Cold Feet

by Amy FitzHenry

  Without warning, my interaction with Dusty was washed away and a new distressing thought occurred to me. What about Sam’s crimes? Was it possible that other people knew about those? My mind quickly flashed through a list of possible witnesses. Other friends in Venice? Dante? Some actress on their movie? I pictured this amorphous group of people shaking their heads behind my back, but not telling me a thing, and was struck with a fresh wave of rage at Sam for making me look like such a pathetic fool. There should be a duty to report this kind of behavior, I thought for the first time in my life. It was necessary for a proper functioning society. If you were betrayed, you had a right to know. You had a right to expect someone, anyone, to tell you.

  As we walked down Guerrero Street on Monday night, I contemplated how many of the dive bars from a few years before had gained a line out the door and a black-and-white photo booth inside. I couldn’t believe how much had changed, but, as disconnected from reality as I felt, I barely cared.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Liv asked as we walked quickly through the cold night to the bar where Carrick’s band, the Springfield Isotopes, was playing. It was nighttime in San Francisco, which meant we were subjected to practically subzero temperatures, but everyone was pretending not to notice.

  “Yes, Liv, I told you, I’m fine. Part of me feels like crawling into a little hole and never coming out, and the other part wants to go down to L.A. and start exacting murderous revenge on Sam, but other than that, I’m fine.”

  “You sound fine.”

  “What about you? Migraine completely gone?”

  “Yep. I napped and self-medicated. While you were gone I even stopped by Equinox—there’s one right down the block from Carrick’s—to see if I could take a yoga class or something, but they said my Manhattan membership didn’t transfer.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I know! But I love it there. And they have Kiehl’s. I do it for the Kiehl’s.” She sighed.

  As we approached, Liv took out some lip gloss to freshen up. I considered asking her for some but then I realized it was pointless. There was no one I wanted to look cute for, nothing I cared about. My heart felt heavy at this thought. I vaguely considered running down the street and back to the room, so I could cry into my pillow all night.

  Before I could make my getaway, I realized we were next in line, being gently pushed into the warm bar filled with people. The bar had a homey, lived-in feel. I felt the immediate urge to drink a martini, and surprised myself by being slightly comforted by the vibe. Maybe if they had pillows, I could cry into them here.

  “You guys made it!” Dusty exclaimed, walking up. He was holding a beer and looking cuter than I remembered. I noticed that his green T-shirt hung perfectly on his broad shoulders. I inwardly checked myself. Did I need lip gloss now? Nope. The verdict was in. I no longer gave a shit.

  “Hey, Dusty!” I attempted to summon some energy, even though all I wanted to do was lie down on one of the couches lining the wall. I reached for my inner steel core and reminded myself that if I was sad it would mean Sam had ruined my night once again. I forced my expression into a smile.

  “Need a drink?” I asked. “We owe you a round or two from Saturday night. I’m headed up there anyway. You had Sierra Nevada the other night, right?”

  “That would be great, thanks.” He smiled.

  I headed up to the bar, relieved to have a task to perform and an excuse to take a break from people for a few minutes. My phone vibrated in my purse. Without a doubt, it was Sam. He had been calling and texting all day. So far I had successfully ignored his overtures, although I was leaving my phone on vibrate instead of silent, so I suppose one sick part of me was still interested in knowing how often he was contacting me. Was that a sign that I wanted to talk to him? Or did it just mean I was human? I settled on the latter.

  I approached the bar behind a man dressed in a western shirt and worn jeans. The cowboy had longish sandy blond hair and appeared to be in his late thirties. I sidled up next to him, thinking how if he tried to hit on me right now, he would most certainly get slapped. Without warning, my adrenaline rocketed. It was one of those moments where you’re certain something big is about to happen. All my senses were on alert. I knew implicitly to pay attention to my surroundings, but I wasn’t sure why. He turned around and that was when I realized, That’s no cowboy; that’s Sexy Tony Brown. For a beat, we stared at each other in disbelief.

  “Emma Moon?” he finally exclaimed, leaning in for a kiss on the cheek, which I attempted to resist as much as possible short of physically pushing him away.

  “Hi, Professor Brown.” My mind worked frantically, trying to think of ways to get him out of the bar before Liv noticed him. Tell the bartender he roofied me? Then I’d have to play dead the rest of the night. Scream fire? That might involve jail time. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here, remember? And, Emma, you know you can call me Tony.”

  “Right,” I said robotically. He lived in the Bay Area, of course. But I’d never even considered we might run into him on this trip. What was I supposed to say to him? I no longer had to be nice to him, I realized. He wasn’t my professor anymore. I gave him the meanest look possible, narrowing my eyes in a way I’d only read about in books.

  “Is there something in your eye?” he asked, concerned. I dropped the look.

  “No, I’m fine. Are you still at Berkeley?”

  “Sure am. Still teaching Torts to 1Ls who don’t know what a tort is, just like you,” he teased. That joke again?

  “I can’t believe you still remember that. Good memory.” What I really wanted to say was, Get a new schtick, asshole. Isn’t that what his class was for? To teach us? I hated him. “How are the kids this year?” I tried to make being a law professor sound akin to babysitting, in an attempt to win some ground.

  “We’ve only just gotten started, but they seem great. Although, it’s been much less interesting since you and Olivia left, I’ll give you that.”

  I fake laughed and turned toward the bar, managing to get the bartender’s attention in record time—that’s the trick, I inwardly noted, you really have to want it—and ordered a beer and two martinis, one gin, dirty, and the other vodka, with a twist.

  “Vodka martini with a twist?” Professor Brown looked at me and raised an eyebrow knowingly.

  Fuck. I forgot that Liv’s drink was a dead giveaway.

  I thought as quickly as possible, pretending I was in the back of his classroom being asked to recite the facts of a case I didn’t read. Say something, Moon!

  “You guessed it,” I said awkwardly. “Actually, we’re here to see some guy who’s in love with her. He’s in the band,” I added, hoping that would intimidate him.

  “Oh, really?” He laughed. “This I have to see.”

  As I paid for the drinks, Professor Brown picked up his own, as well as Liv’s, and indicated that I should lead the way. Dammit, I’d gotten cocky. I was trying to make Liv look hot and unapproachable in a way that I would tell her about later, when we were safely blocks away from Sexy Tony Brown and his odd western attire, but I’d crossed the line and piqued his interest. The scary part was—and I’d never admit this to Liv—he was somehow even more attractive than when we were in law school. Maybe it was the longer hair. Or the snap buttons.

  I picked up my overflowing martini glass and Dusty’s beer and walked back to Liv, trying to signal to her with my eyes that there was a surprise in store for her behind me, and not a good one. She looked up from the conversation, midlaughter, and glanced at me expectantly, until she noticed my face. But before my eyes could get out the full sentence, she saw him. You know how people say theatrically, “all of the blood drained from her face”? At that moment I realized it wasn’t just an expression. It really happens. On making eye contact with STB, Liv looked like she had seen an actual ghost. Which I guess, in a sense
, she had.

  “Olivia, it is wonderful to see you,” said Professor Brown, kissing her cheek far differently from the way he’d kissed mine and placing her drink in her hands. Despite the circumstances, he was in control and comfortable, as always.

  “Hi, Tony. This is unexpected.” Liv looked unsteady as she spoke, most likely vacillating between shock and pure, full-throttle attraction.

  “A wonderful surprise. You look beautiful,” he said softly, giving her a look that I was embarrassed to witness. I felt Dusty turn to me and looked up to meet his surprised face. I shrugged, pushed his beer toward him without a word and turned my attention back to the lovebirds. I felt I had to intervene but I wasn’t sure how. This guy may have been my number one enemy of all time, but he was still my professor at one point. I couldn’t exactly yell at him to go away. I cursed my inherent respect for authority.

  “How are you?” Dusty asked me, attempting to reclaim my attention. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow? I have to work in the morning, but I could take the afternoon off and help out.”

  I paused, surprised by his offer, which made me feel both better and slightly uncomfortable. Was he asking to hang out with me, or was he asking to help me find my dad?

  “If you and Liv need another assistant, I mean,” he added hurriedly. He’s just being nice, I chided myself, embarrassed by my awkwardness. Stop thinking that every time he offers to run a Facebook search he’s asking you on a date.

  “We’re thinking we might check out the library again in the morning. Maybe look up some old newspaper archives, Ashley Judd style. You know, for the headline Newly Single Billionaire Moves to San Francisco in the year of my birth. That kind of thing. Otherwise, sure, you can help us start combing the streets.” San Francisco was, what, seven miles across? How hard could it be? Although it seemed like half of the population was in this bar, I thought, getting jostled from every angle. Should I just try yelling “Hunter” and see if anyone answered?

  The music from the speakers started fading out. The band was about to start and if I didn’t cut in soon, Liv was going to forget all about our purpose in coming tonight and fall back in love with the asshole. All at once, the merits of Carrick and his wolflike smile were ever so clear.

  “Hey, Liv,” I said, pushing into their conversation, “maybe we should get a little closer. You know, so we can throw our underwear at Carrick like proper groupies.” I looked at her and Dusty encouragingly for support.

  “Yeah, let’s get closer,” Dusty said. “I, for one, would enjoy seeing that.”

  I reddened slightly. Luckily, I heard the band tuning up and looked up to see Carrick taking the stage, along with his bandmates. I was pleasantly surprised to see him carrying a bass. I’d fearfully pictured him as an obnoxious lead singer, filled with teenage angst. Bass players were cool. My hope blossomed for Carrick and Liv’s imaginary future, born from a base hatred of STB.

  Meanwhile, Dusty used this opportunity to grab my left hand—the one not holding my drink—to guide me forward. The switchboard for my nerve endings reacted. It’s because it’s unfamiliar; it doesn’t mean anything, I scolded my oxytocin levels. You don’t like this guy. Tony turned back to me and started to say something—but he stopped when he noticed my hand.

  “Emma Moon, are you engaged?” he asked, glancing at the antique diamond ring Sam had given me the previous November.

  The memories came, unbidden. Last fall, on a cool L.A. night, Sam took me to Bruno’s, my favorite family-run Italian restaurant where they serve wine in gorgeous handmade ceramic jugs and homemade spaghetti on paper placemats with not-to-scale maps of Italy. After dinner he suggested we sit by my fire pit, took both my hands in his, and asked me to spend the rest of my life with him. It was perfect. This memory, obviously, made me want to throw up.

  Tony, who clearly had no idea the emotional hole he’d pushed me down, gave Dusty a sidelong glance, using his cheating sixth sense to instantly determine that this was not indeed my fiancé. I’m not like you, Professor Dickhead! I wanted to shout. I decided right then and there that it was time to grow a pair, for Liv, if not for myself.

  “Hey, Liv, I think I left my card at the bar. Come get it with me,” I instructed, not giving anyone a chance to cut in. The music was starting, and it was actually pretty good, rock with a hint of a reggae beat. “Be right back,” I said forcefully, dragging Liv behind me and leaving STB and Dusty with no other choice but to head toward the stage.

  “We’re leaving,” I said, definitively, when we reached the bar. Liv was staring down sadly. She absentmindedly picked up and shuffled the pile of decorative coasters and free postcards advertising events and other bars in the area.

  “Some of these are kind of cool,” she said, examining them.

  “Liv, focus.”

  Of all the bars in the freaking Bay Area, why did we have to run into STB? What an awesome vacation this was turning out to be. First Val, now Tony. I pushed my own issues down, which kept bobbing to the surface against my will, and handed her the last drops of my drink. Despite the emotional beating my soul had taken recently, right now she needed it more than I did.

  “Come on, let’s go,” I said. It was time for this day to be over. I took the postcards from her hand to put them back on the bar. When I turned them over, the one on top caught my eye. It was an advertisement for an art show at a gallery in Hayes Valley. In bold blue letters, oblivious to the heart-stopping reaction they were causing, it read:

  THE SELECTED WORKS OF HUNTER MOON

  I searched frantically for a date. The show was tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Is it weird to be the first one there?” I asked nervously. The Magic Postcard, as we’d taken to calling it, stated that the show started at 11:00 A.M. We weren’t going to waste a second. I checked out my slightly bohemian outfit, a striped sweater, patterned jeans, and ankle boots. As an artist I thought he might appreciate the mixing of patterns. I hugged this thought to myself. Was my dad an artist? That would be the coolest thing in the world.

  “Yes. But it’s also weird to traipse across the country looking for your dad and find his name on a Magic Postcard,” Liv pointed out.

  The night before, as soon as we got home, we’d tried Googling Hunter Moon and artist, hoping he might have a website, but the only thing we could find were some small mentions of shows at various galleries in the area. The good news was that he appeared to be real and in San Francisco. Despite what had happened the day before, I couldn’t help but feel positive. This had to be him.

  “Hello!” boomed a loud voice as we walked in the open doors of the small funky gallery on Chestnut Street. “Are you here for the show?”

  I looked up and saw the huge smile of a man I assumed was the gallery owner inviting me in. I couldn’t help but smile back. He was notably tall with an open, cheerful face, freckles splattered across his nose, and curling blond hair. He looked to be in his early fifties and slightly resembled Robert Redford with his lean figure and boyish attractiveness.

  After ushering us in, he continued straightening pieces of artwork in preparation for the show, which had technically started three minutes earlier. Around us were huge, expensive-looking landscapes and wire sculptures hanging from a vaulted ceiling. I heard Jacqueline Taïeb, a French singer I loved from the yé-yé era, singing her whispery lyrics in the background. It was lovely. I decided this was a sign to dive right in.

  “Yes, we are. Is this Hunter Moon’s show?” I asked.

  “It is!” he answered cheerily, fusing the words to give them a British lilt, although he was definitely American. He smiled at us like he was on the verge of laughing at a joke, which made me want to tell him one.

  I felt instantly more at ease. But despite his welcoming manner, my throat was dry and my heartbeat had tripled its normal rate. Was it possible to get a heart attack at the age of twenty-nine? I cursed myself for quitt
ing, after a single torturous session, those barre classes Liv had made me sign up for the last time she was in L.A.

  “You can find Hunter’s works scattered around the gallery among some of the permanent collection,” he explained. “It’s a bit informal here, as you can see,” he added quietly, with an odd hint of disapproval in his voice, given that it appeared to be his gallery. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  “Actually, yes,” Liv cut in. I gave her a warning look. She motioned for me to start talking. I faltered, but then remembered how many pastries I had consumed before realizing that Hunter #1 was a right-wing extremist the day before. Maybe it was best to get to the point.

  “I’m looking for the artist. Hunter Moon, himself.” I paused, unsure of how much information to provide. Suddenly, the story of Dusty’s first meeting with his dad flashed through my head. I held up my finger and dug through my purse. I found a business card and pushed it into his hand. He studied it for a minute, slightly perplexed.

  “Unfortunately, Hunter’s not here right now,” he explained. “He went to get a coffee. He should be back in about five minutes.”

  “Look, I know the artists don’t like to talk to the collectors at these types of things,” Liv said, jumping in, “and I get it. But this isn’t about the art—although your gallery looks amazing.” He tried to cut in, but Liv plunged ahead.

  “Just between us, and this is a crazy story, Emma Moon here”—she pointed at the card still in his hand—“is trying to find her father, who she’s never met. And she’s here today because she’s pretty sure that Hunter Moon, who is showing today, is him.” There was a pause while we all three absorbed her explanation.

  “I am so sorry,” he said, turning to me. “But I’m afraid there’s been a miscommunication—I’m not the gallery owner.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s okay,” I answered, unclear about the importance of the distinction.