To me, that was serious money.
And I liked that. No, I loved it. I loved it the way people love vodka tonics, or cocaine, or pornography. I loved it so much that from that point onward, I always had a slush fund at least three times the size of anyone else that I knew. I once told Cody that the key to always having money is to never spend the last dollar you have. That, and working three jobs. He rolled his eyes at me, but it’s true. Sometimes I think if I had had half as terrible a childhood, I’d have half as much money in the bank and be half as successful.
But getting three jobs isn’t going to fix things at the restaurant. Maybe if Cody wasn’t going to go to college soon (fingers crossed) or I didn’t still have this house thing to deal with. The only real solution is to just let the whole mess go. Chalk it up, learn my lessons, and move on. I’m going to start looking for investors and as soon as I find one, I’m gone.
“Miguel?”
“Yes?”
He’s looking at me expectantly. Why is my mouth not moving? Why are there no words coming out of my mouth? Why are there no thoughts in my mind? I’m drawing a blank.
“I’m going to have someone for you right after the holiday,” I say.
Fuck it. Thanksgiving is at the end of next week. I’ll decide after that.
* * *
Work might suck, but play is going great. For the first time in my life I’ve taken relationship advice from Peaches. I’m dating! I know that, technically, it’s too soon—Jake’s only been gone a little over a month—but I don’t care. I’m feeling a way I’ve never felt before: like I’m fine just the way I am. Normally, a breakup leads to a certain amount of loneliness and wondering if there’s something really wrong with me. But not this time. I’m feeling the way I’ve always heard people say you should feel about dating—like I can take it or leave it.
So I’m taking it.
I’m on that dating site where it’s a little app on your phone and you just swipe left if you don’t like someone and swipe right if you do. It’s only been a week, but I’ve been swiping my ass off. To the right, to the right. (Sorry, Beyoncé!) I’ve met more men in the past seven days than I have in the past seven years. I’m not kidding.
Not that I’ve ever been a hookup girl. I’ve had exactly two one-night stands in my life—and one of them turned into my baby daddy, so technically it wasn’t even a one-night stand. Every other guy I’ve been with—and I could count them on two hands—I made wait a minimum of two to four weeks before I could even think of having sex with him. Not because I was playing some game of Hard to Get, but because I’ve found that I don’t like people I don’t know. At least not sexually.
Whenever I hear girlfriends talk about being sexually attracted to a stranger, I think, What? Eww! Because as far as I’m concerned, you just have to assume people you don’t know are disgusting. That they smell weird, have dirty sheets, strange body habits—twitches, scratching, mouth sounds!—and you are definitely not going to like their feet. Sure, maybe they’re awesome people, smell good, and have clean sheets and nice feet—but you have to assume they don’t. Otherwise, you might end up back at their apartment discovering the dirty sheets—or worse yet, having them over to your place and discovering their gross smell. The only way to avoid such unpleasantness—for me at least—has been to wait two or three weeks, kiss them only after knowing them a reasonable amount of time, and only take your clothes off once you’re familiar with them. Because once a person is familiar, they don’t seem disgusting even when they are.
Which brings me to this park bench I’m sitting on. I’m waiting for someone named Alex and we’re going to go for a walk. I’m four minutes early, which is totally not cool, but I’m over being cool. Alex is the third guy I’ve hung out with in seven days and this strange thing is happening—I’m not even nervous anymore. I’m excited. This is a big change from my old self. My old self hates people I don’t know and expects the worst. My new self thinks dating is cool because I get new perspectives on life and I might even kiss someone at the end of it. And kissing is fun.
I’ve only seen a two-by-three-inch picture of Alex, but here are the good things about him:
He’s age appropriate.
He’s got nice hair.
His teeth are the right amount of imperfect.
He’s employed in an interesting capacity.
Then again, here are the bad things about Alex:
He’s age appropriate.
He’s a little too good-looking.
He’s from California.
He works in tech.
I’ve decided walking around this park is my favorite date because there is just the right amount of distance and closeness. For one thing, when you walk, you’re side by side, and that’s a lot better for a date than face-to-face. Side by side is kind of like the instant messaging of real-life conversations. It’s immediate, but not so intense that you can’t look away if you need to.
When Alex arrives, I’m texting Cody that there’s some pasta with turkey Bolognese in the refrigerator in case he gets hungry.
“Excuse me,” he says. “Are you Nicole?”
Holy shit.
This is possibly the cutest guy I’ve ever seen.
Not the handsomest, not the tallest, not the builtest, not the best dressed. Just the most sparkling, twinkliest, funnest-looking guy I’ve ever seen. Even more than Gio. The minute I think this I remind myself to slow down, after all I’ve only just laid eyes on him.
“Do you mind if I have a seat?”
I like his tone of voice.
I nod, painfully aware that I haven’t even said anything yet. “Hi, I’m Nicki.” I hold my hand out and he sits next to me, not too close, and gives me a very charming (but not too charming) kiss on the cheek.
“You’re lovely.” He pulls his body back an inch or two to get a better look. “Your pictures don’t do you justice.”
I’m blushing. “Thank you,” I say. Then I say: “Can you please stop being so charming? Or, I’ll have to leave.”
Alex laughs. I laugh, too.
Q: When is the last time I laughed on a first date? And in the first five minutes?
A: Never.
“Shall we walk?” He stands up and offers me his hand. It’s a very Cinderella-type move, but somehow it doesn’t seem insincere coming from him. “How’s your day so far?”
I start to answer, just for small talk. But something’s been happening to me as I go on these dates. I’m becoming more real. In the olden days, I would go on a date and act as close to “perfect” as I knew how to be. I’d sit across from the other person at coffee or whatever and make sure I said nothing offensive, didn’t talk too loud, and wore something no one could object to (hello, Ann Taylor Loft!). But these dates have been different. I’m more like, this is who I am. I’m not being combative, but if a guy doesn’t get my joke about him being too charming on the first date, then he’s not going to be very happy with me two years from now. Because there’s a lot more where that came from. So if it’s not going to work, why put either one of us through it? I should just be my real self starting right now and not even bother to try to make him think that I eat continental style every meal, even when I’m having scrambled eggs and Cheerios for dinner.
Might as well show him the real me.
“Alex?”
“What?”
“Do you ever think this whole dating process is just . . . stupid? I mean, why not just cut to the chase?”
“You mean cut to the chase and go have sex somewhere?” He says this with a broad smile and I really like him for it.
I burst out laughing. “That’s not the chase for me.”
“What is the chase for you, Nicole?”
“Nicki.”
“What is the chase for you, Nicki?”
“I don’t know. Being real? Finding a frien
d? Someone who, eventually”—I glare at him playfully—“I’ll want to have sex with?”
“Hmmm. I like that chase.” He looks at me meaningfully. “But how would you cut to it?”
This is a good question. I’ve always imagined a world where people are real all the time—where they just stop faking everything and stop doing what they think they’re supposed to be doing but is making them unhappy—but I guess I never quite thought about how you’d do it, say, on a first date. “I guess I didn’t think it out that far.”
At this point, I’m noticing something amazing happening. I haven’t thought for one minute about whether or not Alex likes me—I don’t know if that’s because I’m assuming he likes me, or what—but what I am noticing, is how much I like being around Alex.
This feels like a revelation.
Like, you know it when you see it.
I think I’m seeing it.
“Never mind,” I say. “I think I answered my own question.” Alex gives me a slightly baffled look, but I stop him by jumping ahead one step and standing in front of him. I put a hand up near his chest in the “stop” position. “I have a very important question for you, Alex.”
Alex gives me an elfin smirk. He seems to intuitively know how to play with me. “Yes, Nicki. I would like to answer it.”
“When is the last time you played tag?”
He reaches out his arm and gives me a gentle tap. “Now—you’re it!” Then he takes off across the park.
I run after him, giggling like crazy the whole way.
I think I’m really going to like Alex.
21
* * *
RONNIE
If you’re going to throw a dinner party, why not start with the most important dinner party of them all? Thanksgiving! I told Nicki and Cody I was making a turkey, and if they wanted to invite anyone, just have them here by 4 p.m. Nicki’s bringing her best friend, a girl named Peaches, whom I met a couple of times back in the day when she and Nicki were kids, and Cody’s got two of his homeboys coming over from down at the comic-book shop. At the last minute, Nicki even decided to invite the guy she’s started dating, Alex, which seems really bold for her but totally in keeping with this more relaxed version of herself she’s been trying out lately.
In the past, I’d be jumping up and down to take some credit for that, but these days, I’m really practicing keeping my mouth shut. Let her think it’s her! Isn’t that what a good parent does? Either way, I’m just glad she’s feeling stronger. That little hum of sadness that’s always been there for her, even as a little girl, seems just a little bit less. I don’t even know if she’s noticed it.
Today we went to Whole Foods together to pick up food for the dinner. I’ve been getting into some of those lifestyle magazines that they have at the checkout counter. You know, the ones with the great decorating ideas and the Healthy But Tasty recipes? I’m going to do a turkey, of course, but instead of the traditional sides I’m going for truffled macaroni and cheese and a carrot-and-roasted-fennel soup, with an Asian kale slaw for a salad. No one ever eats sweet potatoes anyway. I wouldn’t let Nicki look in the basket because I want it all to be a surprise. She has no idea what I can really do in the kitchen.
Everyone shows up around four. Cody’s Magic: The Gathering buddies are as geeky as you please—the skinny one is named Max and the one with the acne is named Justin. They are both wearing backpacks and have things to say about Free Jazz when they’re not talking gibberish about duels, Planeswalkers, and the Multiverse. Nicki complains about how obsessed Cody is with this game. But I say it’s the only thing he truly loves and I don’t see why you’d want to take it away from him. Even though it’s probably the number one thing preventing him from getting laid. There’s time for that. Cody’s showing me what it would be like if I’d grown up thinking about something other than sex. Let’s just say my life would have been different.
“You guys want a beer?” I’m holding out an Anchor Steam to Justin, or it could possibly be Max. Suddenly I’m not so sure which one has the acne. Nicki’s mouth falls open.
“They’re a little young,” she says.
“Sure, man,” Max says, taking the beer. “Thanks.”
“Can I have one?” Cody looks hopefully at Nicki, who shakes her head.
I hand him one anyway. “Let the boy have a beer, Nicki.” I hate seeing her baby him. No wonder the kid still wants to play cards in a comic-book store; she hovers over him like he’s seven. “He’s seventeen years old. That’s plenty old enough for a beer at a dinner party.”
“He’s not seventeen until next month,” she says.
“The blink of an eye,” I say. “Don’t blow it.”
Nicki gives me a dirty look but it doesn’t bother me too much. No one knows better than me that men who live and die by a woman’s approval are still little boys inside. Being okay with your decisions no matter who approves is the first thing a guy has to learn if he wants to be a man. I want Cody to see what that looks like.
“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” I give Cody a glance to make sure he got the lesson correct. He did. He doesn’t make a full smile or anything, but there’s a knowingness in his eye. The two of us have spent enough time together to be able to communicate with just a nod and a look here and there.
When I come out ten minutes later with my portobello mushroom appetizer, Nicki is sitting next to one of the more amazing women I’ve ever laid eyes on. Holy shit. This must be Peaches. And she looks as street as her name—part motorcycle gang, part pinup girl. Damn, she grew up nice. I don’t feel bad saying it, either, since she’s got to be thirty-five or thirty-six. Old enough so that I’m not a creep or anything.
“Hey!” I say.
Peaches is in the middle of a story about how her car broke down this morning and she needs Nicki to give her a ride home when she turns and lays eyes on me.
“You must be Ronnie!” She jumps up and throws her arms around me and holds me a good three seconds, during which I can feel her body. All of it. The whole goddamn thing. “I’m Peaches.”
You sure are. “Peaches! Nicki’s friend! How do you do?” I notice I’m breaking out my good manners right now—my opening bid for flirting. Preflirting. I better pull it together. I have no business turning on the sparkle for this girl.
“I’m great,” she says. “So excited to meet you. You know your daughter is only my very best friend in the whole world. Without me, she would be nothing. I want you to know that.”
“Consider it known, then,” I say.
Nicki tugs at Peaches’s arm. “You can annoy him later. Come on, I need to finish talking to you.”
Nicki sweeps Peaches into her bedroom. They’re probably talking about Alex, who isn’t here yet. I’ve never been a big fan of Nicki’s choices in men. She generally goes for entitled princes of one stripe or another. Pretty boys or mama’s boys, or daddy’s boys, or just . . . boys. I can’t respect these people. They’ve hardly worked a day in their lives, never broken a rule, never been in a fistfight. They’re not men! How can they protect my daughter or give her what she needs? They can’t. And that’s why, sooner or later, they all go. Nicki doesn’t know this is why they go, but it is. Someday maybe I’ll tell her if she doesn’t figure it out in the next couple of years or so.
The door opens and a tallish, brown-haired fellow comes in. Seems like he just left a library somewhere. Good-looking son of a bitch, but more of the same. Doesn’t seem selfish the way the last guy was, at least to hear Nicki tell it, but hardly what I have in mind for my daughter.
“I’m Alex,” he says. He’s got one of those nasally voices college guys have. “You’re Mr. Daniels?”
“I sure am.” We shake hands. His hand is soft, with long skinny fingers and short nail beds. Back in my hustling days I used to like to buff and polish my fingernails to go along with my custom suits
, and put it this way, Alex doesn’t have a hustler’s nail beds. Or attitude. Or game. “Nicki will be right out. Why don’t you come help me in the kitchen, Alex?”
I head through the living room and dining room, Alex trailing behind me. I want to chat with him a little—take a crack at him before he gets on his best behavior for Nicki. “So, Alex, what do you do for a living?”
“I work for a start-up. We’re, uh, mostly digital content but we got some VC for a messaging app that we really think could take off.” Alex seems to think he’s speaking English.
“Alex, I have no idea what the fuck you just said.” I look him square in the eye.
He smiles nervously. “Seriously?”
“Yes, I am. Serious.” This kid has no idea what just hit him. I take it this isn’t how college people do Thanksgiving. “But I’m also not.” I bust out a grin.
“Oh, irony! That’s so good.” He chuckles. “Heh.”
I hand him a bag of heirloom tomatoes and a knife. “Here, cut these into quarters for me? And be careful. Knives are dangerous. No offense about the thing you said earlier.”
“Nicki said something about her kid slicing his thumb off,” Alex says. “No offense taken.”
“It wasn’t quite that bad, but yes. There was a trip to the emergency room.” I’m whisking rice wine vinegar and sesame oil together in a bowl. I dip my fingertip in and give it a taste. Not enough sesame oil. “He’s healing up good, though.”
“Scary. Glad he’s okay.”
“Where you from, Alex?”
“I’m from the Bay Area. Grew up in Palo Alto.” Rich people. This is not the least bit surprising. Sometimes I can’t tell if Nicki lives her life in denial or if she really does identify with these rich kids. She didn’t grow up with money, yet she’s always surrounding herself with pampered people. Poor folks scare her. What happens when she shares her life story with one of these jackasses? They must just stare at her. People need to be with people who understand their hurts, their pains. And these guys are never going to be able to do that for her.
Multiple Listings Page 21