She hoists her strawless ice tea glass dramatically, taking a deliberate drink then smiling. “Look, ma, no straw!”
I laugh.
She makes a rolling gesture. “Keep going. This is far more fascinating than going to T.J. Maxx and shopping for toys for my dad’s dog.”
“Was that on your agenda for tonight?”
“That’s tomorrow night, actually. Dog toy shopping is fun, but this is better.”
I tell her about the required American History class we took together in the fall semester, how Cassie was pretty and smart and clever, and how she was thoughtful in her answers about the Chinese Exclusion Act and the Vietnam War, never strident or rude.
“She was the real deal,” Finley says, seeming to soak up every detail like a sponge.
“I suppose so. She was also pretty.”
“What did she look like?”
I tap my nose, remembering Cassie of eight years ago. “Cute little nose. Great hair. Lips like a bow.”
“Darn, you did like her,” she says, her voice laced with interest, as if she’s never heard a better story. Warmth spreads across my chest, as I remember those college days with the first girl I loved. The only girl I’ve loved.
“It was more than like. She was my first real girlfriend. She cared deeply about the world and others. She loved music. She used to wear her hair back in a ponytail every day. I remember it bounced when she walked, and I somehow thought that was the greatest thing.”
She sighs happily. “The bouncing ponytail. It’s the best. My hair isn’t long enough for a bouncy ponytail, but it’s seriously a dream of mine. An unattainable one since my hair can’t ever seem to grow past here.” She sets her hand against her collarbone.
I do a quick scan of her face. A spray of freckles decorates her nose and beneath her blue eyes. Her hair is curly blonde and shoulder length. “Your hair is fine.”
“Fine?”
“What’s wrong with fine?”
“Fine is for Switzerland.”
“And Switzerland is a fine country. One of my roller coasters is in Switzerland.”
“One of your what?”
“I designed the Boomerang Flyer.”
She blinks, recognition in her eyes. “The Boomerang Flyer? With that crazy vertical loop that launches you from the station at something like five hundred miles per hour?”
I laugh, loving that she’s heard of the ride. “Sixty-six miles per hour, to be precise. I worked on that one for months to hit just the right send-off moment.”
She shakes her head, looking amazed. “You’re a gold mine. Keep going.”
“About the roller coaster?”
She taps the table. “We’ll return to the ride. What happened with Cassie?”
“Finally, in our sophomore year, I decided to ask her out. I did the whole prom-posal thing before it became trendy, and it wasn’t even prom.”
“You did a prom-posal for a regular date?”
I tap my chest. “Big gestures and me are tight.”
“Evidently.” She parks her chin in her hands, like she’s fascinated. “How did you do it?”
“Back then, I didn’t really know how to ask a girl out, so I gave it my best shot. When I was home for ski week—my family’s in Oakland, and I went to school in Berkeley—I grabbed some of my dad’s honey. He’s an amateur beekeeper, and Cassie’s favorite band was the Honey Sticks. I started to write a note, but since my handwriting is worse than a doctor’s and illegible to anyone but me—and even then it’s debatable—I asked the woman down the street if she could write a note to go on the lid.”
“Why the woman down the street?”
“My mom died when I was thirteen. Cancer.”
Her lower lip quivers for a second “I’m so sorry, Tom.” She reaches a hand to take mine and squeezes. I stare at her hand momentarily, appreciating the gesture even though the loss was so long ago. She clears her throat, speaking softly. “Mine died a year ago. Complications from diabetes.”
Glancing at our hands, I take the lead this time, squeezing back, feeling her pain, along with the memory of mine. “I’m sorry, too, for your loss.”
“Yeah, death kind of sucks,” she says, but it doesn’t come out callous. She says it in a matter-of-fact way that seems to underscore how we all, universally, feel about that particular aspect of the human condition.
“Couldn’t say it better myself.”
She moves her hand off mine, and I miss the warmth of her touch for a fleeting second. I shake off the feeling and return to the story.
“Anyway, I asked Sadie Mitchell, this kind lady who was friends with my mom and liked to look out for us, if she could write the note. She agreed and wrote, ‘It would bee so sweet, and such a honeyed treat, if you would say yes to going out with me.’”
She furrows her brow. “So it sort of rhymed, but sort of not.”
I laugh. “I suppose that’s fair to say. Anyway, I brought the honey back to school, stopped by her dorm, played ‘Unzipped,’ and handed her the jar. She loved it. She threw her arms around me, said yes. She said she’d been waiting for me to ask her out for a long time. And then we went to see The Social Network.”
Finley squares her shoulders and goes full Jesse Eisenberg. “‘If you guys were the inventors of Facebook . . . you’d have invented Facebook.’”
I grin. “That’s my favorite line from that movie.”
“That’s the best line from that movie. It’s the ultimate throwdown statement.” She leans in closer. “Did she like the film?”
“Loved it.”
“I love her. She has good taste.”
“Anyway, that started things, and we were together for a few months. She was interested in choreography, and she had choreographed a modern dance thingy.”
“A thingy?”
I make a you-know-what-I-mean gesture. “A dance.”
She arches a brow. “A dance thingy?”
I try again. “Like a routine? A performance?”
She laughs. “Yeah, I get it. I don’t think they’re called thingies though, and hopefully you didn’t call it a thingy. Hopefully you called it a concert dance.”
“Yes! That’s what it was. A concert dance. And there was a cast party after for all the dancers, and she invited me. We danced at the party.”
“To ‘Unzipped’?”
“Naturally. Trouble was, the next day she dumped me.”
She frowns. “That’s terrible. Did she give a reason?”
I sigh heavily and drag a hand through my hair, remembering that last night together. But I don’t want to serve up all the details to Finley, or anyone for that matter. Some things are best left unsaid. I focus on the facts as I lived them. “I was kind of a slacker, and she said that’s why. Not in so many words, but she said to come back when I got my act together. She was hyper-focused and studious, and I sometimes skipped classes or missed assignments. Especially to hang out with my buddies. Cassie’s breakup made me get my act together,” I say, then I repeat her words. “Try again when you get your act together. Show up when you know what you want.”
“But you were only in college, and besides, you had to deal with a name you didn’t like,” she says, and it’s adorable that she’s defending my younger self.
“Thanks, but honestly, it was what I needed to hear. She obviously didn’t want to date a slacker, so I took her directive to heart. It was the kick in the pants I needed. I went on to earn an advanced degree, become an engineer of thrill rides, and invent a new safety feature for roller coasters. And since the Honey Sticks reunited last month, what better sign that it’s time to tell her I’m ready?”
She sighs contentedly and sets her hand on her heart. “That is so sweet. I love this story. So much. All the longing and romance, and the roller coaster bit too.”
I laugh. “Glad it all works for you.”
“It totally works,” she says, her eyes a little dreamy, her voice drifting off.
I study her more cl
osely. “Do you know Cassie? I didn’t see her after we broke up. She transferred to another school.”
“Not really, except I think she mostly lives in Southern California now, and she owns a chain of yoga studios. But I thought her company was based here.”
“I think it is, but maybe she’s based out of one in Southern California?”
“That must be it. Where do you live?”
I point south. “San Francisco.”
“About an hour from here,” she says thoughtfully, then adds, “and an hour-long plane trip to Southern California if it all works out with Cassie.”
“I like your positive attitude.”
“Me too,” she says with a wry smile. “I just wish I had more details to share about her.”
My shoulders fall. “I was hoping you knew her too.”
She laughs sadly, then sits ramrod straight, blinking. She holds up a hand. “Wait. That doesn’t matter. You want to win her back, right?” She’s all business now, crisp and focused.
“Uh, yeah,” I say, in a duh tone of voice. “That’s sort of why I’m here.”
She slaps a palm on the table. “Then I’m going to help you.”
“You are?” I ask carefully, making sure I understand her.
She nods vehemently. “Tom, I’m not even going to say ‘don’t take this the wrong way,’ because there is only one way to take this, but everything about tonight on the front lawn was awful.”
My eyes bug out. “What?” I sputter.
“Awful. The worst.”
I gesture wildly in the general direction of her home. “How can you even say that? That was gold. That’s the pinnacle of big gestures. The only other contender is the dude in Love Actually who confesses his love on poster boards at Christmas.”
She shakes her head. “Never do that one. Please promise me you’ll never do a Christmas Eve Mark and Juliet. Never ever, ever.”
“Why?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.
She leans forward and whispers, “That scene in Love Actually is super creepy and completely stalkery.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “And are you saying the boom box above the head is creepy and stalkery?”
“No. My issue is your presentation was a bit lacking.”
I hold my hands out wide, conceding. “Fine. I had the wrong girl. But beyond that, what was so bad?”
“Tom,” she says gently, “I didn’t mean the wrong girl part. I meant because you can’t sing.”
“I know.” I sigh heavily.
“But you can design boomerang thunder domes that zip and zing and slide,” she says, whipping her hand up and down, imitating, I think, a roller coaster. “Why not play to your strengths?”
“I should design a roller coaster to win her back?”
She shrugs in that it’s-not-a-bad-idea way. “That’s a better option. You could call it The Cassie. The Loop-the-Loop Cassie. The Screaming Cassie. The Cassie Blaster.”
I laugh. “Those are terrible names for coasters. I mean . . . the Cassie Blaster?”
“Not my best idea,” she adds, cracking up. “But you get my point. You could turn her name into an anagram. Cassandra.” She stares at the ceiling, putting the letters together in reverse, I suspect.
I jump in as she’s still spelling them. “The ARDNASSAC Drop.”
“Yes! That sounds terrifying, like I’ll encounter prehistoric winged dinosaurs at every climb and dip. You could make it a dinosaur-themed coaster.”
I file that away. “That’s not a bad concept for a roller coaster.”
“Listen, the point is this: Dobler’s stunt worked because it was a movie, but also because he knew Diane Court’s character. If you want to win Cassandra back, you need to understand who she is today, or at least know her a little better. I can help you.”
“But you said you don’t know Cassie.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “I’ve never met her. That’s the crazy thing. Even when we swapped mail, I left it outside her door with a note and vice versa. But I know women, and I want to help you.”
My skeptical side steps up to the plate. “Why?”
“I’m a writer. My job is understanding human behavior, and you, Tom, are a fascinating experiment. I’ll help you on your quest, and you, in turn, can continue to be one of the most interesting curiosities I’ve stumbled across.”
I laugh, unsure what to make of her compliment, or un-compliment. “I’m a curiosity?”
She nods. “Curiosity, noun: one that arouses interest due to uncommon or unusual characteristics.”
“Such as singing bad ballads?”
“To a girl you loved before.” She raises a glass. “A girl you clearly have your heart set on. It’s sweet. It’s romantic, and I want to help you win her back. Devise a plan, a blueprint, then follow it. Are you game?”
I study her face, considering her offer. Practically, it’s doable. “I’m in town for a few days for meetings. Then I’m cruising down the coast, visiting some parks.”
“We can hatch a plan, then. Work out the kinks and make it airtight,” she says, and the idea is appealing. I have some free time in front of me to focus on a reboot of my attempt to win Cassandra’s heart. I’m nothing if not persistent, and I’m all for triangulating a problem to find the solution. We quickly exchange numbers, but there’s also something I want to know.
“What’s in it for you? You like observing curious human behavior that much?”
She stretches her hand closer, her eyes intense. “I don’t like it. I love it.”
I lift my glass, considering her offer. Every great ’80s hero had a great sidekick. After all, where would Ferris Bueller be without Cameron Frye?
He wouldn’t have spent the day in a Ferrari, that’s for sure.
“Yes.”
It seems like the only fitting answer to give the woman who’s just renamed me.
5
Finley
I am not spying.
How could this be spying? I’m simply positioning the ladder just so against the back of my home to clean my windows. I’m not actually trying to peer into Cassie’s home early the next morning.
At the crack of dawn on a Friday.
When no one’s around.
I’m just climbing the ladder with this bucket of soapy water, and I’m a-scrub-a-dub-dubbing my windows.
Who doesn’t clean their windows at six in the morning?
I scrub religiously, and maybe if I get this corner right here, at the very edge, where I have to lean, I might happen to see inside her home.
Not that I need to.
But it can’t hurt, right?
All I know about Cassie is that she bought the townhome adjacent to mine about two months ago and has rented it to a steady stream of Airbnb-ers the entire time.
Surely I’m entitled to a little peekaboo. After all, I’m practically Cassie’s unpaid concierge.
First, there was the couple from New Zealand who had recently retired from their sheep farm and wanted to tour wine country. I pointed them in the direction of the best wineries, and in turn, they showed me a video of their sheepdog back home, hard at work herding sheep.
I mean, really. Videos of dogs at work are stupendously awesome. Fair trade.
Next up came a newly married couple from Dallas, and I don’t believe they made it to any wineries. The wife did ask me for directions to the nearest pharmacy that sold lube . . . so I have a good idea of what kept them occupied on their honeymoon.
Also, I wore headphones for most of their stay.
A few weeks ago, a mélange of Manhattan society gals rented the pad for a girls’ weekend, tottering in and out on their skyscraper heels. I suspect the half dozen of them were sober for a grand total of five minutes. I helped them order a Lyft on their way to the Two Cows Vineyard and then pre-ordered their return trip too.
And Cassie rented it recently to a lovely gay couple from San Francisco who were so damn cute they invited me over for a barbecue on the back por
ch. Since I don’t eat meat, I declined, but I gave them the name of the best butcher in town.
See, I’m such a Good Samaritan that it’s only reasonable I get to peek at Cassie’s life, right? She never even introduced herself to me the one time she was here. Fine, fine. I was in Los Angeles visiting the network when she finalized the sale, and she did leave me a lovely gift bag with a package of gummy bears inside. Points for her—they were the gelatin-free variety.
Which reminds me. I do know something about her. She must be a vegetarian. I don’t know anyone else who buys gelatin-free gummy bears except vegetarians.
But I get nothing else on her from staring in her window.
I can’t see any books, so I can’t report back to Tom that her shelves are teeming with titles like The Joy of Deep Throating or 101 Ways to Tie Up a Woman and Make Her Meow.
Besides, those are on my bookshelves, and by bookshelves, I mean e-reader. I’m no dummy. I don’t leave that kind of self-help material out for anyone to see.
From my vantage point, Cassie Martinez appears to be 100 percent minimalist—her home looks like it’s been staged by a real estate firm.
I will say this though. She treats her renters right in the towel department. She had some linens from Restoration Hardware shipped here a month ago and brought in by the cleaners. I was tempted, vaguely tempted, to snag that box. I’ve always wanted Restoration Hardware towels.
But that’s all I know, and really, I suppose that’s all I should know about the woman who doesn’t live next door.
Helping Tom should be less about Cassie and more about women in general. Like, learning you don’t ever say fine in reference to a woman’s hair. What was that man thinking with that comment last night? My hair is fluffy. So what?
I lower the bucket, climb down the ladder, and congratulate myself for having the cleanest window I’ve ever had in my life.
“Well done, self,” I say then head inside and dump the bucket in the sink.
The notification light on my phone blinks at me, and I slide my thumb across the screen. I’m greeted by an email from my father, titled, as nearly all his emails are, “Daily Doggie.” He lives a few towns over, and every morning on the dog walk, he sends me a picture of his shepherd-beagle-dachshund-mix, and every day I respond, noting the canine’s cuteness as we correspond about what we’re up to.
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