) and I knew they’d rather be alone, so I told them I had someplace to be.
Since that wasn’t even remotely true, after I left the art center I just ended up driving around for a while. For no real reason, I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and circled the edge of the bay. I pulled over at a parking lot with a phenomenal view, sat on Sharona’s hood and zipped up my jacket against the breeze.
The scene was straight out of a postcard, between the bridge to my right and San Francisco’s iconic skyline sparkling in the distance against the purple early evening sky. Of course, the spot was hardly a secret, and plenty of other people were enjoying the view as well. I tried to ignore the fact that everyone else was on a date. Next Valentine’s Day, I was definitely hiding in my room.
Despite myself, my thoughts drifted to Trigger and were accompanied by a sharp stab of disappointment. But why? I should be mad that he had a girlfriend, not disappointed. I had no business sitting around moping over him.
It still hurt, though.
*****
When I got home later that night, I put Nana and Ollie’s box of cookies on the kitchen counter, beside the note they’d left me. I’d purposely stayed out late to give them some privacy, but the message said they’d decided to head to a pet-friendly B and B after dinner and would be back in the morning. Had I known, I would have skipped driving around aimlessly for hours and the lonely fast food dinner I’d eaten in my car.
The note also said there was dessert in the fridge, which perked me up a bit. I decided to change before indulging in something sweet and a whole lot of Netflix, so I went upstairs and consulted my flannel pajama collection. The pair I chose were green with a repeating pattern of skateboarding Santa Clauses, because they in no way reminded me it was Valentine’s Day. Since I was going for maximum comfort, I also put on a pair of thick wool socks. I then scooped most of my hair into a messy ponytail, which rose from the top of my head like a whale spout, and because no one was around to judge me, I tucked my three-foot-tall stuffed polar bear under my arm. Before returning to the kitchen, I pulled the last balloon peen out from under the covers and added it to the row of stiffy sentinels in the hallway, so I could fall into bed when I came back upstairs.