by Amiee Smith
I want to punch Michael in the face, but he’s on point. She should have been by my side. Even if she sat with her parents, I should have made it clear we were together. Who was I that night? So much has changed between us. I couldn’t imagine doing that again.
“What was she like in college? Why didn’t you go for her?” I ask.
“The same. Smart. Funny. Though she’s a little more reserved now. She was really loud back then.”
“Loud?” I ask.
Other than tonight, I’ve never heard Lynn raise her voice (other than when she’s excited).
“Yeah, she hooked up with a couple of guys in my house. Her endings were legendary,” Michael says.
I want to be jealous, but Lynn has never pretended to be anything other than who she is— a woman who enjoys her sexuality. It’s as if Michael can read my thoughts as he continues.
“Interestingly, no one ever thought of her as slutty or needy. She was just a cool girl who wanted to have fun. She kept to herself, and wasn’t catty like some of those girls on The Row. I always felt good when I was with her, but I never asked her out. She didn’t seem interested. Everyone thought I was just some rich asshole, so maybe that’s what got in the way.”
“Aren’t you still a rich asshole?” I poke.
“Aren’t you an ex-jock who does construction?”
I laugh. Dammit to hell, I’m a walking cliché. I try to hide it with modern design aesthetic, a master’s degree from a leading architecture school, gourmet food, wine, designer clothes, and my six-figure salary, but at the end of the day, that’s what I am.
I scrub my hand over my face.
“Damn, she could do so much better than me.”
“Could she? I would give anything to have a woman look at me the way she looks at you,” Michael says plainly.
I smile.
“She plays make-believe for a living, and I play in the dirt. We’re a perfect match.”
Michael laughs. On the other side of the windshield, the San Francisco skyline comes into focus. A cascade of shimmering lights.
“How are you going to get her back?” he asks.
“Ah, I won’t send a ton of roses and vegan donuts,” I say, laughing.
“Lilly appreciated them. I put my phone number on the card. She sent me a message to say thank you. We’ve been texting back and forth.”
“Lilly?” I ask.
“Lynn’s tenant.”
Again, Michael is privy to Lynn’s insider information.
“Are you planning to see her?” I ask.
“I hope so, but she’s apprehensive. I’ll ask Lynn about it,” Michael says.
“Man, not tonight. She tore into my brother and Brit big time. I think she’ll need sometime before she wants to help out anyone,” I say.
“Alex and Brit. Now that’s a tall elephant in the room. What’s up with them?”
“I’m not trying to figure them out. I’ve gotta stay focused on my own game.”
We both laugh as Michael exits the freeway at Octavia. I’ve spent enough time in the City to know Hayes Valley is not too far from here. My heart picks up speed. It’s only been a few hours since I’ve seen Lynn, but I’m overcome with nervous anticipation. Will she be happy I’m here?
A few minutes later, we pull up in front of a blue Edwardian with a set of stairs jetting out and leading to two red side-by-side doors. The door is open to one of the units.
“This is it,” Michael says, parking in the driveway in front of a narrow red garage door.
A thin, tall, light brown, woman dressed in black leggings, gray UGG boots, a white long sleeve T-shirt, and red glasses stalks toward the car. She’s carrying a vase of flowers.
“That’s Lilly. Doesn’t she look like Corinne Bailey Rae?” Michael says.
“I’m not sure who that is,” I reply.
“This is private property! You can’t park here, tech asshole,” she yells.
Michael rolls down my window and leans over me.
“Hi Lilly. It’s Michael Ahmed. This is Nick Willingham, Lynn’s boyfriend. Is she here?”
“Wait. You sent her flowers and donuts on Monday, and now you’re hanging out with her boyfriend on Tuesday? Well, it’s after midnight, so… on Wednesday?”
“It’s some weird L.A. shit,” I say.
Something cracks in her icy glare and a chuckle escapes her mouth. Without her scowl, she appears much younger than I initially thought.
“Sorry, Michael. I didn’t recognize you. You have no idea how many times a week a car like this pulls into the driveway to ‘borrow’ the parking spot. I haven’t seen Lynn. You need to move your car. Tomorrow is trash day. I need to take the bins to the curb and get these flowers out of my place,” Lilly says.
“I thought you wanted to keep the flowers?” Michael asks.
“I did, but the scent is giving me a sinus headache. If I don’t get these roses out of my flat tonight, I'll be stuck with them for another week.”
She moves toward the trash bins on the edge of the driveway.
“I'll help you, Lilly.”
Michael parks the car in a red zone on the street and hops out.
I check my phone for a missed a call from Lynn. Nothing. She had at least an hour lead time on us. I hope she's okay. I catch myself. I'm doing what she hates— worrying about her. Lynn is a resourceful woman. She will make it home safely.
I get out of the car and join the flower removal chain gang. Excitedly (and somewhat anxiously), awaiting Lynn's arrival.
CHAPTER 27:
LYNN SCOTT
After an hour and twenty-minute flight, I arrive home.
I’m waiting in the Lyft pick-up zone at SFO. I zip my leather jacket, wishing I had put on another layer before leaving L.A. Oh, my sweet Bay Area, how I’ve missed your chilly breeze.
Th trip proved to be exceptionally easy. I showed up at LAX and bought a ticket for a flight leaving in an hour. The hustle of leaving Nick’s house, getting to the airport, buying my ticket, checking my bag, and shuffling through airport security left me little time to reflect. But once I sat in the terminal waiting area, the ramifications of what I had just done hits me like a wrecking ball.
I left Nick.
Since losing my virginity to my Bio lab partner after my senior prom, I have been the best hook-up girl ever. No messy emotional strings. Just straight-up sex. Some experiences were great, and some were filed away in the never-do-again folder in my mind.
Sure. I’ve crushed on guys who left me sulking over a burger, fries, and half chocolate/half strawberry shake. (Goddess, thinking about that meal conjures the burning nausea of GERD, which I have not taken OTC meds for in more than six months. Thank you, plant-based diet.)
But Nick was my dude. My beautiful, 24-hour boyfriend, I walked away from because I couldn’t relinquish my hard-earned freedom from my parents and the girls. Don’t get me wrong. I absolutely love my mom and dad. I love the Smart Girl Mafia. Those relationships are my insides. Embedded in my DNA. But there is so much more inside of me that can only exist in the world I’ve created in San Francisco.
“Lynn?” an Asian man calls from a red Prius.
“Yes. That’s me.”
He gets out and puts my suitcase in the rear of the car. I plop into the back seat. Holy Unicorn, I’m weary. I can’t believe I ran/walked eleven miles today and did the suspended congress with Nick.
The thought of our kinky sex, causes a dull ache inside my chest. He was so… tender and caring and really sexy and oh so incredibly strong. With each thrust, I could feel the strain of each of his well-formed muscles. But the fact I couldn’t fully appreciate his effort and delight in the experience with my own orgasm, is why I left. When I’m in L.A., I’ll always have to choose between my pleasure and my family (parents + Mafia).
We’re on the 101 Freeway and the driver changes lanes to get off on the Ninth Street exit.
“Don’t exit here. Octavia is better logistically. My street is one-way.”
I’m in my city and I know how to get around. The driver doesn’t question me and the GPS directs him easily to my building.
Pulling up to the curb, my heart jumps into my throat. Nick is walking down my stairs carrying a vase of flowers. Something in me kind of knew he would follow me. Kind of. Hopefully. But at the same time, prepared if he didn’t. What I’m not prepared for is Michael Ahmed trailing him and putting the most exquisite roses in my trash bins.
I get out of the car. My driver brings my bag around.
“Welcome back, Lynn,” Lilly calls to me from in front of the trash bins.
Nick stops mid-stride and greets me with his sunbeamy smile, cutting through the darkness of the late hour.
Since I bought my place two and a half years ago, I can count on one hand how many times I’ve hung out with Lilly. She was six months into a one-year lease when I took over ownership. I brought her a box of scones and we had coffee my first Saturday in my place, but we have only exchanged casual conversation since then. Her mood is always something between annoyed and apathetic. Tonight, she appears… cheery. Michael is all smiley too.
What is wrong with all of them? It’s after midnight. Are none of them post-kinky sex fatigued, yearning for a fresh-pressed green juice, and fighting back the heartache of losing the one person who made life so very good?
But that man is here— standing on the curb in front of my house. I roll my bag in his direction.
“Thank you for remembering trash day,” I say to Lilly.
“Yeah, no problem. I had help,” she says, pushing the blue recycling bin to the curb.
“How was your flight?” Nick asks… all casually, as if it’s a regular occurrence he’s at my house.
How I wish.
“Wish what, amore?” he asks.
Ugh, I’m doing the thing he and I do when we’re stoned. I guess I’m still a little baked from those hits from the vape pen.
“Nothing. My flight was fine. How did you guys get here so fast?”
I know the answer even before they say anything.
“I own a plane,” Michael says.
“1001 perfect roses. I should have deduced you’re one of those guys,” Lilly says, a noticeable contempt in her voice.
“Michael! Really? 1001 roses? That’s obscene,” I add.
I feel bad the minute I get the phrase out of my mouth. Michael is all shades of embarrassed.
“Isn’t it a known romantic gesture?” he asks, his eyes wide.
“I think it’s 101, man,” Nick says quietly.
“Nick is right. Though 1001 roses have significance too. Used mainly for anniversaries. Fifty or sixty years. An ‘our love will last forever’ gesture,” I share.
“How do you know that?” Lilly asks me.
“In between writing, I do a lot of research on romance, seduction, and fucking,” I say.
(I know. I should have said “making love,” but it’s late and I’m too tired to censor my impulses.)
Michael slips off the curb as I finish my sentence. Nick turns a perceptive smile. He’s seen my sexual position encyclopedia. Which, Holy Unicorn, causes arousal to spiral throughout my body.
“Speaking of… last week, I needed a break from my dissertation research. I binge-read ‘Lowlight,’ ‘BreakerFall’ and ‘The States of Love & Trust’,” Lilly says.
My three NY Times bestselling babies. I feel like a proud mother that my work kept a woman as smart and cynical as Lilly entertained.
“What did you think?” I ask.
I usually just smile and let people discuss my stories. I never solicit feedback. A tip I learned from one of my fiction seminar instructors in grad school. She always said once a book is released, it is no longer mine and instead belongs to my reader.
“I couldn’t put them down. I took my tablet everywhere for three days,” Lilly says.
“That’s what happened to me with ‘Lowlight.’ I started it last Friday night thinking I’d read a few chapters before bed. But it hooked me. I literally watched the sun come up as I read the last page,” Nick says.
I’ve never heard him speak so freely in a social setting.
“I guess I gotta read your books,” Michael says.
“Read ‘BreakerFall’ first. It’s my favorite,” Lilly advises.
I wrote each book in the series as a standalone, “BreakerFall” is the second.
“‘BreakerFall’ was my favorite to write. I wrote the first draft in three weeks, which is really fast for me,” I share.
“Did you finish the last book in the series?” Lilly asks.
“Almost. It should be released in early December,” I say.
“Can’t wait. I wrote a review for the series on Goodreads.”
“Thank you, Lilly. I really appreciate that. Listen, I’m super beat so I’m going to call it a night. Do you want to come up?” I ask Nick.
Okay. Okay. Technically, we’re not together anymore, but it can’t hurt to have one more hook-up. Like the last supper before beginning a life-changing diet.
“I gotta get my luggage out of the car,” Nick says with a smile.
He walks toward a Tesla.
“Your City car, Michael?” I ask.
“When in Rome,” he responds, smiling and clicking open the trunk.
After Nick gets his brown and tan LV case (yes, he’s totally that guy) from the trunk, we all move toward my duplex.
“Thanks for everything, man,” Nick says to Michael.
“No problem. I’ll be in town through the weekend,” Michael says, his gaze focused on Lilly.
“Good night,” Lilly utters awkwardly before dashing up the stairs and disappearing into her apartment.
“Nice to see you again, Michael.”
I kiss his cheek and head up the stairs to my door. I feel Nick’s heat behind me. He takes my suitcase from my hand.
“I got it, Lynn.”
“Maybe we can get together this weekend. With Lilly. I’ll text you guys,” Michael says, walking to his car.
I unlock my door (with a real key) and retrieve the pile of mail that has accumulated beyond the threshold. We walk up the second stairway leading to my flat.
“The gray wood floors are well done,” Nick says.
He’s going to survey my place. I don’t mind. I absolutely adore my home and could talk about it for hours, but I’m beyond exhausted. We reach the top of the landing, opening to a long railroad-style hallway. On one side, my bedroom and the bathroom. And on the other side, my kitchen, writing studio, and living area.
On the entry way table lining the wall in the hallway, I drop the mail in the dark brown wicker to-do basket and place my keys in the decorative heart-shaped ceramic bowl. It’s my routine to ensure I never lose my keys or forget to sort my mail. I leave my laptop bag on the table.
“You can bring the bags in here,” I say, moving in the direction of my bedroom.
“This is where you sleep?” Nick asks, entering my room.
The gray Cal-King Farmhouse Canopy Bed sits in the center of my spacious bedroom enshrouded by long white curtains. The top of the canopy is decorated with tiny strings of white lights, which I leave on all the time. I don’t click on the overhead light, so only a soft glow from the canopy illuminates the space.
“I just bought the bed. It was my goal weight present to myself. I took this online weight loss course at the beginning of the year. One of the homework assignments was to pick out something to represent your goal. Most people in the course selected clothing, I picked a canopy bed with a hotel-quality mattress and all-white linens,” I share, kicking my sneakers off into my modest closet.
“So, no one but you has… slept in it?” Nick asks.
I know what he’s suggesting. My entire body reacts to the thought of being naked with Nick in my grown-up fairy tale bed with white lights twinkling above our heads.
I’ve wanted a bed like this my entire life. It took losing weight for me to give myself permission to have it.
The same can be said about the hero standing at the edge of my bed, who took the time to apply product to his hair before boarding a giant bird to rescue me.
But I don’t need to be rescued. I need a partner. I don’t need a fairy tale. I need real life. And real life is crushing my word count goal for the day and climbing into bed with my dude, a bag of kale chips, a freshly packed bowl in my Pax vaporizer, and watching an episode of “Mr. Robot” before having sex that leaves us physically spent and emotionally fulfilled.
I could have that with Nick, but it would require I ignore the big elephant in the room— the 382 miles between us. I could have that with Nick, but it would be sporadic moments overshadowed by airfare reward points and L.A. drama. I could have that with Nick, but there would always be a “but” at the edge of the bed, disturbing our pod-like moments. My happily-ever-after dangling in front of me. So close I can smell it, but just out of reach.
“Yes. I’m the only one who has slept in my bed and I think it should stay that way,” I say quietly.
My inner fat girl is booing, giving me the thumbs down and screaming “bad call.” The broken part of my brain wants me to say “J/K” and pull the leather cuffs and eye mask from my bag. But the tired adult, who has worked her ass off to be a healthy, whole, happy human being reigns supreme. A relationship with Nick Willingham is like a pint of ice cream. So incredibly delicious, but it would eventually weigh me down and round out the edges I’ve come to appreciate so much about myself.
“Nick, please leave.”
CHAPTER 28:
NICK WILLINGHAM
“Lynn, please…”
Exhaustion just kicked me in between the eyes. All I want to do is stretch out on this white cloud of a bed and curl up with the woman across the room refusing to look at me. I’ve never seen her so still.
“I need a real boyfriend.”
“I’m real, Lynn. I traveled all this way to prove it to you.”
I’m trying to maintain my composure, but fatigue is the perfect companion to my temper. I should leave. I don’t want Lynn to see that side of me... again.