by Amiee Smith
“No, I don’t need an Uber. I need you to tell me how to get around.”
“I’m not ordering an Uber. I’m buying you a car. I’m sorry I didn’t order it sooner. The GPS in your car will direct you to where you want to go.”
“Michael, a car is unnecessary. I can walk.”
She pokes her food with her fork but doesn’t eat.
Something doesn’t add up. My woman researches everything. She applied to USC for pharmacy school. Even if this is her first trip to L.A., she had to know transportation is nothing like San Francisco. She’s hiding a piece of valuable information.
“Do you have a fear of driving?” I ask, quietly.
“Oh. No. I grew up in the Motor City. I was driving at twelve,” she says with her signature chuckle.
“Okay, so what’s up? You know L.A. requires a car to get around.”
“Really, Michael? I really have to bare my soul this soon into our relationship?”
“Yes, you do. My attorney will be here in an hour with the terms of our agreement and the paperwork for me to sign over the deed to the SF property to you. Plus, you bit the shit out of my leg this morning. Bare your fucking soul,” I whisper back, the seriousness in my tone shocks me.
She puts her fork down and leans in close so only I can hear her. I catch a whiff of my cologne left behind on her skin, her voice barely a whisper.
“First, every time we have an issue, you cannot bring up the house. You decided to give it to me. I just agreed. Second, I’m sorry about your leg. I will download some books or watch some videos so it’s more sensual and less aggressive. Third, and I’m only telling you this because of the amalgam of feelings I experience when I look at you… I love to drive, but I have a fear of the California highway system and getting caught in one of those high-speed chases. I’m certain I would pee my pants at the sight of all those helicopters and police cars. And then all my people back home will see me as string bean Lilly with the big brain who wet herself on national television. There. Now you know. I will maintain whatever dignity I have left and eat my breakfast in silence.”
Turning away, Lilly pushes her glasses to the bridge of her nose and returns to eating her breakfast and reading her tablet.
Her revealing words catch in the center of my chest, stroking something deep inside of me. It’s not what she said, but her willingness to lay down her shield of defensiveness. And lifting the barrier between me and her heart. This transfer of power allows me to finally step into my rightful role in her life as her protector and provider. Her man. Our connection finally real. Unobstructed. Vibrant. Like the dazzling sunshine streaming in from the windows.
I rest my fork and knife on my plate and whisper in her ear. My lips caress her flesh.
“First, I love you, string bean Lilly with the big brain, and I understand if you’re not ready to say it back to me. Second, I adore every bite. Please don’t trouble yourself with researching a better way to do it. Third, a car will be delivered for you and I will give you a freeway driving lesson so you don’t have to worry about being caught on camera in an unflattering position. Fourth, I will never mention the house again. It’s yours because I’m so grateful you’re in my life.”
My woman continues to eat her food and scroll her tablet. In between bites, she wipes away the tears streaming down her face and squeezes the shit out of my thigh under the table.
For a woman who eats a lot of sugar and doesn’t work out, she’s as strong as hell.
But this morning, she’s allowing me to be her man.
CHAPTER 17:
LILLY SHEPARD
I feel like I’ve known these women my entire life.
Politics. Men. Money. Female reproductive health. Career ambition. Wellness. Beauty routines. Music. Pop culture. Fashion. There is nothing off limits or taboo in this group. But it is their unrelenting loyalty and love for each other that keeps me enchanted. Engrossed.
Lynn’s friends welcome me with wide-open arms. They call themselves the Smart Girl Mafia, a title bestowed upon them by Jen’s husband. The same Jen who was the star of my all-time favorite show, “Sunset Moon.”
Post dinner, we sit in Claire’s floral living room, spread out across two matching sofas facing each other with a large glass coffee table in between. We sip on one of the bottles of the wine I took from Michael’s wine cabinet… our wine cabinet.
Wearing red pants and a white Gucci top, my legs are crossed with a wine glass in hand. I’m positioned between Dana (my new homie) and Lynn. Jen, Brit, and Claire sit across from us.
Claire is a delight. I’d describe her as the millennial version of Martha Stewart. She perfectly curated, planned, and designed every moment of our sleepover— tasteful floral arrangements in the colors of autumn, freshly pressed white table linens, and antique crystal glassware paired with Vera Wang Wedgwood dinnerware. And lots of delicious food and quality booze.
“So, Lynn, what’s life like dating my husband’s best friend?” Jen asks, pouring an overly generous glass of wine for herself.
“Ah. Nick is divine. I mean really, I think he’s part mystical being. He’s the man I’ve always wanted,” Lynn says.
“How is everything with you and Michael? Alex says Michael really likes you,” Brit asks, before sipping her wine.
(He loves me, but I’m not going to check my new friend.)
“He asked her to move in with him. I have a whole new respect for Michael,” Dana says, reciting what I told her in the car.
I learned on the drive to Claire’s house, Dana and Michael tried to do a movie deal together and it did not go well. According to her, he abruptly dropped the project.
“Holy Unicorn. You’re moving out?” Lynn asks, turning toward me on the sofa.
“Not yet… yeah… I mean… I will pay rent through the end of the year or Michael said he will pay it. I guess it’s a ‘we’ situation… Oh. I don’t know, Lynn… Yes. Yes. I’m moving out.”
“I’m so happy for you! You found love,” Lynn says.
“You’re not upset?”
“Oh, no. It’s San Francisco. I’ll find a tenant within a few days of posting it on Craigslist. And Nick is itching to design the renovation. I’m so thrilled for you and Michael,” Lynn says, her eyes genuinely happy.
“Michael was the man at Nick’s dinner party?” Claire asks.
“Yes,” everyone says, but me. I don’t know about a dinner.
Lynn jumps in. “So, Lilly texted Michael to say thank you after he sent the flowers and donuts. Even if they weren’t for her, she wanted to appreciate his effort. At the dinner, I showed Michael the pic Lilly sent me of her with the flowers. Michael liked what he saw, so he started texting Lilly and then they went out on a date and now she’s moving in. Yay!” Lynn cheers, finishing her story with a smile.
Wow. My story sounds like an urban romance myth. Single gal folklore. A fantasy to keep a woman warm and hopeful while she waits for the one. And for the first time in over two years, I’m a believer. I have no desire to roll my eyes and internally scoff with cynicism. Michael and I are a modern fairy tale come to life.
“I can’t believe you two found love within a few weeks! Lynn, you don’t even leave the house! Whereas I have attended every ‘attract your soulmate’ workshop over the last year and still can’t find a man!” Dana wails, before taking a big sip of wine.
“You need to stop attending seminars and just get out there,” Jen says under her breath, her words meant to be heard.
“Speaking of getting out there. Let’s talk about Claire and the photo,” Brit says.
“There is absolutely nothing to talk about! I’m thankful the women of my organization are not on Twitter,” Claire says with a polite curtness.
I glance at Lynn for answers. She shrugs and whispers in my ear: “Yeah, that’s a story in the making.”
I don’t comment. Kanye’s “Gold Digger” plays on the speakers, and Michael comes to mind. I’m grateful he’s not blowing up my phone with texts and respecting my
time with my new friends, but I miss him. I’ll be sure to text him later. (After a few more drinks, it will probably be a sexy message crafted so he’ll miss me too.)
“Girls, I didn’t want to say anything until we were a few bottles in, but the science fraternity a block over is having a party tonight. I ran into the chapter president in Trader Joe’s this afternoon. It’s a dominoes tournament for their fall fund drive, but there will also be a DJ. We can be the hot nerdy thirtysomethings in the room tearing up the dance floor. Why don’t we take a few bottles of wine and crash the party?” Claire suggests.
Everyone is silent. It’s so quiet the vibration of a new text message could easily be heard.
Then everyone starts speaking at once.
“Sounds awesome!” Jen says.
“Totally! I haven’t been to a frat party in well over a decade,” Dana says.
“Oh, it will be fun to flirt with some barely legal boys. No one is as wonderful as Nick, but I can play without touching,” Lynn says with a mischievous grin on her face.
“A DJ and dancing will be hella dope,” Brit says.
“I’m a badass dominoes player!” I say.
◆◆◆
It turns out I’m not a very effective dominoes player after a few glasses of wine and a glass of Jen’s sleepover cocktail (ginger beer, fresh lemon juice, and Belvedere vodka).
The guys of the frat let us into their party with the stipulation that we didn’t need to pay the $20 cover (all proceeds fund science tutoring for underserved youth), but if we lost our first round of dominoes we’d have to remove our shirts.
They said something about “hot girls,” “recruitment,” and “better turn out.”
After a few hits from a joint Brit hands me, I exclaim I could easily beat anyone in a game of dominoes. I had to donate $100 to get in the game, but I was so excited I eagerly handed over my card (these dudes are prepared with Square and a receipt for my donation).
I (barely) lost the first round.
Now we are on the dance floor awaiting my second round in nothing but our bras… and having the time of our lives. (Glad I wore a bra.) Luckily, the girls don’t seem to mind being shirtless. Claire said, “It’s like being at Burning Man, but without all the sand.”
The DJ is spinning “American Boy” by Estelle and I’m doing my best arm wave dance in a circle with my new friends.
Lynn took the time to explain the house, a large Craftsman that needs to be remodeled more than my flat, is not a real fraternity in the Greek system like she and Michael belong to, but instead an academic fraternity.
I don’t care what they are. These nerdy boys, most at least a decade my junior, love me! I can’t go anywhere in this house without one of them praising my tattoos and asking if I have a boyfriend (to which I respond yes!).
These frat guys gave me a nickname too… Goddess Lilly.
I’m having the best time… EVER.
“Girls, gather around. I need a pic for Instagram. Let’s show Hollywood I still got it, even in my thirties,” Jen says, her phone angled above our heads.
We huddle up for the shot. Jen snaps the photo, and someone calls out “Goddess Lilly, you’re up next!” and I turn around.
“Take it again. Lilly’s back was to the camera,” Dana says.
“OMG, no! Lilly’s back and side profile looks hot and by proximity, I look hot. Totally posting this pic to Insta,” Jen says.
“Jen, is it a good idea to post this pic to Instagram? While I doubt the old bats— I mean, women in my organization are on Instagram, this pic could get out to my other political circles,” Claire says.
“Please. I wish I were still that famous. Plus, it’s for a worthy cause. I’ll tag the house so if someone wants to support the fund drive, they can.”
I don’t bother to glance at the photo because it’s my turn to play in the dominoes tournament. I trust Jen. If she’s cool with it, then I guess it’s fine. After all, she’s a real deal celebrity.
I gotta get my head in the game so I can redeem myself. I’m enjoying dancing with the girls, but I still want to light these boys up for the hell of it. No one (except maybe Michael) plays dominoes better than me. After all, I’m Goddess Lilly. (Even in a basic black bra hiding most of the fresh love bites Michael left behind last night and this morning.)
“Lilly, do you have a hashtag?”
“No. Why would I need one?”
“I’ll create one for you. #GoddessLilly,” Jen says, smiling.
I play my next two rounds and kill it. These nerdy boys don’t know what hit ’em. I’m not a Goddess, I’m a motherfreakin’ hurricane when it comes to dominoes. Ah. I wish Michael was here to see me rock the table bone after bone.
In between rounds, I hang with each of the girls.
Lynn teaches me the art of flirting with a bunch of boys in the kitchen. She purses her lips, bats her eyelashes, and rattles off a series of smutty jokes so good even if she weren’t showcasing her big boobs in an exquisite black lacy bra, she could turn out any man, and maybe a few women. (Yeah, she’s that good.)
In between “flirt seshes” she reveals she can’t flirt with Nick, “It’s like my body won’t let me when he’s around. He’s so beautifully serious it disrupts my whole game.”
I do shots with Jen and a group of chemistry nerds (my fav). The guys lead us through an experiment they are doing with the molecular structure of Jell-O shots and nitrous oxide. Jen not only follows the science, but she helps them with their theory (she minored in chemistry for fun… and is the official mixologist of the Mafia).
Jen glows like a TV star— long ginger-red hair, big crystal-blue eyes, pearly skin, and a milkshake rack spilling over a pink and nude bra. She’s way too smart and charismatic to be “an out of work actor turned housewife.”
Waiting in line for the bathroom with our red Solo cups in hand, I jam with Brit about my shopping trip to Gucci, Miles Davis’ “You’re Under Arrest” album, and navigating the world of academia. Like last Sunday, she is decked out in designer clothes from head to toe. Even her glittery yellow bra is couture. In six-inch black and gold heels, she’s as tall as Michael, so I angle my head upwards as we speak.
Brit is way, way smarter than me. I’ve logged my 10,000 hours to program my mind to understand information. But Brit is a real prodigy with an off-the-chart IQ (yeah, it came up over dinner). I’ve known people with Brit-like intelligence.
She kind of reminds me of my dad. For people like them, real life is a struggle. And for my new friend, the struggle is real. I think Alex helps her navigate the grind. She inserts his name in every other phrase out of her mouth, though she does not mention him as much when she’s around the rest of the girls.
On the way back from the bathroom, I run into Dana schooling a group of guys on the cinematic storytelling in the movie, “Get Out.” She’s Latina with thick dark hair and an infectious smile. The same height as me, but incredibly fit. Her toned abs give way to a modest bust wrapped in a sapphire-blue bra.
A screenwriting agent, Dana is even more intense than I am, wicked smart, and a true Type A personality, but when she listens… she really listens. It’s like she’s staring into the center of my soul and bullshitting is not allowed.
I can understand why Michael might annoy her.
On the surface, my man is like a shiny, well-staged pic on Instagram. It’s easy to dismiss him at first. But on closer examination, there is no photoshopping, filters, or lighting tricks. He’s really that perfect, both gorgeous and intelligent. And his soul is so very genuine. I really miss him. I need to remember to drop a text the next time I get a free moment.
While on deck for my next round of dominoes, I listen as Claire instructs some “nice young men” on the science of preparing the perfect soufflé. What she lacks in cleavage, which is concealed in a shiny cream push-up bra, she makes up for with bootylicious curves.
I absolutely adore her. I can’t understand why she’s single. An exotically beautiful total
package, she’s equal parts pre-Feminine Mystique housewife and millennial lady boss. She owns a flower shop in downtown Claremont and is active in local politics.
I win my next two rounds of dominoes and earn a spot in the finals. I’m a warrior-princess-goddess slaying dragons, while at the same time, a regular girl spending Friday night with her new favorite friends.
This is the best night… EVER.
CHAPTER 18:
MICHAEL AHMED
“What do they do at these sleepovers?”
Nick asks the question looming in the back of my mind.
With a pool stick in one hand, I’m scrolling my phone with the other.
After my meeting at the Willingham Contractors office in downtown Pasadena, Nick and Alex invited me and Jordan to Jon’s house for a BBQ near the Arroyo on the other side of town. We are in the rec room off the patio having an after-dinner drink.
No word from Lilly all night. I understand, I guess. She’s with her friends, but I was hoping she would send me a message. Just to say: “I hope you’re having a good night” or “I miss you” or even better, “I love you too, Michael.”
After our talk over breakfast and the visit from my attorney, I thought she would turn all gooey and declare her love for me, or at the very least be all gooey in bed with me before I had to leave for my meeting.
Instead, she changed out of the white and red Gucci jersey dress she wore for the meeting with my attorney and curled up on the sofa to finish her reading for the day. Yeah, she gave me the best kiss goodbye ever, but she still had The Journal of Physical Chemistry clasped between her brown fingers as her lips slanted over mine.
“Jen says they just sit around, talk, and drink. I overheard them on Skype this week and all they talked about was inducting Lilly to the Mafia. Which is crazy because they barely know her. I’ve been around them for three years and they haven’t inducted me,” Jon says.
“Ah man, Lilly is a lot more like them than you,” Nick says.