by Amiee Smith
“No problem. I have a standard contract I’ll need you to sign electronically,” she says, the sound of her typing in the background.
“Okay.”
My mind is in a dozen dark, unhealthy places. I eye the beads of condensation on my juice cup with suspicion.
“Lynn? Do you want to talk? Brit feels terrible about last night,” Dana says.
I read the string of text messages Brit sent to the group last night, but didn’t respond. In all the drama, Jen agreed to read her dissertation. Brit always gets what she wants.
“I’ve never been the girl to lament over a dude,” I say, cradling the phone.
“Maybe because you’ve never met a man who could rival one of your heroes,” Dana offers.
When it comes to men, I don’t share my feelings. I reserve the sappy stuff for my stories. But right now, it’s either a cheese pizza or cracking open my emotional yolk and letting it ooze all over this conversation.
“Nick was… or is… heck, I don’t know what we are right now. Ugh… he’s in L.A. texting me to give him time,” I say to Dana.
She’s at work. I’m trying to say what needs to be said, but I can’t find the words.
“I like Nick for you. But there is a ‘but.’ So, your relationship is a challenge. However, you have a way of turning dark into light. Have you talked to him since you left?” Dana asks.
“Yeah. He was here when I got home,” I say.
“What?! He followed you to San Francisco… last night?”
“Yeah. It was sweet, but I told him to leave because I need a boyfriend who lives here.”
“Is he still in the City? Call him! See if you can work it out.”
Dana is in the business of making deals happen. She’ll chase a client to the edge of the Earth. I don’t have that gene.
“He’s in L.A. by now. I got some texts from him this morning. I don’t want to trouble you with my bullshit. You probably have a meeting.”
“No. No. I emailed my assistant to cancel my next appointment. We have fifteen minutes. Send me the text messages.”
A zombie, not totally in my body, I forward her the messages from today.
“Wow, honey. I wish I could exchange messages like this with someone. You guys are so sweet and… hot. It seems as if he wants to work it out. Do you think he’ll get a job and move?” Dana asks.
“Probably not. It’s asking a lot of a man. I just need to feel it. Then I’ll move on. It’s hurting a little more than I thought it would. My favorite painkillers are hooking up and cheese. Neither are on my life menu right now.”
“It’s not asking a lot of Nick. He’s a good guy. If he wasn’t trying to work it out, he’d say so. Give him some time. It’s a big change,” Dana says.
“Yeah. Yeah. I know. I know. I’m not a patient person. I wish I could hook-up with another guy, but I know I’d be really, really disappointed.”
“Write. Read. Go for a run. Watch TV. Hang out in the City. Act like you’re on vacation… because you can. You work really hard and deserve some time off. Don’t eat your feelings. Don’t complicate your life with another guy. Lynn, you have to take a beat.”
“Quality advice, my sweet friend. But have you forgotten who I am? I don’t take a beat.”
“I know exactly who you are— a woman who crafts some of the most delicately poignant plots I’ve ever read and I actually read for a living. I’ve devoured all of your books. You’re methodically patient and never shortchange your reader with a lazy or rushed happily-ever-after. You make us burn for it and we’re so grateful you do.”
“You’ve read all my books?” I ask genuinely.
All these years, I assumed no one in my real life read my work.
“Yes! You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“Well, now you do. Go get stoned and wait on your happily-ever-after.”
Her words invoke a sense of hope. Maybe it’s because Dana is like, so no-bullshit. If she thought I was out to sea, on a busted raft with no life preserver, she’d call me back to shore in a heartbeat. And then bitch me out for being so careless. Out of all the girls, I’m so grateful I got to talk to her today.
“I love you, Dana.”
“I love you too. We all do.”
I end the call and glance at the postcard I framed of Vancouver. It is such an amazing city. I live in an equally amazing place. I pick up my favorite purple pen and flip to a blank page in the notebook I bought on my DTLA adventure.
My Act Like I’m on Vacation While Waiting for My Happily-Ever-After List
(what to do between now and Monday when I get my manuscript back)
1. Sleep & dream in my fairy tale bed- masturbate to my hero’s face while listening to Chet Faker. (repeat as many times as needed)
2. Run in Potrero Hill- wear my fitness tracker so I know exactly how to get home. Snap a pic of the views for my social media pages. (maybe send to Nick?)
3. Go to dinner at Vine- sit at the bar. (NO flirting or hooking up… for reals.)
4. Make a pot of soup and watch all the Twilight movies.
5. Mani-pedi-waxing appointment.
6. Listen to the janet. album. (because is there anything sexier than that record?)
7. Write love letters. (what would my characters say? what would I say? what would I want my hero to say to me?)
8. Reread Castles by Julie Garwood in a café in the middle of the day. (while everyone else is working… because I can.)
9. Meditate in Golden Gate Park under a redwood and charge my crystal with passion, sensuality & unicorn magic.
I finish my list with a renewed excitement for my life. I order groceries from Natural Foods and run a bath.
“Alexa, play ‘Some Day My Prince Will Come by Miles Davis’.”
As the jazz trumpet blares on my Echo, I pack a bowl of Super Silver Haze in my Pax and take a beat.
Because I can.
I’m on vacation from work and heartache.
CHAPTER 30:
NICK WILLINGHAM
“Nick, I’m surprised you reached out to me. When we last spoke, you were very happy with your job at… Willingham Contractors. Is this your company?” Marie asks, glancing up from my résumé, a dark narrow eyebrow arched.
She’s sitting at a glass desk. Behind her, a floor-to-ceiling window overlooks the corporate center of the City. Under the desk, long olive-colored legs are crossed at an angle. Her designer fuchsia dress falls midthigh. Thick brown hair curves around her face and shoulders. She’s Italian, a Jersey transplant, but her accent is hidden under professional-speak and her Stanford education.
When I originally met her at a networking event I attended with Paul, she gave me her card as an invitation for a private audience over dinner and drinks. This is the type of woman I usually date. Very pretty. Tall. Unquirky. But right now, she might as well be a balding, short, overweight man. I need a job.
“No. It’s my father’s company. I started on crew and worked my way up to my current position,” I say.
“Your current position is… Project Executive and your salary… wow, you’re definitely well-compensated,” she says, scanning the application I filled out in the lobby.
“I listed my salary with quarterly bonuses. My base is within industry standards for a firm our size in Los Angeles,” I state.
While true, my base salary is industry standard, my dad believes in giving his employees incentives to complete projects on time and within budget. I take pride in making sure my teams and I earn the maximum bonus each quarter.
“Seems to be a great job. Why are you seeking a new opportunity?” Marie asks.
“I want to do more design work. I completed the professional Master of Architecture program at SCI-Arc four years ago. I’ve done some contract projects here in the City since then.”
“Why not work in Los Angeles? I’d imagine you’ve developed quite a network over the last…wow… ten years.”
“I worked part-time my first two years
while playing water polo in a semi-professional league. Was hoping to get picked up by a professional team overseas. Injury,” I say plainly.
“Water polo is a hard sport. My kid brother plays. He says only Olympians get picked up for professional teams.”
“I was a starter at the Olympic games.”
“Oh, my goodness…” she says.
Marie purses her lips and puts her hand over her chest and then back on her desk. It’s as if she temporarily forgot this is a professional meeting and not a date. She clears her throat and continues the interview.
“Why do you want to work in San Francisco?”
I have to be honest, but I don’t want to risk her not searching for an opportunity for me.
“The woman I’m interested in lives here,” I say.
I’m dancing around the truth a bit, but sometimes you need to bob and weave to get what you want. My answer gets a subtle twist of a smile.
“What type of positions are you interested in?” she inquires.
I’ve started to think like Lynn, so my mind has made the question NSFW.
“I want to transition into a role that combines my building experience with design for a reputable mid-sized firm that does a mix of residential new construction and remodels, with an emphasis on smart technology,” I say.
I’ve never articulated my ideal job out loud, but my answer is something I’ve pondered since I finished grad school.
“You’re combining two different worlds. The architect and the contractor are usually on different sides of the table,” she says, clicking around on her laptop.
“I would like to be the guy sitting in between.”
“Most of my clients are architecture firms and builders, but I definitely can send your résumé out to them. With your experience and graduate work, you’d be an asset to any organization,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say with a deep sense of relief.
Marie runs her pen down my résumé.
“Ah…I don’t see your architecture license number on your résumé. If you don’t have it with you, I can look it up,” she says.
“I’ve completed all the requirements for licensing, I just need to sit for the exams.”
“Nick, I’m sorry. All of my architecture clients require a license before an offer of employment,” she says with pity.
“I understand. I’m willing to sit for the exams. I just need a little time to study,” I say, nerves taunting my cool.
“Nick, you finished your program almost five years ago. You don’t have a lot of time to complete all six divisions of the ARE exam as well as the CSE exam,” she says with judgment.
In grad school, every professor said students who wait to complete their exams are less likely to ever become architects. It’s an unstated industry joke. I’m a joke in a navy Givenchy wool suit. I’ve never been the joke. I really am just an ex-jock doing construction work.
I’m pretending to be a designer without taking the steps to become one. Studying for the exams is one of the reasons I’ve stockpiled my vacation time, but I keep putting it off. Procrastination and I are in a bromance and it’s time to end our relationship. What is this sensation… shame? What would Lynn think if she knew I’ve been hiding out while she spent her time doing the necessary hard work to advance her career? Would she still think I’m a superstar? This woman in front of me doesn’t. Moments ago, Marie would have let me whisper dirty words in her ear while I run my hand under her dress.
(The only woman I want to touch is a pixie floating around Hayes Valley… I hope she’s wearing her Patagonia jacket. Zipped-up.)
“Nick, I’ll keep all your information on file. If you complete your exams and obtain your license, we can talk further,” she says.
“Thank you for your time, Marie.”
I stand and shake her hand, but she does not let go right away.
“Nick, here’s my two cents… You have the education and an excellent work history. Now, you need to figure out what you want to do professionally. If you want to continue working as a Project Executive, I can send your résumé out to some of my clients today. I may be able to get you an offer close to your current base salary. However, you also want to work on the design side. You’ll need a license to get a position with a reputable architecture firm and you’ll have to take a salary reduction. Consider your options and let me know. I don’t think you’re looking for a job, you’re seeking a calling. Lastly, marry the woman. This move is the breakthrough you need.”
• • •
“You’re seeking a calling. Marry the woman. Breakthrough you need.” Eating a burger at Sutter House, Marie’s words loop through my mind on high speed. The lunch rush has subsided and it is only me and a few other late afternoon diners in the restaurant. It’s one of my favorite places to eat in the City.
“Can I get you anything else?” my mousy brunette server asks.
Her chirpy voice is making my mood worse. I feel like shit. My ego gave me a false sense of confidence about getting a job. I had initially declined a drink, content to have water, but now it doesn’t seem to be such a bad idea. Maybe I’ll find a “calling” at the bottom of my glass.
“A glass of the Merrywood Pinot Noir.”
I know for sure— no matter what I decide to do professionally, I owe it to myself to get my architecture license. My grad program kicked my ass more than training for the Olympics and passing the exams is my elusive gold medal.
I pull my phone from my pocket and drop a text to Paul to discuss exam prep. Halfway through my glass of wine, my phone vibrates.
“Hey, man. Thanks for getting back to me… I’m in the Financial District now… I’ll catch the Bart train… see you at 4:00.”
I forgo the rest of the wine and call my server to get the check. After signing my receipt, I walk the five blocks to the Embarcadero Station, buy a ticket, and board the Richmond train. I use the twenty-two minute ride to consider all my options.
I can return to my job and give myself time to complete my exams. Then revisit my career options once I’m licensed. I might be able to convince Lynn to do long distance while I prep for my exams, which would be added motivation to get them done. But she’ll probably say no. And I don’t blame her. Studying for exams, working full time, and traveling between L.A. and the Bay Area would be stressful.
I can ask Marie to submit my résumé to Project Executive jobs here in the Bay Area, but I may not be paid as well. Plus, I doubt they’d want a new employee taking time off to get licensed in another field.
I can accept a Junior Architectural Designer position. It’d allow me to complete my exams, but my salary would be a fourth of what I’m earning now. While I enjoy architecture, a pay cut that deep would hurt my quality of life. More so, I’m an outside alpha dog. I don’t know if I could sit in an office for most of the day and take orders from some shrimp who has never poured concrete or framed a structure.
After arriving in Berkeley, I walk the four blocks to Johnson Architects. I’ve spent enough time here that it’s almost as familiar as the Willingham Contractors office. Like me, Paul works in the business his father founded. Berkeley reminds me of Pasadena with its Craftsman homes and bustling shopping and restaurant districts.
“Hi Nick! I’ll ping Paul and let him know you’re here,” Alexis says from the front desk.
“Thank you.”
Paul appears in the lobby and shakes my hand. He’s average height with a slim build, curly blond hair, and true-blue eyes. Paul is in Bay Area business casual attire— jeans, a classic blue-striped dress shirt, and dark rimmed glasses.
“Let’s talk in the conference room,” Paul says.
With the modern open floor plan, it’s the only place to talk privately. I’ve spent many afternoons brainstorming project ideas with him in this room. We sit adjacent to one another at the shiny white and chrome table.
“What brings you to the Bay Area? You didn’t come all this way to discuss license exam prep,” he asks
.
“No, man. I’m chasing a girl who lives in the City.”
Paul and I have been friends since the first day of grad school. Over the years, I watched him meet and court his wife, Mandy, an L.A. native, convincing her to move to the Bay Area.
“North vs. South relationship. Who’s winning?” he asks with a smile.
“She is,” I say.
“So, you didn’t get all dressed up for me? Though you’re always more fashionable than I am.”
“No. I met with Marie Milani to discuss any opportunities she may know of.”
“And?” Paul asks.
“She says I need to figure out what I want to do… and get licensed.”
“Why haven’t you sat for your exams? You finished the program in the top ten percent, so it’s not a case of laziness.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I went to architecture school so I wasn’t just a contractor? Maybe I just wanted the knowledge, but I didn’t want to be an architect? Maybe I just needed something to do with my time once water polo wasn’t a part of my routine? Maybe I’m just a well-paid stoner?” I say, letting my thoughts roll.
(Paul is a Volcano owner too.)
He laughs. “Probably a little of all of the above. Who’s this girl that’s got you pondering the meaning of life? I thought you were dating the chick who works for MTV?”
“Yeah, that didn’t work out. The distance.” I lean back in my chair, stretching out my legs. “Ah… her name is Lynn. We went to the same high school. Her friend is married to Jon.”
Paul became friends with Jon when he was living in L.A. He and his wife also attended the J + J wedding.
“Hold up. Is she one of the Mafia?” Paul asks.
“How do you know about the Mafia? I just found out,” I ask.
“Come on, dude. You really are a stoner. Jon talks about them all the time. Before he called them the Mafia, he referred to them as a pack of wolves.”
“Well, Lynn is the lone wolf in the pack.”
“Oh, the curvy, short one. Really cute. Kind of shy. I didn’t know you were into that type of girl?”