by Karina Halle
Bram’s a persuasive guy though. He said the article could help us secure the extra funding that he needs. Then he mentioned that the girl, Kayla, is trying to get her break in writing, so she won’t be like any of the journalists I’ve been subjected to.
He was right about that. The girl is kind of a hot mess. She’s hot too, even though she looked like she just rolled out of bed the first time I met her. But more than that, she gives me the impression of a runaway train that’s about to implode. Not exactly professional journalist material. So with that in mind, I said yes. Let her interview me if Bram thinks it will help.
Of course he had to warn me of a couple things about Kayla. One was that she was a notorious man-eater, and if I wasn’t careful, she’d be climbing me like a bloody tree. And two, she has no filter and was bound to say the wrong thing and that I should take it easy on her if that happened.
Well, she didn’t climb me like a tree. I can’t say I was disappointed because when you’ve had women throwing themselves at you over the years, the novelty can wear off really fast. But even though she wasn’t getting handsy with me, she was letting her eyes roam all over my body like she was exploring a new planet.
What she did do, though, was come out and say something incredibly stupid. I guess stupid is a strong word, but the mention of my adoption did seem to come out of left field. I knew she regretted it immediately—her face flamed a shade of pink and I could see the utter embarrassment in her eyes—and I probably should have taken it easy on her.
I couldn’t help it though. The fact that Bram and Linden’s aunt and uncle adopted me when I was a teenager is nothing I’m ashamed of. I just don’t like that some girl I barely knew somehow knew that about me. It’s not like I went around announcing it, and that was only the tip of the iceberg. I wondered what else she knew. It seemed no matter where I went, my past couldn’t leave me alone.
So I snapped at her. I won’t be surprised if she also describes me as “difficult” in the piece, if she’s even going to write it still. I’m not exactly the kind of guy you want to donate money to, no matter how hard I’ve been working on changing that back at home.
After I left her there at the waterfront, I went straight back to the flat I was temporarily renting. I resisted the siren song of alcohol and immediately put on shorts and running shoes and went for a run along Central Basin until the ocean spray and the exhaustion calmed my nerves.
Being back in my flat though, this small, cold space that’s so far from my real home, has this ability to pull me back down. Now I feel really bad. I keep seeing Kayla’s dark eyes flash with humiliation, the way her shoulders slumped as I nodded goodbye. I don’t know the girl at all, but something about her, maybe it’s her boldness, her enthusiasm, makes me care that I was a premature arse to her.
I glance at my phone and think about texting her, just to say I’m sorry. It would at least appease the traces of guilt that are creeping through me. But I’m nothing if not prideful.
I text Bram instead.
I think I might have been a dick to your friend.
He texts back: Don’t worry about it. She’s tougher than she looks.
Has she said something?
She’s always saying something. Want to come to the Lion tonight?
Part of me wants to say yes. Especially if Kayla is there and I can apologize in person. But I’m in a mood and I know my moods well. I shouldn’t be in a bar, I’m apt to drink too much and get in a fight, and that’s really the last thing I need right now.
The truth is, I’m counting the days until I go back home: all fourteen of them. The injury to my Achilles tendon is fully healed and I’m due back in Edinburgh mid-August to start training again with the team. I won’t be on right away—I’ve missed too much sitting on the sidelines and resting up—but it’s a start. It’s kind of pathetic, actually, how much the game controls my life—how much passion it brings me and how lost I am without it. The fact that I’m getting late in my career is something I try not to think too much about.
Then of course there is Lionel, who I miss like fuck. And everyone who works with me at the organization, my brother Brigs, my mate Amara, my teammate Thierry. Even though my life back home felt like it was stalling for a while, like it was missing something, coming here makes me realize that Scotland is where I truly belong. I might go back still feeling bereft—that void that swoops in when you’re lying in bed, in the dark at night and wishing your chest wasn’t aching for something more—but at least I know it’s home.
I text Bram that I’ll catch him some other time, then settle down to watch the telly. I make it through a few stupid American shows and half a baseball game before curiosity grabs me by the ankles. I find myself grabbing my iPad and searching through Facebook for Kayla. I barely have a Facebook account myself, and what I do have is locked down and private, but even so I can’t help but want to find out more about her. I’m aware that I’m being a wee bit stalker-ish and I can’t exactly explain why I’m doing this, but it’s happening.
Short of adding Kayla as a friend, which is weird and unnecessary, I go on Nicola’s Facebook page and search through her pictures until I find the ones with Kayla in them.
I have to admit, for all her crass attitude, Kayla is actually a really beautiful girl. Dark, wicked eyes, long shampoo commercial hair, and just enough freckles to make her seem young and innocent, even though I know she’s anything but. She’s got a strange brand of confidence, which is always a bonus. You can tell from the way she smiles, just free and wild. Uninhibited. That perfect body doesn’t hurt either.
But I’m not creeping on her out of anything other than curiosity—she’s not really my type. Sure, gorgeous girls can be great for a quick shag, but anything beyond that is usually futile. They’re too shallow, too vain, too vapid. And once they discover that I’m more than just a rugby player, when they find out who I really am, what I’m really like…they tend to run the other way.
They always run the other way.
Believe me, I’ve seen them all, been with them all. But I’m not like Bram. I’m not proud of it. The honest truth is, after a while, being a player starts to get tiring. I’m thirty-two years old, and the days of sleeping with anyone who throws themselves at me is over and done with. And as for relationships, well, I’ve never been one to get too close to anyone. I’m just not built for it. Being alone has suited me my entire life and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.
Which is why it’s really draining that I’ve had to go on a few dates with Justine already. She’s an all right girl—at least she’s easy on the eyes. Our conversations have been pleasant, and I seem to appease her with a simple kiss goodnight. But I feel pretty lousy leading this girl on.
Once again, it was all Bram’s idea. Justine’s father is loaded and has been known to make a lot of investments around the city. He’s hoping that if we get on her good side, she’ll put a good word in for us and then, bam, we’ll have enough to continue.
But because Bram is now happily attached to Nicola (thank god, since I couldn’t stand another day of hearing the lovesick fool pine for her), it all falls on me. I got way more than I bargained for when I came over here.
And I know that Justine can see through it all. At least I hope she can. I’m not exactly wooing her, and it’s been a long time since I’ve tried to woo anyone.
As if she can sense what I’m thinking, my phone suddenly lights up with a text from Justine.
What are you doing tonight? it reads.
I run my hand through my hair and sigh. I suppose anything would be better than lurking on Kayla’s photos and dreaming about home. Maybe getting out of the flat, out of my head, would be good for me.
Not much, I text back. You?
Her reply is immediate, like she already had it all typed out. A new restaurant opened up on Grant. I was wondering if you wanted to grab a bite and check it out.
I sit back on the couch and stare at the phone for a few moments. In some
ways, this is no different from doing an interview. And even though this project isn’t my baby, it is Bram’s. I have my own projects back home in which I work tirelessly for, every single angle. I know what needs to be done.
I make plans to meet Justine and then get ready, slipping on a black dress shirt and grey trousers instead of my usual jeans and t-shirt.
Fifteen minutes later and I’m stepping out of a cab in front of some restaurant called Salt Air. There’s a line of overly fashionable people outside, and it’s exactly the kind of scene that I hate, the type of people who make me uncomfortable. All that judgement. All that ignorance. Give me a fucking pub that smells of stale cigarettes over this chi chi, Instagrammed crap any day.
“Lachlan.” I turn to see Justine walking toward me. As usual she’s dressed to impress, her simple red dress clinging to her long, lean curves. Her chocolate hair is piled high on her head, showing off stunning cheekbones.
Being a gentleman, I hold out my arm for her. “You look beautiful,” I tell her honestly.
She takes my arm and shoots me a coy smile. “You know, this is our third date and I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
I nod, pressing my lips together before I say, “I call it as I see it.”
We don’t wait in line and instead go straight to the hostess who seats us right away. I guess Justine really does have a lot of power in this city. We get a secluded table in the corner where candles flicker in the dim light. Though the restaurant has this sparse, industrial vibe, there’s no denying that it’s romantic.
At least, it’s supposed to be romantic. And as we order the wine and look over the menu, I know that’s all that’s on Justine’s mind. She shoots me flirtatious glances over the menu and her foot brushes up against my leg more than once. Though she’s very demure about it all, there’s no question what she wants.
“So how was your day?” she asks me. I can tell she’s just trying to make conversation.
“It was fine,” I tell her, and mentally decide to get the ribeye, even if it comes with some kind of weird South American green sauce.
“You know, Lachlan,” she says, swirling her glass of shiraz around, “I don’t think I know a thing about you. Even still.”
Frowning, I glance at her briefly. “There isn’t much to know.”
“No? It’s hard to tell. You don’t say very much. You’re very quiet.”
There’s nothing I hate more than having to hear that. I lean back in the chair and stare at her for a few beats. “I only speak when I have something to say.”
She stares right back until I can see she’s getting uncomfortable. She looks away and then brings on that big white smile. “Luckily I like the strong, silent type.”
I’ve heard that before. They all say that. None of them mean it.
“But,” she goes on, “you know a lot about me.”
That’s because you don’t ever shut up, I think.
“Tell me about your childhood,” she says innocently. “Your past.”
A sour taste fills my mouth. I take a sip of wine and a deep breath. I can’t help but give her a hard look. “My past belongs to me and no one else,” I say, my voice sounding rougher than I mean it to.
She’s taken aback. “Oh.” She looks down at her hands.
“That’s what I always say,” I add quickly, remembering what an arse I was earlier in the day to Kayla, who also didn’t mean any harm. “The future is a more interesting topic. Don’t you think?”
Now she’s grinning bashfully, brushing a piece of hair off her face. I know she thinks that I’m talking about her and our future together, when nothing could be further from the truth. So I take the opportunity to talk about Bram and the housing project, and my hopes that we can make the future bright for so many others.
It seems to work. For once she seems to listen, maybe because for once I’m actually talking. Maybe if I had just opened my mouth on the first date, there wouldn’t have had to be three.
“I’ll tell you what,” Justine says to me when we’re finished with our dessert. “There’s an event coming up next Monday, a cocktail party. Daddy will be there. I could introduce you two, and maybe he can help with the apartment. Sometimes he feels…what’s the word?”
“Philanthropic,” I suggest.
“Sure,” she says, and from the look in her eyes I’m wondering if she knows what the word means. “Are you interested?”
I give her a lopsided smile. “Most definitely.”
Even though a cocktail party with the elite is another thing that raises my hackles, I know I would be a fool to pass it up. Not when we are so close.
That night a Town Car drops her off at her apartment overlooking the bay. By the way she’s leaning against me in the backseat, her hand running up and down my thigh, I’m not surprised that she asks me in for a cocktail. I’m almost tempted, too. I haven’t gotten laid in a very long time and I’m itching to burn off some steam.
But my principles hold me in check. And with everything set for next Monday, the chance to maybe, hopefully, win over the final investor, going the extra step isn’t needed. It will only complicate things, and that is the last thing I need before I leave the city.
When I fall asleep though, I’m not thinking of Justine, but Kayla of all people. I saw how opening up, getting off my grumpy high horse, and just trying to be a little more sociable led to what I had wanted to begin with.
If I see Kayla again, I’ll ty and make it different.
CHAPTER FIVE
Kayla
I spend the next two days trying to write the article. It’s freaking hard. Between visiting my mother, going for dinner with my brother Toshio and his boyfriend Sean, and trying to make my weekly fencing lesson, plus working my normal job, I barely have any time. Thank god I’m not dating anyone at the moment because sex trumps work, always. No wonder all the journalists I know are single.
The article sucks anyway. I know it does. And I know that if I was a stronger writer, I could probably craft some magic out of it. But I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m unpracticed and unseasoned, and Lachlan left me with nothing.
Of course, I’m the one who spent too much time ogling him and not enough time asking the questions that I needed to. Nicola had mentioned that the San Francisco Chronicle had done a story on them a month ago, but it hadn’t drummed up any serious interest. That’s why Bram wanted me to write it for The Bay Weekly. It needed that human aspect, instead of being cut and dry.
Unfortunately, because I barely had any human interaction with Lachlan, I didn’t think I brought that human aspect to the table. I’m about to erase it and start all over again when Neil ventures into my side of the office.
“So, honeypie,” he says, leaning over my desk. “Where’s the article? Let’s give old Neil here a looksee.”
“Ugh,” I say. “The interview went horrible.”
“Oh, I bet it wasn’t all that bad,” he says while he nudges me out of the way to stare at the screen. He glances it over, his lips moving as he reads the words.
He gets to the end and turns to look at me expectantly.
“What?” I ask.
“Kayla. That’s garbage.”
“What?!” I shriek, even though I know it’s the truth. “It’s not garbage.”
“I know you can do better than that.” He jabs his finger at the screen. “All you’ve got here is blah blah blah boring shit about charity. And then a quote from a Scottish World Cup rugby player who helped out with what he could.” He shakes his head at me. “Helped out? That’s all you got?”
I glare at him and shove him out of the way. “Well, I told you that it didn’t go well!”
“But Joe won’t run this. I can’t even edit this. It’s boring, Kayla, and you my dear are the opposite of boring. Go back to him, get another interview, and inject some of that personality of yours into this piece.”
“But my personality is why everything got fucked up to begin with!”
He puts his hand on my shoulder and stares down at me with mock endearment. “Kayla. Get your head out of the gutter, put on your big girl panties, and go try again.”
I hate that he’s right. But he’s right. If I think I deserve a shot at a new career choice, I’m going to have to earn it, and I sure as hell didn’t with this pile of stink.
When Neil leaves, I take out my phone, swallow my pride, and text Lachlan.
Hey, it’s Kayla. I just want to apologize for the other day. I’m really sorry if I said the wrong thing. It wasn’t my intention to offend you.
I know I’m texting with kid gloves here, but I feel it’s the only way to ease into this situation.
I wait and thankfully it doesn’t take long for him to text back.
That’s all right. It’s a touchy subject, and I shouldn’t have been such a wanker.
Wanker. I love the Scottish idioms. And the fact that he said that can’t mean he’s all that mad and disgusted with me.
I decide to chance it and text: I totally understand if you say no to this, but would it be okay if we try again? I promise I won’t be an idiot.
Sure. Can you meet me tonight at six o’clock? The field at Avenue D and 9th.
Tonight? I wasn’t expecting for him to say yes, let alone to want to meet up so soon. And in a field of all places? I quickly google the address because I have no idea where it is. Treasure Island pops up. I’ve only been there for a music festival. Other than that it’s the lump of rock along the Bay Bridge between San Francisco and Oakland.
Still, it’s not too far from work so I tell him I’ll meet him, even though the clouds are coming in fast and dark today.
This time I’m going to be prepared. Even though I have a crapload of work to do, I pass off as much as I can to Candace, and then go through my interview questions again and again, before I copy them out on my phone’s notepad as well as a physical notepad.
By the time five o’clock rolls around and it’s time to go, the skies outside open up and dump a deluge of rain on the city. It rarely rains in San Francisco—usually we just get clouds that seem to hold their breath but never let loose—but I grab the umbrella under my desk.