by White, Karey
“Sorry, what did you ask?”
“I asked if Jessie is your sister.”
“No. It’s just Bruce and me. Jessie is a girl from Stornoway. She works for me in the store.”
“I’ll bet it was hard for your mom to have Bruce move to San Francisco.”
“Aye, but it was. She made me promise I wouldn’t come visit Bruce and decide to stay.” Flynn’s mouth quirked up in a mischievous smile. “She wouldn’t be too happy to know I was having a play date with a pretty girl.”
I felt my cheeks flush and hoped he thought it was from the warm day. I smacked his arm with the back of my hand. “See, we should have called it an appointment.”
“Well, I think play date is more accurate, but maybe I should use the word appointment when I tell her.”
“Or you could not tell her at all since she’s got nothing to worry about.”
I could see Flynn’s smile out of the corner of my eye, but I refused to make eye contact with him.
We looked through Flynn’s books on the ferry ride back to San Francisco. He had purchased a book about the escape from Alcatraz, the biography of The Birdman of Alcatraz, and a book about the Indian Occupation of the island in the early seventies.
“They look interesting,” I said.
“You haven’t read any of them?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll let you know what I think of them when I’m finished.” A little warning bell went off. This was the first time he had said anything that would indicate contact after he left. Unless he planned to read them while he was here. That would be some fast reading, but not impossible.
We were almost to Pier 33 when I started worrying about what came next. I’d had a good time. A really good time. Flynn was charming and cute. That was the problem. I hadn’t thought I would be enjoying myself this much. I wasn’t supposed to be aware of our proximity every second. I shouldn’t notice every time his arm accidentally brushed mine. I wasn’t supposed to want to look at his face.
The safest thing would be for me to go home. At the pier, I would shake Flynn’s hand, thank him for a lovely day, and go to my apartment. I could probably finish the postcard I started at work yesterday while I watched something on Food Network. I had gone to Alcatraz with Flynn. That was enough rebounding for now.
Aleena would be annoyed. She would probably tell me I needed to see a therapist—a real one that would help me stop sabotaging myself and would teach me little tricks so I would stop overthinking everything. She would probably even make up a proverb for me, something ridiculous like “She who thinks too big lives too little.” I rolled my eyes. Now I was making up my own proverbs.
But maybe my proverb was right. I can’t even remember when I dated someone with no thoughts of the future. I was always looking for “the one,” for true love, the grand romance that would last forever. Was I even capable of enjoying myself in the moment with no thought of what came later?
I didn’t know. I always thought about the big picture, and not just in dating. In third grade I asked Mom for a cd of classical music, not so I could lose myself in the beauty of it, but because Mrs. Sharp had told us that classical music would help us perform better when we started taking algebra and calculus. Almost everything I’ve ever done has been with a purpose in mind, never just for fun. I’ve always thought things through and looked ahead, and when it comes to dating, look where all that thinking has got me.
Nowhere.
I had to be doing something wrong. Was this it? Was my love life a disaster because I overthought everything? Was I too worried and uptight? Was the universe trying to tell me to chill out?
I glanced at Flynn. My neurosis probably had him eager to end this little playdate. I wouldn’t blame him. I had flat-out told him he didn’t interest me. I had even said I was scared of him.
I looked down at the swirling, inky-blue water and made a resolution. I knew it would be harder than many New Year’s resolutions I’d made during my life, but I was determined to try to see it through.
I would relax. I would go with the flow. I’d quit overthinking every little thing and try to enjoy myself. Like a ball that’s been dropped off a building, I would roll wherever gravity decided to send me.
At least for today.
“You’re frowning again.” Flynn said when we reached the sidewalk.
I jumped like I had been caught. “I am? Sorry.”
Flynn patted his stomach. “I’m hungry. Want to get something to eat?”
I had a quick thought about what this question meant for my future, but I quickly squashed it and pictured a ball rolling down a hill.
I smiled. “I’d love to.”
“Do you have a favorite place to eat around here?” Flynn asked.
“If we go left, there’s Fog City Diner. If we go right, we can go to Boudin Bakery and Café.”
“Which would you suggest for an out-of-towner?”
“That’s hard. They’re both so good. But probably Fog City. It’s sort of a San Francisco institution.”
“Then let’s go there.”
We walked down The Embarcadero toward the restaurant. I found our walking pace interesting.
In tenth grade, a self-defense specialist came to visit our health class. There had been three assaults in Fairfield, and Mrs. Stanfield, our teacher, wanted us to learn how to avoid being a victim. The man who came was big and spent most of the time trying to scare the socks off us with horror stories from his years on the police force in Modesto. I think he got a little thrill from most of the girls gasping. He showed us a few moves we could use if we were attacked, but I was pretty skeptical. When Paige Gentry, a tiny blonde with huge eyes, knocked the man over, I suspected he was adding a World Cup-worthy flop for emphasis. It made me suspicious of all his self-defense moves.
I did come away with one piece of advice that made sense and stuck with me. “Walk quickly and with a purpose. If you look like you know where you’re going, people will be less likely to bother you.”
I could do that. I had long legs, so my brisk pace was a smaller person’s jog.
Flynn’s legs were even longer than mine and with his athletic build, I would have thought he would move rapidly, but several times I found myself having to shorten my usual stride to keep pace with him. Flynn strolled. He ambled. He meandered. I smiled at the words that popped into my mind. I couldn’t remember ever having used the word “meandered” before. But Flynn was meandering.
We stopped and watched a bright yellow sailboat skim through the water until it disappeared behind a building. Two seagulls fought over the remains of a sandwich that had missed a garbage can. Neither of them needed the food. They were both fat and greedy and I wanted to shoo them away and let some of the hungrier birds enjoy the feast.
What would have usually taken me five minutes to walk took more than twice that.
Fog City Diner is a San Francisco landmark. Located on a pointed piece of land where Battery and The Embarcadero meet, its curved wood and glass walls commanded attention.
We sat on a polished wood bench on the Battery Street side of the restaurant while we waited for them to call Flynn’s name. Flynn sat slightly facing me, his arm resting casually on the back of the bench.
“Do you know where Geary Street is?” he asked.
“I think it’s by Union Square somewhere.” Flynn raised his eyebrows in a question. “You probably don’t know where Union Square is, do you?”
Flynn shook his head. “No, but that sounds familiar. I think Bruce might have mentioned Union Square.”
“Union Square is about a mile and a half that way.” I pointed across the street. “What’s not far from Union Square?”
“Geary Street.”
I laughed at our talking in circles. “And what’s on Geary Street?”
“Bruce’s office.”
“Ah. And he’s an architect?”
“Right. When we were younger we thought we’d move to Glasgow. Bruce would be a famou
s architect and I would build the things he designed.”
“You wanted to be a builder?”
“Aye. I am a builder. Sort of. I went to school in Edinburgh and I’ve got my construction license. Sadly, there’s not much building to be done in Stornoway. But I did build a house.”
“You built your house?”
“Naw. Not mine. Someday I might build me a house. I built a house for Jessie’s brother and his wife.”
“Maybe you should move to San Francisco and build Bruce’s designs.”
Flynn looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Are ya already inviting me to stay?”
Sometimes I hate my face. Okay, not my face exactly, but all the little capillaries that betray me so often. I turned away, pretending to look down the street, when I was really just trying to hide my flushed cheeks.
“Only if you want to. To work with Bruce, I mean.”
“I don’t know if I’d even follow Bruce to Glasgow now. I can’t leave Mum alone.”
“She could move with you.”
“Naw. She was born in Stornoway, and she says she’ll die there. And she wouldn’t want to leave the store. It meant too much to Dad.”
“So you’ve given up building?”
“Given it up. Put it on hold. I guess I’m just waiting for a building boom on the Isle.” Flynn laughed. He had a really good laugh. It was like his entire body wanted in on the fun. “If ya saw the Isle, you would know why that’s funny. I don’t think there will ever be a building boom there. At least I know how to use all the tools I sell. That comes in handy.” I would have felt bad for Flynn and his unfulfilled dream, but he didn’t seem sad. He seemed like a roll-with-the-punches kind of guy. Maybe I could learn something from him.
“Why did Bruce move to San Francisco?” I asked.
“A girl.”
“Really?”
“Things didn’t work out for ‘em, but he liked America. Didn’t make Mum too happy, though.”
“What about you? Were you unhappy he stayed?”
Flynn shrugged. “I miss him. We were best friends.”
I nodded. “I would hate it if my brother or sister moved halfway around the world.”
“Yeah, but I’m glad he’s happy.”
“Macgruger?” A tall man with a goatee sculpted into intricate curlicues and points called Flynn’s name from the open door. We followed him to a booth by the window.
“Now that looks like it’d be a bother to take care of,” Flynn said, rubbing his chin, when the man was out of earshot.
I shook my head. “Way too much maintenance. That’s much better,” I said, pointing at his chin.
Flynn ran his hand over his own short whiskers and then opened his menu. “Have you always lived in San Franscisco?”
“Just since I graduated four years ago,” I said. “I moved here when I got the job at Jayne Fife.” I told Flynn about Fairfield while we looked over the menu.
“I can see why Bruce likes it here. There are so many people, and there’s so much to do. Very different than The Isle of Lewis. There are less than twenty thousand people on the whole island. I think Bruce’s apartment building has that many people.”
“What kinds of things do you do on the Isle of Lewis?” I felt a little pretentious saying the name. What would it be like to live on an isle?
“I play rugby and I golf.”
“My friend, Angus, golfs. He’s made me try a few times, but I’m not any good.”
“In Stornoway, you share the course with the sheep.”
“Seriously? What if you hit one with a golf ball?”
“That’s happened. But it’s riskier for the golfers. You never know what your shoe or your ball is going to land in.”
I laughed. “That’s probably the sheep’s way of sticking up for their friends who’ve been hit by golf balls.”
“The sheep are winning. I’ve never hit one of them, but I’ve had to clean more than my share of shoes.”
“I’ll bet it’s pretty there. Even the name—Isle of Lewis—sounds beautiful. Is it as pretty as it sounds?”
A waitress came and took our order.
“It’s gorgeous. Some say it’s the most beautiful place on earth. There are songs written about it. I’d sing one for ya, but I’m tryin’ not to scare you away.” Flynn winked.
“You sing that bad?”
“No. I’ve been told I have the voice of an angel.” Flynn’s teasing smile was way too cute.
“Then why would it scare me?”
“It might make me hard to resist.”
“Oh brother.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m not afraid of you.” I looked directly at him, my expression serious.
“Maybe I should be afraid of you.” Flynn laughed. “Isn’t there a song about San Francisco?”
“‘I Left My Heart in San Francisco,’ and no, I’m not singing it for you.”
“You’re that bad, huh?”
“No one’s told me I sound like an angel,” I said.
“Sounds like a sad song.”
“I guess it is.” I thought for a moment. “I think I only know the line that says ‘I left my heart in San Francisco.’”
“That is a sad song. The song about Stornoway is a happy one.”
A few minutes later, the waitress brought our food—grilled lamb kabobs for Flynn and a salmon sandwich for me. It was a pleasant, comfortable lunch.
The breeze felt warm after the air conditioning in Fog City Diner. A woman jogged toward us pushing a stroller. When she got close enough for us to see inside it, we saw that it held a fluffy, white Bichon Frise.
Flynn turned toward me, a question on his face. He pointed at the stroller that was now crossing the street. “Did I really just see a dog in a pram?”
I laughed. “There’s a woman on my street that jogs with her giant schnauzer in a stroller.”
Flynn shook his head.
I wasn’t sure what would happen next, but I was determined to “go with the flow.” Maybe there was no flow going and I would be home working in half an hour. And then a strange thing happened. Flynn looked around and then pointed across the street.
“That way to Union Square?”
I nodded.
“Shall we?” he asked.
And that was that. I didn’t know if we were actually headed to Union Square or if we were on our way to Bruce’s office, but it didn’t really matter. As long as Flynn was including me in his afternoon, I would stick around.
I’ve walked the streets of San Francisco for years, but I usually walk briskly from one place to another. It was a whole new experience to meander the streets with Flynn. We looked in windows. We paused to read a sign posted on a light pole about Tinkerbell, a lost Alaskan Husky.
“He’s probably not really lost,” Flynn said. “He probably ran away. He was tired of being called Tinkerbell.”
Flynn looked at a man walking toward us. He elbowed me and whispered, “Do you think he’s a rapper?” He nodded toward the man whose black jeans rode well below his hips. He wore a long, white parka, in spite of the heat, and a 49ers baseball cap that rested at a jaunty angle. Reflecting sunglasses made his eyes impossible to see. Several large, gold chains hung around his neck and the hand we could see was covered in gaudy rings. The other hand was under his coat, behind his back. He swaggered by, every part of his body fluid and rhythmic.
“I guess he might be.”
“When I was a kid, I thought America was all rappers and cowboys, but that’s the first rapper I’ve seen since I got here and I haven’t seen a single cowboy.”
“Rappers and cowboys?” I laughed. “Why did you think that?”
“MTV and American movies, I guess. Now I can say I’ve seen a rapper, but I’ll be disappointed if I go home without seeing a single cowboy.”
I looked up at Flynn’s face to see if he was serious and caught him grinning at me.
“I guess you can count him as your rapper, even though he might be the worst rapper in the world
.”
“Did you see that swagger? Of course he can rap.”
We started walking again. “I don’t know. The way he moved makes me think he’s probably a good dancer, but I don’t know if he can rap.”
“I’m calling him a rapper.”
“If you feel good about that,” I said.
Flynn grinned. “I do. Now I just need to see a cowboy.”
“Maybe you’ll have to rent a western.”
“I’ve got five more days. I’m not giving up yet.”
I thought we were headed toward Union Square, but we took the most roundabout way possible. I was seeing places I hadn’t known existed. We shared a piece of carrot cake at a tiny bakery I had never heard of but knew I would be returning to. We talked and laughed and teased as we went.
“All Classics,” I said, pointing to a record store across the street. “Shall we see if they have ‘I Left My Heart in San Francisco?’”
Flynn took my hand and headed across the street. I looked around, hoping we weren’t going to get cited for jaywalking or worse, hit by a car.
“And we can see if they have ‘Lovely Stornoway.”
I laughed. “Right. I’ll buy you dinner if they have that one.”
Flynn let go of my hand when we were on the sidewalk. “And I’ll let you.” He held the door open for me and then headed to the girl with Cindy Brady pigtails behind the counter.
I turned away, hoping I didn’t look as flushed as I felt. Why was I talking about dinner? Going with the flow didn’t mean me putting ideas in Flynn’s head. I didn’t want him to think I was hoping for anything. I wasn’t even sure if I was hoping for the day to extend to dinner. And here I was, overthinking again.
I made my way to the section with a hanging sign that said “Classics.” The store had four Tony Bennett CDs and I was excited to find that “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” was on two of them.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from Aleena, asking if I’d had a good time. I quickly responded that I was still with him and immediately she texted back.