by Amiee Smith
I break the kiss. “Do we need to stop by your flat?” I ask.
“Yeah, I should get a change of clothes for tomorrow,” Lilly says, moving off my lap and settling into her seat.
We dress, and I start the car. Curving my way through the parking garage, I head to the lower level to exit. I slip on my sunglasses before pulling on to Valencia Street. They fit a little too snug on my face.
“These are yours,” I say, handing them to her and retrieving mine from the console.
“Thanks,” she says, covering her dazed eyes.
Lilly is still recovering from her hand job.
“Am I your boyfriend now?”
“Almost. Just a few questions.”
“Go for it.”
“Do you have a prostitute?”
“No, Lilly.”
“Are you addicted to the horse races?”
“No.”
“Any illegal drug usage? Particularly, cocaine, heroin, meth?”
“No.”
“Then I guess we’re good, boyfriend.”
“How long were you with Jack Nelson?”
“You know Jack?”
“Not personally. I was trying to buy your building at the same time as Lynn. My team told me about his gambling, escort, and drug scandal.”
“Wait. You’re the douchy developer trying to buy all the Edwardian buildings on the block? The whole neighborhood was talking about you.”
I nod.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard the sentiment. Half of the entertainment industry in L.A. refers to me as “the douche bag financier” because I’ll drop a project without a second thought if production costs are over budget.
“How did your relationship with Jack end?”
“With a press conference where he announced he was stepping down as CEO of Bubble Pop to seek treatment. He apologized to his colleagues, family and friends. I assume I was among the friends.”
“That’s messed up, Lilly. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. I learned a valuable lesson.”
“What lesson?”
“Not to date my landlord.”
“For the record, I’d never date any of my tenants.”
“If you were the developer trying to buy my place, then do you own the apartment buildings on the corner with the terrible light sculptures in front?”
My Lilly definitely has an opinion. I like it. I like it a lot. Maybe if she were in my life when I started the Page Street Project I would have vetoed the architect’s art installation.
“Yes. The sculptures are pretty bad, but it would’ve cost more to remove them. I’ll take the L.”
“The whole Hayes Valley neighborhood took the L on those glorified EDM strobe lights.”
“Watch it, girlfriend. Persians love EDM.”
“Not my Persian. You’re a hip hop and R & B dude. Every day,” Lilly says.
The slight intonation on “every day” reminds me of the line from Drake’s Bay Area anthem. With a couple of clicks, “The Motto” slaps on the speakers as we crawl our way through City traffic to Hayes Valley.
◆◆◆
I park in Lilly’s driveway after a black Suburban reverses into the street. On the curb in front of the duplex— Brit, Alex, Nick and Lynn.
“Hey! How was your date?” Lynn asks as we exit the car.
I greet her with a cheek to cheek kiss, something we started doing in college. She looks like Lynn. Attractive. Petite. Her lemon print blouse matches her cheery disposition.
“Good. Great. I’m still on it,” Lilly says, passing a glance in my direction.
“Hi Lilly. I’m Brit Palmer. One of Lynn’s best friends. We did a hi/bye the last time I was here. This is Alex Willingham.”
Brit and Alex stand at my height.
Brit: Royal blue designer high heels, black denim skinny crops, and a snug tissue thin white tee reveals a blue bra underneath. She’s pierced and tatted like a rock star, with Mariah Carey skin tone and dark, long Vision of Love curly hair.
Alex: Conservative navy slacks and a white short-sleeved dress shirt. He’s clean shaven with short, dark wavy hair, olive skin, and ocean hazel eyes covered by silver glasses.
Together: Visual opposites, but somehow blending together as one. Always within inches of each other.
Lilly’s voice calls me away from my observation.
“I remember. Good to see you again, Brit. Nice to meet you, Alex. Willingham? Any relation to Nick?”
“I’m the younger brother. Nice to meet you as well, Lilly. Michael, it’s always great to see my favorite client,” Alex says, shaking my hand.
My team recently completed a background check on Alex. He will be managing a portion of my personal investment portfolio.
“How was Lucky Strike?” Nick asks.
Nick is the athletic version of me. Big dark hair, bronzed skin, tall, muscular, groomed five o’clock shadow, well-dressed. Quietly driven. I can understand why Lynn likes him.
“Really crowded. We had a drink and left. Turns out Michael has a two-lane bowling alley at his house,” Lilly says.
“Of course, you do, Michael. What a brilliant way to get a girl back to your house,” Lynn says.
“How did Nick get you back to his house?” I ask.
“Weed. Sex. I’m easy,” Lynn says with a giggle.
“No, lovely Lynn you are not easy. I spent four days watching this man rearrange his life to be with you.”
“That’s what heroes do,” Lynn says with a smile and shrug. “You guys should come upstairs for a drink. Our parents just left, and Brit and Alex are going to stay in the City overnight. Let’s hang out.”
“Yeah, hang out! I feel like I need to know you, Lilly,” Brit says.
“Okay,” Lilly says to my surprise. (I thought this was a quick stop before going back to my house?)
We march up the two flights of stairs to Lynn’s flat. Once inside, we all spread out across Lynn’s open concept living area. While Lilly’s apartment is in desperate need of remodeling, Lynn’s flat has been fully renovated and modernized. On trend. Gray hardwood floors, bright white walls, recessed lighting and a glossy all-white and stainless-steel kitchen.
This was Jack’s unit.
“Wine? Weed?” Nick and Lynn ask in unison to all of us.
I rarely smoke pot, but it seems like an adequate way to quill the “why aren’t we fucking?” energy running through my body and distract myself from longing to be in bed with Lilly.
“I’m down. I’ll need to leave my car here,” I say.
“Totally fine. Are you down to smoke, Lilly?” Lynn says.
“Sure. I’ll warn you now, when I get high I get mouthy and want to play games. And I can be very competitive,” Lilly replies.
“A woman after my own heart,” Nick says.
He played water polo in the Olympic Games, so competition is his thing.
“How about dominoes? I’m always trying to get Lynn to play, but she gets spacey and doesn’t try to win,” Brit suggests.
“Dominoes is cool,” Lilly says, smiling at me.
“Excellent. Lynn, where are your dominoes?” Brit asks.
“In the closet in my writing studio. Lilly? Michael? Malbec or Chardonnay?” she asks, opening bottles.
“Chardonnay,” Lilly and I say in unison.
Nick opens a drawer in the kitchen island and grinds up weed. He rolls two joints. Lynn pours wine. They are in their element. Coupled. Connected. I want this with Lilly. Entertaining our friends. Being ourselves.
“Since there are six of us, lets play in teams. Me and Alex. Michael and Lilly. Nick and Lynn. First team to 150 wins,” Brit asks, dumping the dominoes onto Lynn’s dark wood coffee table.
“We should bet on it,” Alex says.
“Good idea. Winner chooses a charity for the losers to donate to. Alex and I want our donation to go to the save the penguins fund,” Brit says.
“Last week was the stop fracking fund, Brit. You’re changing it
up?” Alex asks.
“Yes. I heard a very intriguing segment on NPR about the penguins.”
“I heard the same segment. It was interesting,” Lilly says.
“I already support the animals by not eating them. Nick, let’s do Planned Parenthood.”
“Works for me. I am very grateful for your IUD,” Nick says.
“Planned Parenthood inserted my IUD as well. Which one do you have, Lynn?” Lilly asks.
“ParaGard. You?” Lynn asks.
“That’s gangsta. No hormones. I have the Mirena.”
“What’s the difference?” I ask.
“My IUD releases a low dose hormone to prevent conception. Lynn’s IUD is copper. The copper acts like a spermicide. They also have different side effects.”
“My brain is already a bit scattered, so I didn’t want to risk any of the potential side effects of using a hormonal birth control. Also, mine can stay inserted up to ten years. One less thing to think about,” Lynn says.
“What do you guys use for birth control?” Lilly asks of Brit and Alex.
“I’m not on birth control. Alex and I are just friends,” Brit says.
Lynn scoffs. Nick and I pass a glance. Lilly gives me a WTF face. I respond with a brow lift. The continuous mystery of the Alex and Brit relationship keeps everyone on the edge of their seats.
Though, I've recently received information about Alex that makes me envious of the connection between the two of them.
“What should our charity be, Lilly?” I ask to avert her attention.
“Umm. Me. I want to create a research foundation focused on pharmaceuticals to heal, cure and eradicate disease. It’s a distant dream, but I can invest the money until I’m ready,” Lilly says.
“You’re so cool. I totally want to be you when I grow up,” Brit says, smiling.
“I can handle your investments. I’ll give you my contact info,” Alex says retrieving his business card from his wallet.
We gather around the coffee table with our stemless wine glasses. Lilly and I, and Alex and Brit sit on the gray sectional. Lynn pulls up two chairs from the dining table for herself and Nick. Joints are lit and passed. After Brit washes the “bones” (as Lilly calls the domino tiles), the game commences.
New Lilly fact: she doesn’t mess around when it comes to dominoes.
CHAPTER 9:
LILLY SHEPARD
“Domino! That’s game,” I say (a little louder and prouder than appropriate).
I probably should have told everyone I’m a master of the bones. In Detroit, it’s what we do on a frigid winter night. Playing dominoes with the people in my neighborhood was the only time I felt like “big brain Lilly” belonged.
Michael and I win by fifty-five points. We worked together, beautifully. We did not need to speak as we both calculated and strategized to win the game. He was more strategic. He focused on the long game. I was more calculated. I focused on all the possible ways we could score. It was masterful the way we used our eyes and fingers to communicate, like we did in the car. Our opponents had no idea what we were doing.
“Lynn, I think Lilly is one of us,” Brit says, trading places with Alex so she can sit next to me on the sofa.
Brit is a tall woman. Taller than me even without her four-inch heels, but with Beyonce-like thighs. Her complexion is lighter than mine, but I know there is some black girl in her.
“I think so, too. I’m kind of pissed I’m only now realizing it. We could have spent the last two years having a lot of fun,” Lynn says, giggling from across the coffee table.
“We can still have fun,” I say to Lynn.
“We will, but the clock is now ticking,” Lynn says with a whisper and a wink.
I’m not sure what she means, but I’m almost certain it’s regarding my new relationship status.
“Lilly, did you get a perfect score on any part of the SATs?” Brit asks.
“Yes. The math,” I answer, returning the dominoes to their case.
“Check,” Lynn says.
“Lynn got a perfect score on the verbal. I got a perfect score on all the sections. Our other three friends also got perfect scores on at least one section. Are you Mensa or could you qualify for Mensa?” Brit asks.
“Yes. I’m Mensa certified.”
“Check,” Lynn says.
“Would someone describe you as overeducated?” Brit continues.
“I’d imagine so. I’m a Doctor of Pharmacy and working on a PhD in molecular pharmacology. I’ve spent most of my life in school.”
“Check,” Lynn says.
“Among the five of us, there are two MFAs, two MBAs, a JD, a Master of Music and I’m also working on a doctorate in jazz studies. On any given day would you describe yourself as a nerd, geek, or weirdo?” Brit asks.
“I prefer geek, but yeah. Like, every day. I’m a bit clumsy, but only at the worst possible time. I have math equations tattooed on my back and I play GTA in X-Men underwear. And that’s the stuff I feel comfortable saying out loud,” I share.
Michael’s eyes lick over my body as I speak.
Brit smiles at me. “If I were into girls I’d be crushing on you right now.”
“Check. And she’s a minority. So, check on that box. All our other friends are also minorities except Jen. But she considers herself a minority because she’s a redhead Jew,” Lynn says with a smile.
“How do you feel about lady talk with lots of booze?”
“I’m good with it.”
“Last question. Are you an only child?” Brit asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Yay!!” Lynn and Brit cheer, high-fiving each other.
“We’re having our quarterly sleepover at Claire’s house next weekend. You must attend, Lilly,” Brit says.
“Ah…Okay.”
I’m not sure what I am agreeing to, but they’re excitement is infectious.
“Shoot. I was going to skip the sleepover. I start editing my manuscript tomorrow,” Lynn says.
“Claire never gets to host. She’ll be pissed if you don’t go,” Brit says.
“I’ll go because of Lilly, but I need to find a flight. I’ll look for one for you too, Lilly.”
“Flight? Your friend doesn’t live in the City?”
“No. L.A.,” Brit says.
“I’m still paying on my overeducation. I didn’t budget for a trip this month. Rain check?”
(It would be irresponsible to dip into my savings for a sleepover.)
“I’ll arrange my plane for you and Lynn. You can stay with me.”
“Lynn, you’ll stay at my house and we’ll drive back to SF together on Sunday,” Nick says.
“Awesome. The sleepover is Friday night,” Brit says.
“Can we travel on Thursday evening? I want to get a full day of editing in on Friday before the sleepover,” Lynn says.
“That’s fine. I’m working overnight on Tuesday and Wednesday.”
“My assistant will schedule the trip and send both of you a text,” Michael says.
“It’s settled. Lilly and I are spending next weekend in L.A. Now, you all need to leave so I can be dirty flirty with Nick.”
◆◆◆
After declining an invitation to attend a show at SFJazz with Alex and Brit, Michael and I stop by my flat.
“Are you sure you’re okay with me staying with you next weekend?” I call to Michael from my bedroom, dropping clothes into an NPR tote (another fund drive gift).
“Yes. I prefer it. What is this, Lilly?” Michael asks from the kitchen.
Turning off the light, I join him. He’s staring at the wall covered in three coats of chalkboard paint. The perk of dating my old landlord was I got to do whatever I wanted to my apartment. So, I turned the large white wall in my kitchen into an expansive chalkboard.
The matte black finish is filled with various math equations and a graph written in white and red chalk. My most recent Hidden Figures moment… because black girls doing math is hot.
&nbs
p; “Oh. Ignore that. It’s just late night geekery.”
“I want to know. This is compound interest,” Michael says, pointing at a section of my calculation.
“Yes. I calculated how many per diem shifts I would need to work at Genentech until my student loans from pharmacy school are paid off. I want to be at zero by the time I finish my dissertation. I factored in potential sick and mental health days, major holidays and the time off I will need for my dissertation seminars and industry conferences. I want to be able to accept any job I want and if my loans are paid off I can be flexible with salary.”
“Is this what you owe on your student loans?” Michael asks, pointing to a line in my calculation.
“Yes.”
“How did you finish pharmacy school with so little debt? My brother-in-law had well over a hundred thousand dollars in student loans after dentistry school,” Michael says.
“Oh, no. I had over a hundred thousand dollars as well, but I’ve been paying down the principal pretty aggressively since I graduated. I created a formula.”
“So, you’re only working to cover your student loans?”
“Yes. My PhD is fully funded and covers all my living expenses. Why all the questions?”
“I want to understand everything about you so when you start signaling I know exactly what you mean,” Michael says with a smile.
“I’m sorry about the mute thing. Don’t worry. It only happens when I’m really excited and before this afternoon it had not happened in a really long time.”
“Is it a condition?” Michael asks with more concern than needed.
“No. My grandma totally flipped out the first time I went silent after I won the spelling bee in second grade. She took me to every specialist in Michigan only to discover it’s the way I process extreme pleasure.”
“When you’re really happy you stop talking?”
“It’s subjective and selective, but yes.”
Michael growls and his amber eyes lick me up and down. Lust pulses between my thighs.
“Let’s go to your house,” I say to him as the lyrics to the Silk song, “Freak Me” runs through my mind.
“We will, but first I want to take care of something.”
“What do you want to take care of?”