***
Dad opted to drive us to Arete in his Jaguar, instead of having his driver, Kevin, take us. I sat in the back and listened to my mother try to subtly get Dad to change his mind about where we were going to eat.
“If they don’t require a reservation, then they’re not going to be expecting us, and Melinda was just telling me about this amazing new bistro that just opened up in the Marina…”
“They might not take reservations, but Alex is expecting us.” Dad glanced in the rearview mirror and caught my eye. “And I know Stell is probably looking forward to the lamb shawarma as much as I am.” He winked, and I gave him a smile back, though I knew this was just going to make my mother feel like we were plotting against her. It was actually kind of strange to be out with both of my parents; much like my mother and I had grown apart over the years, my parents seemed to have grown apart, too.
My mother wasn’t even trying to conceal the look of disdain on her face as we walked into Arete. Dad was all smiles, though, especially when Alex, the owner, shouted a boisterous greeting so loudly that everyone else in the restaurant stopped to look. Alex came over and embraced Dad, clapping him on the back.
“You don’t look a day over forty!” he exclaimed before taking Dad’s face between his two hands and kissing him loudly on each cheek. My mother held out a hand, which Alex completely ignored and hugged her, too. “Hello, missus,” he said, completely oblivious to her obvious discomfort. Then he turned to me, gingerly giving me a hug as though he was afraid I was going to break into a million pieces.
“And you look stunning as well, miss,” he said. “So good to see you looking healthy and strong. Come, let’s get you seated and fed!”
I liked Arete because it was the exact sort of place my mother would never go. It was not fine dining, it was not Zagat-rated; it was more of a café than a restaurant because you ordered your food at the bar and it was brought to your table when it was ready. Behind the bar was the kitchen, where you could watch the food being prepared. There were huge spits where big sides of lamb and beef were roasting, just waiting for the chef to come shear off whatever was needed for an order. My mouth started watering at the sight of the large rectangular containers brimming full of tabouli, cucumber yogurt salad, stuffed grape leaves. My father loved this place not just because one of his dear friends owned it but because the food was mind-blowingly good.
We followed Alex through the main room to what he called the “seat of honor.” It was near the back, slightly separate from the other tables, surrounded by tapestries hung from a curving track, sort of like a privacy curtain in a hospital room.
“Shall I close the drapes?” Alex asked.
“Yes,” my mother said, right as Dad shook his head.
“No need!” he said. “Unless you plan to try to get the whole place to sing happy birthday.” A mock-stricken look crossed his face. “Please don’t do that.”
Alex grinned. “I would never. But at least do me the honor of accepting some complimentary drinks.”
We sat down, my mother positioning herself so her back was to the rest of the room as much as possible. I tried not to roll my eyes. I knew her choice of seat had just as much to do with the fact that she didn’t want someone to take a picture of her here and post it online as it was that she wanted privacy to celebrate her husband’s birthday.
“Well, this is nice,” Dad said. “I can’t remember the last time I was here. The food is so good, it shouldn’t take a birthday celebration to get me here.”
“Happy birthday, Dad,” I said.
Alex came back with a tray of drinks. Mine was pink, and tasted sweet with a hint of lemon.
“Now, do you need to spend some time with the menu or do you know what you want?” he asked.
Dad glanced at Mom, who was sipping her drink and refused to make eye contact. She probably had no idea what she wanted, but letting her see the menu might not be wise; in the end, Dad just ordered for all of us. He and I both got the lamb shawarma while he ordered the falafel for Mom, along with dolmas, tabouli, and hummus with pita to share.
“I’ll get that out to you shortly,” Alex said. “And in the meantime, enjoy those drinks and let me know if there is anything else we can get for you.”
Dad held his glass up. “It’s great, Alex—thank you.”
I took another sip of my drink and let my eyes travel around the room. There was a large table in the middle of the restaurant that was full—it seemed like it was another celebration of some sort. I watched the table, trying to figure out who was who, what was being celebrated. The two people at the head of the table were a man and a woman, older than my parents, but I wasn’t sure by how much. The other people were of varying ages, some children. They seemed like they were having a grand old time. Well, all of them except this one guy, who I could tell was trying to pretend that he was enjoying himself, but whenever he thought no one was looking, this sort of sad expression would cross his face, and then it would vanish whenever someone said something to him.
I half-listened to my parents’ conversation, but I found myself sneaking looks at the guy, unable to look away from him. Did I care about that? There were hot guys all over the place—I’d known plenty of them and they all turned out to be jerks in one way or another. They were too cocky or too needy or compulsive mansplainers... I hadn’t officially made the announcement that I was done with men, but I’d come to that conclusion privately, and actually felt more at peace with it than I thought I would have.
But that didn’t mean I completely ignored every man I came across or who caught my eye in one way or another. And there was something about this particular guy, though I would be hard-pressed to say what exactly it was. I think it was the way he was so clearly trying to put on the show of a good time. Couldn’t the rest of those people see it? Why wasn’t anyone asking him what the problem was?
All of a sudden, it was as if he had felt my gaze on him, because he looked directly at me. The expression on his face then was neutral, and though the restaurant was low-lit and we were probably twenty feet away, at least, I could tell that he had light-colored eyes, probably blue but maybe green or even gray. His hair was light brown, short and thick, but you could tell if he let it grow out that it would be those enviable thick curls that most people couldn’t achieve unless they spent a fortune at the hair salon.
I’ll be honest—my first instinct was to look away once our eyes met. He’d caught me staring, and was probably thinking it was because I was jocking him or something, which I obviously wasn’t. That was the old Stella, though—she would have looked away, and I almost did, but fortunately, new Stella’s instincts kicked in before that could happen and this new Stella didn’t give a damn about any of that stuff and certainly wasn’t interested in any guys, so I just stared back for a few seconds before looking away. Before I allowed myself to do that, though, the guy’s face broke out into a smile and he stuck the tip of his tongue out, not a lewd gesture but more one that seemed to be trying to make light of this entire situation.
“It’s awful, isn’t it?” My focus snapped back to my mother, who was looking at me expectantly.
“Hmm?” I reached for my glass of water and took a sip. “Sorry, what was that last part?”
“I was telling your father what a nightmare this whole wedding planning has been for Lillian. I’m sure Lauren’s talked to you about it a little, but Lillian’s really doing her best to keep the stressful parts hidden from her. This is her wedding—Lillian doesn’t want her to have anxiety about it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Wouldn’t want that.”
I declined to mention that Lauren couldn’t care less about her upcoming wedding. I mean, the fact that Lauren Doerflinger, who looked like Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy and had the sexual appetite of Samantha from Sex and the City, was actually getting married, well... hard to believe would be putting it mildly. Though having Trevor Ryan as her fiancé certainly helped.
Our food showed up then
, the plates piled high with savory, roasted lamb folded into pita slathered with a mint yogurt dressing, fragrant couscous, dolmas glistening with olive oil. It might not have the haute-cuisine presentation my mother would have wanted, but there was no denying that this food was damn good. For several minutes, our table was silent as we ate, and that was just fine with me.
“Do you have plans this Sunday?” my mother asked abruptly.
I shrugged and dabbed at the corner of my mouth with my napkin. “No. Well, I’ve got a noon appointment to get a face tattoo, but after that I’m free.”
Dad smiled at my joke but my mother just raised an eyebrow. “Lisette and Henri are here for a visit and I told them you could show Pierre around the city.”
“Pierre?”
“Their son.”
“No, thanks.”
“He’s very much looking forward to it. He’s in his third year at l'École normale supérieure.” She said the name with a heavy French accent. Here, let me show you his picture.”
Before I could object, she was pulling her phone out of her handbag and tapping at the screen. She thrust it in my face, and there, grinning back at me, was a very handsome, very boring-looking French guy, complete with a salmon-colored sweater tied loosely around his shoulders.
“What perfect teeth he has,” I said.
“That’s a sign of good genes.”
“Sorry, Mom; I’m not wasting a Sunday to go on some blind date.”
“We don’t need to get into that right now,” Dad said. “Let’s just enjoy the meal, shall we?”
That was fine by me. For a moment, it looked as if my mother was going to protest, but then she relented and pulled the phone out of my face, putting it back in her purse. Had it been any other night, she probably would have persisted, but since it was Dad’s birthday, she’d go along with what he wanted.
Chapter 3
Cole
Saturday morning I woke up early. Well, early for me on a day off—I think it was around nine. I had a mild headache and a dry mouth, which you might associate with a hangover, except I hadn’t had anything to drink last night. I resisted the urge to look at my phone in the hopes of seeing a text from Carrie saying that she’d realized her mistake. I sort of hated myself for even thinking that way in the first place—we weren’t actually going out, so this shouldn’t be that big of a deal, should it? I should just move on, go find a hot chick to sleep with, or several hot chicks, just something to ensure that I fully got over Carrie.
I got up and made some coffee, then sat in my living room, in this one-bedroom apartment I’d been living in for almost two years now. Prior to that, I’d done the roommate thing, and I’d enjoyed it. There were five of us guys, but we’d had a whole floor of this renovated Victorian in Duboce Triangle, on—yeah, you guessed it—Beaver Street. Its proximity to the Castro meant that Craig and I were the only two straight guys in the house, but neither of us cared about that—gay men are meticulous housekeepers and great cooks. And girls really seemed to love when I’d say, “Hey, want to come back to my place and meet all my gay roommates?”
The whole building got sold, though, so that was the end of that. The timing of the move out coincided with a generous raise at work, so I was able to afford a place of my own. I’d just turned thirty and I figured that I was probably getting close to the age that most guys think about settling down, if that was what they wanted. And I did—I wanted to have a family, at least one kid, maybe two. My own childhood had been full of chaos, but it was loving chaos, and I was used to people constantly coming and going, yelling, laughing, arguing, congratulating, sometimes all in the same breath.
I figured it’d be easy enough, especially now that I had my own place, a good-sized one-bedroom right in between Dolores Park and Tartine Bakery. Why had I thought it would be easy? Because prior to living on my own, relationships with women had been easy and plentiful—just not serious. That was the difference now. Without realizing it, I had somehow become the fun, no-strings-attached guy. Great for a few nights out, but not someone that anyone seemed interested in doing anything long-term with. I took a sip of my coffee. I was only now just truly beginning to understand this.
So, I continued to sit there in my big, lonely apartment, which was furnished but certainly not something anyone would say was aesthetically pleasing or anything. The truth was, I had figured that the interior decorating would be something my future wife would be interested in taking over, or, if not taking over, something she’d at least offer serious insight and guidance into.
To bolster my spirits a bit, I grabbed my laptop and went online to look at my dream bike, which was a carbon downhill rig that someday, maybe, I’d be able to afford. I’d used the company’s customize option to make it exactly how I wanted, and though it would probably be a long time until I’d be able to afford it, just the sight of it made me feel better.
I finished my coffee and forced myself up. I’d go for a bike ride and then ride into the office and meet up with Drew to talk to him about whatever it was that he wanted to talk about. I let my mind wander in that direction instead of continuing down the Carrie path.
I rode down to the Embarcadero and checked out the farmers’ market, got another coffee and drank it while looking out at the Bay Bridge. There were plenty of couples around me, filling their reusable shopping bags with fresh organic produce, talking about the sorts of recipes they were going to whip up in their kitchens this weekend. They they’d pause for a quick kiss or a meaningful, soul-searching gaze into each other’s eyes. In fact, the more I looked around, the more it seemed like everyone around me was part of a couple, and was madly in love. I downed the rest of my coffee and threw the cup away.
“Hey, that’s recyclable,” someone said. I turned and saw a guy wearing jeggings and a short-sleeved plaid button-down. He had a beard and was wearing a wool beanie. He was holding hands with a girl who was dressed identically, minus the beard. They were both glaring at me.
I glared back and didn’t say anything; just hopped on my bike and rode off. It was better than flipping them off, or ripping their stupid netted bag full of fruit from their hands and hurling it into the Bay, which was kind of what I wanted to do. Instead, I rode downtown to the Parker Security office and tried to forget about every single one of those happy couples down at the farmers’ market.
I rode my bike right into our high-rise, did a wheelie and took it into the elevator. It was Saturday, so there were only a few other people around—otherwise I would have locked the bike up outside. Our office was on the twentieth floor, and all was quiet when I got out of the elevator. Since the hallways were not bustling with other people, I threw my leg over the bike and rode it down the hallway toward the glass double doors which read Parker Security Services.
It was equally as quiet and still inside the office, and for a second I wondered if Drew was even here yet, but then I remembered that the door had been unlocked when I got there. What kind of security company would we be if we couldn’t even remember to secure our own doors?
I leaned the bike against the wall and walked down to Drew’s office. His door was partially open, enough so I could see part of his desk. I stuck my head in the room. Drew wasn’t at his desk; he was standing with his back to me, looking out the window, not down at the city but out toward the horizon. He appeared to be rather deep in thought, so I cleared my throat and gently rapped my knuckles against the door.
“Good morning,” I said.
Drew turned. “Hey,” he said with a smile. “Thanks for stopping by. You ride in?”
“Yeah.”
“Looks like a nice day for it.”
“It was. Well, minus all the lovebird couples down at the farmers’ market. You should come with me sometime.”
Drew was only a decade older than me, but I’d always felt like he was more a father figure than a boss. Some people might venture to say the two could be the same thing, but not in this case. My own father wasn’t someone I’d go to fo
r career advice, for example, or even girl advice—though maybe I should, considering he was the one who just celebrated thirty-five years of marriage last night.
“Come on, let’s sit down,” Drew said.
He sat in the big leather executive chair behind his desk and I sat on the other side, in a smaller but still very comfortable chair, one that I could swivel around in, which I did once, but then stopped so Drew could talk to me about whatever it was that had come up.
He took a deep breath and leaned back. He had several framed photographs on his desk, and I watched as his gaze went over to them for a moment before coming back to me. I couldn’t see the pictures from where I was sitting, but I knew that one of them was of his black lab mix, Jamie, one was of his nieces and nephews, and the other was of his sister, Ashleigh, who I’d never met and never would because she had died. I didn’t know all the details about it, but once, when Lena was feeling particularly generous, she had mentioned to me that Drew’s sister and Jason’s brother (who was also dead) had been high school sweethearts or something, and that no one had ever been charged in Ashleigh’s murder. I’d never talked to Drew about it, because he wasn’t the sort of guy to talk about his own personal issues like that, but I couldn’t imagine what that must be like—it was terrible enough to have a family member killed, but then to not have any answers about who had done it was unthinkable.
“You know Ed Brookshire—right?” Drew asked.
I nodded, though I only knew him vaguely, had never met him in person. He was a tycoon, one of those guys who’d amassed more money than they’d ever be able to spend in a lifetime, even if they spent as much as they could every day, for the rest of their lives. He was the owner of Brookshire Holding, a conglomerate that dealt with pretty much everything: buildings, food, energy, skincare products, even racehorses. We’d worked security for him at some of his businesses for years.
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