by Amiee Smith
He shrugs. “Do you like it?”
“It is one of my favorites.”
“Bring the bottle,” he says again.
The bartender leaves.
“Are you meeting someone?” he asks again.
The way his stare drags over my body makes me hot and nervous all at the same time. He really thinks I would be out with another guy. I run my hand over his biceps. The convex muscle; rock hard. My fingers curl around the bulge underneath the blue fabric, before pulling away. This beautiful man has no idea how crazy I am about him.
“No. I was supposed to be in L.A. for the week with my boyfriend and ah... well, you know. With nothing else on the calendar, I decided to treat myself to dinner at my favorite restaurant in my neighborhood. What are you doing here?”
Nick’s eyes soften, a piercing glow ignited. Before he can answer, the bartender arrives with the bottle of wine. Nick does the ceremonial tasting, and two glasses are poured in front of us. The bartender steps away. Nick finishes the wine in his original glass before speaking.
“On Tuesday night, maybe it was Wednesday morning, my girlfriend gave me the arduous task of finding a job and a place to live in San Francisco.”
“You’ve been in the City since Tuesday?”
Nick nods.
“Where were you… last night?”
“At Michael’s house in Pacific Heights. Alone on the second floor.”
I disappear into my imagination, recalling our conversation. I insert the new setting and picture it from Nick’s POV. I return to the moment. Looking him up and down, my stare leaves a little heat in its wake. Nick whispers in my ear, his real-man scent encompassing me.
“Love, one day you’re going to tell me what just went through your mind.”
I smile and try to focus on a more dinner appropriate topic.
“Is Michael’s house all that I’ve imagined?”
Nick laughs. “Did you imagine eight thousand square feet, views of the Golden Gate Bridge from most of the rooms, three stories… four, if you count the Olympic-length lap pool and game room on the lower level?”
During Nick’s dinner party on Monday, Michael described his SF home, but I felt as though he was holding back.
“Eight thousand square feet in the City and an indoor pool? Incredible,” I say.
“I’ll be working on projects similar to it soon.”
My heart races.
“Why…”
The bartender appears again.
“Lynn, should I put an order of the fried chickpeas and market vegetable plate in for you?”
“Yes, Troy. And the fries to share, but bring two of the smoky ketchups. My boyfriend will have the caviar canapes and the coq au vin.”
Nick lifts an eyebrow. We’re a progressive couple. I can order for him.
“Oh girl, this is yo man? Go ‘head with yo bad self. Maybe I need to go vegan so I can land me a tall drink of water. Shelton will jump up and make an honest man of me then.”
Troy is Caucasian and blue-eyed, but when his gay comes out he transforms into Tyler Perry’s Madea. He too lives in the neighborhood. I often see him on Sundays at brunch with his longtime partner. The gay culture in San Francisco is embedded in my soul. One of my self-published releases, “A Better Man,” is a M/M. I need to know Nick gets and respects the LGBTQ community.
“I wanted to be her man before she went vegan. I thought she was shy,” Nick says, throwing a little colorful inflection on his statement.
The great Nick Willingham knows how to take his foot off the alpha-male gas pedal and coast on the edge of metro.
“Boy, it’s always the shy ones who get you,” Troy says.
“Ain’t it, tho? For realz!” Nick says.
He’s smiling and playing right along, even throwing a big hand high-five to Troy.
Goddess, I love this man. I edit myself. I enjoy this man. It’s way too soon for love. Right?
Troy disappears. I lean into Nick, brushing my fingertips over his biceps. I want to be all over him tonight.
“What was that?” I ask.
“My mom is a fashion designer. As a kid, I spent more time around Family than I did on construction sites. Thank you for ordering for me, by the way. You did well. Though I might have chosen the grilled octopus,” he says with a smile.
(Family is slang for the gay community.)
I pause and breathe him in. Nick is everything I’ve always wanted in a man, but couldn’t find in the City. What do I have to offer him? I’m just a smutty-minded, introverted writer with a brain disorder.
“Nick, why are you here?”
“The food is excellent.”
“No. In San Francisco?”
“It’s a great city. My girl lives here. Starting Monday, I’ll be working out of Berkeley.”
“You got a job?”
Troy shows up with our appetizers before Nick can answer.
(Like, really, what’s up with servers and timing when we’re trying to have a L+N only conversation?)
I put my napkin in my lap, but don’t eat.
“Tell me,” I command. (I’ve taken on a little Nick-speak.)
In between bites of caviar, fries, and chickpeas, Nick recounts his meeting with the headhunter, his lack of an architecture license, and the impending merger of his company and an architectural firm in Berkeley. I’m in awe of what he has accomplished in three days, while still managing to call me every night.
“One down, one more to go. Michael’s real estate agent is showing me places tomorrow,” he says.
Our entrees arrive.
“So, we’re really doing this? What if we don’t work? Will you regret moving here?” I ask, rapid-fire, picking at my food.
My emotions are all over the place, causing my appetite to disappear. Which never happens. This relationship stuff is a motherfucker, but life without Nick would hurt more.
“Yes. We will. No.”
Nick returns to being alpha— so sexy, but I need more answers.
“Why me? You barely know me.”
“I’ve always known you. In eighth grade, you won the science fair with a paper on butterflies. I spent two weeks working on a wind turbine and I got beat by a paper you wrote by hand. In high school, we had four years of honors English together and I think you slept through most of every class, but still managed to finish your exams before anyone else. Senior year, you had an orange VW Beetle and you and your pack of wolves would hang on the hood on the north side of campus and smoke cigarettes, but no one would rat you guys out. Everyone knew you all eventually would run the world. I don’t even think the administration wanted to cross any of you. I spent the last three years sharing a cigarette with you at parties and thinking you were some shy, polite woman waiting for some dude to marry you. It turns out, you’ve built a sustainable career that affords you a duplex in one of the most expensive cities in the country writing smart, sexy books that everyone from my mom to a billionaire to the gothic chick that sold me this book loves. And I haven’t addressed that you’re a medicinal stoner. Or what you can do with that mouth of yours, both literally and figuratively. Or the Book of Fuckery you compiled for fun. Or that out of all the women I’ve dated, you’re the first to tell me exactly what you need from me. You set me up to win. Not just your heart, but in my own life as well. Lynn, the real question is: ‘Why me?’ And I intend to spend the next however long convincing you I’m worthy of sleeping in your girly cloud bed. Now eat so we can go get stoned while I try to figure out how to work around the Bed Ban.”
While I’m deeply touched by his words, my imaginative mind swirls with kinky possibilities. I pull my phone from my purse, opening the Notes app. My hands tremble as I type at lightning speed.
“What are you doing?” Nick asks, eating some of the swiss chard on my plate.
“Compiling a list of rules and guidelines for the Bed Ban,” I say, winking at him.
Superstar, our little game just got real.
CHAPTER 34:
NICK WILLINGHAM
Lynn convinces me to give the rest of our bottle of wine to the couple sitting next to us at the bar so we can leave.
I close out our tab after a little tug of war over who’s going to pay for our meal. Thankfully, Lynn is more focused on typing on her phone, so I slide Troy my card.
We make the fifteen-minute walk from the restaurant to her favorite dispensary, SPARC. Since she’s a sativa-only person and my stash is in L.A., the trip is much needed.
Lynn spends most of the walk typing away. I admire her gracefulness as she petitely strides her way through the City, only half paying attention. The curve and sway of her hips, hypnotizing.
She’d look beautiful pregnant. The erratic thought is jarring since we’ve both made it clear parenthood isn’t our thing.
We arrive at the dispensary. My phone vibrates in my pocket while waiting in line for our time with the budtender.
Friday, 8:35 p.m.
Lynn Scott: Guidelines for the Bed Ban. Please see below. I’m willing to negotiate, but some of these are hard rules… because it will be so much more fun this way. [pink heart emoji]
I don’t get a chance to read the second message because it’s our turn. We step-up to a modern, blond wood counter.
“What up, Lynn. Do you want another eighth of Sacred Sour?” the dreadlocked Pilipino dude asks.
This is really her city. Everyone knows her. Even the homeless dude we passed on Market Street. I’ll talk to her about that later. Not because she’s being unsafe, but because I need an excuse to do “way too much talking” while I tease her in between sucks and licks.
“No. I’m still working on the last one. What indica-dominant hybrids do you have right now?”
“Are you giving up your espresso shots for more in-da-couch time?” he asks.
Lynn’s preferred cannabis strains are definitely stimulating.
“Oh, no. My boyfriend is an indica-leaning guy. James, this is Nick. Nick, this is my favorite budtender in the City.”
“I heard that! How quickly you forget that I saved you the last eighth of Lamb’s Bread when you were working on your story,” a woman with blue hair says from behind the counter.
Lynn laughs. “You know you’re my girl, Maura.”
“Alright. What strains do you prefer, man?” the budtender asks.
“I like a good Kush. Both indica dominant and sativa dominant,” I say.
“I have four different Kush strains right now.”
James opens some jars for me to smell. Ah, how I appreciate the distinctively fragrant, earthy scent of cannabis.
“What do you recommend?” I ask.
“I’d go with the Moonstone Kush for sleep, and the Sapphire Kush for chilling around the house, listening to music, and cooking.”
“Sold. I’ll take an eighth of each. Any CBD strains?”
“I have Huckleberry. It’s 10% CBD, 10% THC. We also carry an 18:1 CBD-to-THC vape pen from Care by Design. Patients say it’s great for managing pain.”
“I will do a gram of the Huckleberry and the vape pen.”
“Since we don’t use the same strains, we’ll need a silver Pax,” Lynn says.
“Got it. Anything else?” James asks.
“No, we’re good,” Lynn says, pulling out her card.
“Your total comes to $554,” James says, bagging the items.
“James, we’re friends, right?” Lynn asks.
“You know it, girl.”
“My tall drink of water is going to try to hand you his card. I want you to pretend you don’t see it and use mine instead. Cool?”
“Cool. Damn, you’re one lucky man,” James says, swiping Lynn’s card.
“I really am. Thank you for all your help.”
I take the bag and follow my pixie into the night.
• • •
We take the MUNI bus up Market Street to Lynn’s place. It’s my first time on a city bus. After finding a seat, I crack open “BreakerFall” and read a few pages. It’s nice not having to drive.
“OMG, #HotGuyReading,” says a young woman with a yoga mat under her arm and her phone angled at me.
Lynn’s small hands pry the book out of my embrace.
“Oh, hell no. The only person who is going to use my hashtag for a pic of you is me. Reading in public is officially off limits until further notice, Superstar,” she whispers.
I’m not sure what happened, but I’m quite certain my sweet woman just went all alpha with a side of jealousy. I kiss the top of her head and smile. She smells like Lynn, lavender and coconut.
Ten minutes later, we enter her flat. I’ve been here before, but it feels like the first time.
“So, this is where you live. They remodeled it down to the studs,” I say.
“The previous owner was a multi-million-dollar app developer. He put a lot of money into this unit,” Lynn says.
As she always did at my house, she drops her purse on the entryway table in the hall. We walk down the long hallway, passing a large chrome standing mirror before entering the living area. White walls, modern Edwardian-style windows and recessed lighting throughout. To the immediate right, a room probably meant to be a formal dining area.
“My writing studio,” she says, clicking on all the lights.
In the center of the space is a U-shaped white desk and gray Herman Miller office chair that looks as if it’s designed for someone who spends a lot of time sitting. On one of the walls is a very large cork board filled with pics and 3 x 5 notecards.
On the other side, the wall is lined with framed Pearl Jam concert posters. Below the posters is a shelving unit that houses several binders, a massive printer, storage baskets, and framed pictures. The room is spotless and clutter-free.
“No book shelves?” I ask.
I imagined she’d have wall to wall shelves with books.
“You know I’m easily distracted.”
She slides open a door probably meant to be a storage closet. Inside, rows and rows of books.
“It took six months to find a carpenter that understood what I wanted him to do.”
“I could have done it for you,” I say.
We move into the modern all white kitchen with stainless steel appliances. An island sits in the middle of the space with two backless barstools. I drop the SPARC bag and book on the white quartz countertop and survey the large rectangular, open concept living area. On the other side of the kitchen is a small, square art deco table with a white round base surrounded by four clear, ghost chairs.
Adjacent to the dining table is a modern light gray sectional with bright pink throw pillows and a dark wood coffee table. A huge multi-colored painting of a lifelike unicorn hangs over the sofa, covering most of the wall. Across from the sofa, a TV is mounted above an electric fireplace. Again, everything is clean and clutter-free.
Her home is exactly where I pictured her living, but more than that, it feels like home to me. She feels like home to me.
Lynn unlocks a drawer on the island in the kitchen.
“This is my stash drawer,” she says.
Inside the large drawer are at least eight small mason jars filled with cannabis and labeled by strain in purple ink, her rose gold Pax, rolling cones, two tiny, thin, clear glass bongs, four concentrate containers (also labeled by strain), two Kandy vape pens (one purple and one pink), and a basket of pokers, cleaning tools, different-sized grinders, and scooping spoons. Her stash drawer looks similar to what I have at home.
“You’re my dream woman,” I say.
“I know,” she says, smiling.
Lynn pulls out two grinders and a jar labeled Island Sweet Skunk. It’s the same strain I bought for her in L.A. She goes to the large modern stainless steel sink to wash her hands.
“Okay, rule number one of SF-living, wash your hands any time you’re on public transit.”
I heed her advice and join her at the sink. The touch faucet is a feature I would have chosen.
“Your h
ome is impressive. Though I’m surprised the previous owner didn’t utilize any smart technology,” I say, lathering my hands with the EO French Lavender hand soap.
“That probably was his plan, but rumor has it he had a thing for hookers and gambling. I think it’s why he sold so soon after he renovated this place. Lilly’s unit is a mix of Edwardian original features and mid-80s cabinetry. I’m growing a little fund to renovate the unit when she moves out. Maybe I’ll add some smart features to both units then,” Lynn says, grinding up the weed.
“I’ll handle the renovation when the time comes. I may not do all the work myself, but I’ll put a team on it.”
“Superstar, you keep talking like that and you’ll make me regret my Bed Ban guidelines.”
“Oh, I haven’t finished reading your text,” I say, pulling my phone from my pocket and placing it on the counter.
“Wait. What strain do you want?”
“I want the night to last, so I’ll do the Sapphire Kush since it’s sativa-dominant.”
“Wine?” Lynn asks.
“Of course.”
“I had my carpenter build this as well,” Lynn says.
She opens the pantry cabinet. It is a place where most people store food. Instead, my girl transformed it into a wine cabinet, complete with wine-specific racks and shelving. It’s like what I designed at my house.
“You were meant for me. What all do you have in here?” I ask, staring at more than a hundred bottles of wine.
“I feel the same way. Ah, most of the wines are from Lake County. Some Napa. Some Sonoma. Some from the Central Coast. What are you in the mood for?”
“I could do a Malbec or a Zin.”
“This is my favorite Zin,” she says, pulling out a bottle.
I open cabinets until I find a collection of stemless wine glasses.
“How about I open the wine and you pack the vaporizers?” I suggest.
“Perfect. The wine opener is in the drawer next to you.”
Lynn cleans the vaporizers with 420 Science alcohol wipes and fills them with freshly ground herb. I’m loving being in her world. Maybe because it’s so similar to mine. I open the wine and pour a little into a glass, sampling it as I would in a restaurant or winery.