by Amiee Smith
“I don’t want you to have to prove it to me, Nick. I want a man who is here. Not in my flat all the time because I have to write. But someone who doesn’t live in Los Angeles or needs to board a plane to be with me. That type of relationship is not emotionally responsible.”
The thought of Lynn being with anyone other than me pushes me over the edge.
“So what, Lynn? You expect me to bulldoze my life for a woman who has never been in a relationship for longer than twenty-four hours? A woman who has flirted and fucked her way through California and parts of Canada? And because I want to give this thing between us some time makes me emotionally irresponsible?” I yell, my voice echoing throughout the room.
I’m pissed and so tired. I’m stirring up shit that doesn’t matter, and setting myself up to lose her for good. And I hate to lose. A life without Lynn would be the worst kind of defeat.
I sigh, massaging the area between my brows with my fingertips.
“I’m sorry, Lynn. I don’t care about your past. I just want to be a part of your future.”
For the first time, she gives me her full attention.
“Do you really want to be a part of my future?”
“Yes!” I say.
“Well, Nick. It’s very easy. Get a job here. Get a place to live here. And if I’m available, I’d happily go on another date-n-fuck with you. Until then, goodbye, Superstar.”
There is a hint of defiance in her voice, but more than anything there is a confidence that makes her sexier and more beautiful than ever before. Because she knows she’s worth it.
I pick up my luggage, walking out of her bedroom and down the stairs leading to the door. I hear Lynn’s footsteps behind me.
Reaching the bottom step, I turn and glance up at her. The hall light glows all around her. With her hair pulled back in the braid and her slim arms folded across her chest covered by the black leather jacket, she looks like a dominatrix. Not exercising power over me, but over her own life.
I’m wrecked and ready to play.
Game on, my horny girl. Game on.
I continue down the stairs and out the door, hearing the deadbolt lock behind me.
• • •
After a brief text exchange with Michael for his address, I hail a cab to his modern, trophy, single-family home with panoramic views of the bay. The three-story new construction sits between an Edwardian and a Victorian and is a symbol of both his opulence and the changing architecture in the City.
After entering the code to the front door, I find Michael lounging on the sofa in one of the two living rooms on the main floor just on the other side of the kitchen. He’s holding a highball glass in one hand and cradling a small tablet in the other.
“Need a drink?” he asks.
“No. I’m good. I need to sleep.”
“Are you heading out tomorrow? I can arrange the plane for you,” he says.
“No. If it’s cool, I’m going to stick around through the weekend. I’ve got some stuff to work out.”
“Stay as long as you’d like. My chef is doing a TV cooking competition. We’re on our own for meals.”
“I’m pretty savvy around the kitchen. I’ll cook in exchange for my room and board?”
“Deal. Molly, my house manager, will be here in the morning. Leave a list and she’ll take care of the shopping. What’s on your agenda while you’re here?”
“Not much. I gotta get a job and find a place to live,” I say, chuckling.
Michael laughs. “How long do you have?”
“Until she meets someone else. Given she’s going to be holed up in her house working on her script, I figure I have until Friday,” I say wearily.
Michael is focused on his tablet, so I take the cue to leave.
“Enjoy the rest of your night. Where should I go?” I ask.
“Sorry, man. I just started reading ‘BreakerFall,’ the book Lilly recommended. It's very intriguing. It’s set in San Francisco. The main characters are working together to stop a global hacking ring. I’m going to read a few more chapters and go up to bed. Choose any room on the second floor. There are four. My suite is on the top level,” he says, returning his attention to the book.
Interestingly, he didn’t say it’s a book written by Lynn, but instead something Lilly is into. That's the way it starts. I laugh inwardly. What he doesn’t know yet, is how very talented my (not-quite) girlfriend is. Her writing is like the potato chip saying… you can’t just read one chapter.
“I'm an early riser, so I imagine you'll still be here when I get up. Is there a pool in the neighborhood?” I ask, moving in the direction of the stairwell.
“I have a pool. In the basement, across from the game room. Take the elevator,” he says.
Of course Michael has a pool in the basement in a city where people share apartments the size of a tin of caviar.
• • •
“Good morning, Greta. It’s Nick,” I say, sitting up in bed.
It’s 8:13. I haven’t slept this late since the summer before high school. Before water polo defined my life.
“Nicky, my boy,” Greta’s raspy voice comes across on the line.
She’s worked for Willingham Contractors for the last twenty-five years. As a kid, I’d visit job sites and Greta would be outside the trailer smoking a Virginia Slim and bitching at the foreman to get her a real receipt. Today, she serves as the Senior Office Administrator with a big desk outside my dad’s office.
“I’m taking some vacation time. I’ll be out the rest of the week. Please inform my crews I won’t be conducting site visits. Advise my leads to submit written reports to you.”
“Good for you. It’s about time you used some of your forty days of vacation. I’ll assume your dad is aware.”
“Put my request in like any other employee.”
“All vacation requests require approval, and it seems you’ve already taken your leave.”
After all these years, protocol is protocol. There is no preferential treatment for anyone. Not even the boss’s son.
“Is he in?”
“Of course. 7:45 on the nose. I’ll transfer the call.”
After a brief hold, my dad comes on the line.
“Nick? Greta says you’re taking some time off?”
“Yes. She needs you to approve my vacation time for the next three days.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine. I’m in San Francisco.”
“Are you consulting on a project? You don’t need to use your vacation time.”
“I’m not working on a project. Just taking some time off.”
I’m not going to tell my dad I’m in SF searching for a job because my (not-quite) girlfriend told me to do so.
“Nick, you know you need approval for time off beforehand.”
He’s using his boss voice. There is an unspoken agreement between us; at work, I’m his employee before I’m his son.
I offer an earnest plea.
“I have not taken a vacation day in two years. Will you just approve it… not as my boss, but as my dad?”
There is a pause.
“My mistake, Nick. I’ll let Greta know you requested the time at dinner on Sunday. In all the excitement of the Piano Loft project, it must have slipped my mind,” he says.
“Thank you, Dad. I really appreciate it.”
“Hold on a moment, son.”
I hear the soft close of his door before he comes back on the line.
“Nick, you’re an attractive man. You can get any woman in L.A. It’s futile to chase someone who left you.”
His voice sounds more dad than boss.
“How…?” I start to ask.
Alex. He and my dad play tennis every morning at the Pasadena Club (where I swim). I think my brother only goes in hopes of landing a client. Because their relationship was strained for many years, they run out of stock market stuff to discuss in the middle of the first set. In lieu of talking about his own life, my bro
ther will offer tidbits about mine. I doubt Alex shared that his undefined relationship with Brit is why Lynn left in the first place.
I won’t discuss my relationship with my dad. Not now. I go back to business.
“I’ve asked Greta to send word to my crews regarding my absence. Thank you for the time off, sir.”
“I expect to see you in the office on Monday for the executive meeting. Goodbye, Nick.”
I end the call. It is a privilege to work for my dad’s company. My last-minute request for time off wouldn’t go over well with any other employer. Though if I worked elsewhere, I wouldn’t be lectured about my relationship. My simple life is now a mess of contradictions.
I get out of bed, brush my teeth, put on black swim briefs, a pair of shorts, and flip-flops. I head downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water with my goggles, towel, and swim cap in hand. I need my world to make sense again and a swim always helps.
In the light of day, the open concept first floor appears larger and more expansive than it did last night. By my estimated calculation, Michael’s house is at least eight thousand square feet. You could fit four of my houses inside his home.
Entering the kitchen, a blonde, middle-aged woman dressed in a cornflower blue maid’s uniform greets me. On the other side of the space, Michael’s tall, lanky body is sprawled out on the sofa where I saw him last night. His tablet on his chest.
“Shhh. Michael is still sleeping. You must be Nick.”
“Yes. Are you Molly?”
Given all that happened last night, I’m impressed I remember her name.
“I am. Michael said you need me to do some shopping. Write a list and I’ll go to the market. Is there anything I can get you now?” she asks, handing me a pad of paper and pen from her front apron pouch.
“I just need a glass of water, but I’ll get it myself.”
I drop my swim gear on the counter and jot a list. A glass of water appears in front of me on the marble island.
“Is there anything Michael doesn’t eat?” I ask.
After spending time with Lynn, I’ve learned to ask.
“Quite a bit, given his condition. Here’s the list.”
Molly hands me her phone with a list of “legal” foods. By the looks, Michael is on a gluten-free, no sugar, no processed food diet. I thought Lynn’s plant-based lifestyle was a challenge. These restrictions are forcing me to dive deep into my mental culinary database.
“This should do it. Thank you, Molly.”
I hand her the notepad and phone before drinking my glass of water.
“You’re welcome. Take the elevator on the other side of the stairwell to the pool,” she says.
I arrive at Level B and find a narrow, Olympic-length indoor lap pool. It’s my dream pool. Man, it’s great to be friends with a billionaire.
I dive in and do my normal workout— twenty laps of freestyle, twenty laps of breast stroke, twenty laps of back stroke and twenty laps of butterfly. Water polo is the toughest sport in the world. I was swimming, wrestling, boxing, passing, and shooting, all while having to execute a strategy with my teammates. I haven’t played in years, but I still do the same morning workout.
I finish my swim and go back to my room. I shower in the adjoining bath, and long for Lynn to be happy and moaning “Superstar” while I take her from behind.
After drying off, I drop her a text.
Wednesday, 9:58 a.m.
Nick Willingham (dream guy): Thinking of you.
Wednesday, 9:59 a.m.
Lynn Scott: Same.
No long message. No reflections on her run. No heart emojis. No praise or gratitude. Just one word. I hate the uncertainty between us. I wish I could rewind the clock to yesterday morning— when I was gifted with her vixen-grin and sweet mouth shattering all my marbles.
I put on dark jeans, a white polo and flip-flops and head to the kitchen to cook breakfast. Michael sits at the marble island, reading. He’s in the same dress pants he had on last night and a white undershirt. A classic Burberry robe is wrapped around his slender frame and black velvet slippers on his feet.
“Good morning, Nick. This book is insane. I can’t put it down.”
I chuckle.
“Want some breakfast?” I ask, peering into the subzero refrigerator.
Molly works fast. I find the eggs, bacon, and the sprouted bread.
“Sure. Eggs with no dairy. Bacon.”
Michael’s request comes out as a command, but I let it slide since he’s letting me stay here.
“Sunny side up, cool?”
“Great.”
Frying bacon in a chef-grade skillet, I contemplate the challenge in front of me— I need a job and a place to live. Michael powers down his tablet.
“Damn. That woman’s mind is wicked brilliant. I can’t believe she came up with all of that. I’ve never read an entire book,” he says.
A sense of pride runs through me. Lynn is very talented and has become my hometown heroine.
“What’s on the schedule for you today?” Michael asks.
“Looking for a job. Not sure where to start. I’ve never searched for work before,” I say.
“Same. I worked for my dad’s holding company for a few years after college before I started doing my own deals,” Michael says.
He pours himself a cup of coffee that just appeared in the Ninja coffee machine behind me. I think Molly is a ninja.
“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way…” Michael starts, returning to his seat at the island.
“What? I know it seems to be a lot of trouble to go through for a woman, but I’ve been contemplating how to do more design-focused work,” I say.
Lynn’s terms for our dating relationship have pushed my nonexistent timeframe for making the change dramatically forward.
“Lynn is worth it. Actually, I was going to suggest you move in with her. You could take a leave of absence while you figure out what’s next. You've got money. Your brother uses your portfolio as an example in his presentation.”
My brother can be so slick when it comes to his business. I didn’t know he was sharing my portfolio. If Alex wasn’t such a whiz with managing my investments, I wouldn’t work with him. Though Michael is offering a good strategy. I place a plate of food in front of him and pull out my phone.
Wednesday, 10:25 a.m.
Nick Willingham (dream guy): Let's be together. I'll move in. I have some money saved. I'll figure out my work situation. What do you think?
Wednesday, 10:25 a.m.
Lynn Scott: No.
Wednesday, 10:26 a.m.
Nick Willingham (dream guy): Lynn, you gotta give me more than one-word answers. I’m trying to work this out.
Wednesday, 10:27 a.m.
Lynn Scott: Won’t work. You without a job and your own place is half of you. I want whole Nick. In my bed. In my heart. I deserve the best of you. And you deserve the best of me… and right now my life is good (minus the pings of post-break up heartache).
Wednesday, 10:27 a.m.
Lynn Scott: Thank you for the offer, but it'd be too easy. And we both love hard. [winking emoji]
All the layers of meaning in her text; evident. She's right. I'd be miserable, and that's not sexy, or a good way to grow a relationship. I should know. As a serial monogamist, I've had more failed relationships than laps I swim every morning. I always pick the wrong girl. Now, I want the right woman.
Wednesday, 10:28 a.m.
Nick Willingham (dream guy): We’re not broken up. Give me a little time. I’ll work it out.
“What did she say?” Michael asks.
“What I'd expect her to say.”
I sit down next to Michael at the island.
My breakfast is getting cold, but I open my email app and type a message. I hit send and fork into my food. My phone vibrates three bites in. I press talk.
“Hi Marie... Sure, I can do 1:00… Great. I'll look for your email. Thanks.”
I hang up, finish eating, and carry
my plate to the sink. Molly appears like a magic genie ninja.
“I'll take care of the dishes,” she says.
“Where are you off to?” Michael asks.
“I have a meeting in the Financial District with a headhunter I met earlier this year at a networking event,” I say.
“I didn’t realize you had contacts in the City,” Michael says.
“I’ve spent a fair amount of time here since finishing grad school. My classmate, Paul Johnson, runs an architecture firm in Berkeley. I’ve consulted on several projects for him.”
“Do you need a suit?”
“No. I packed a few. I thought they were going to be worn for dinners out with Lynn. What I need is a computer to update my résumé. I haven’t touched it since I graduated from my program,” I say.
“Use my office on the second floor. The passwords are in the left drawer. I have a meeting in Palo Alto at 2:00. I’ll drop you off at your appointment.”
“Thanks, man. I sincerely appreciate it.”
Michael has become my guardian angel.
CHAPTER 29:
LYNN SCOTT
“Lynn, the spec is excellent. I’m going to send it over to my contact at Lifetime now. She’s a little scattered, so it may take a few weeks to get a response. I’ll keep you posted,” Dana says on the other end of the line.
I’m sitting at my desk in my writing studio. The space was originally the formal dining room.
After Nick left last night, sleep was an elusive dude, and I, his needy broad. For the first time in forever, I didn’t want to get stoned and zone out to deal with my periodic insomnia. I changed into black yoga pants, granny panties (oh how I’ve missed you) and my purple writing cardigan, and did what comes most naturally— I wrote like a crazy lady. I watched the charcoal of night transform to the blue of morning. A hundred-page rom-com script, now complete. The high of making art, absent. All I feel is numb.
“I’m so glad you enjoyed it. Thank you for submitting it,” I say flatly.
I sip the green juice I was desperate for last night. This morning, I stood in line for twenty minutes at the juice bar for my liquid dose of green fruits and vegetables. Now it’s so unappealing. What would be awesome… a thin crust cheese pizza from Annie’s with a side of ranch dressing. Or Nick… between my legs. Both.