by Emily Belden
a framed and signed Annie Leibovitz in the lobby?
“Come on in,” Brian says, wearing a weathered USC T-
shirt and gray lounge shorts.
If you were to ask me this time last week, I’d say his brick-
and-timber loft with soaring eighteen-foot ceilings is the last place I expected I would wind up this morning. But he told
me to contact him if shit hit the fan and now I’m here, bright-
eyed and bushy-tailed, at 8:00 a.m. on a Thursday morning.
“Sweet apartment,” I say, walking in through his foyer,
hoping that something slightly more astute will come out of
my mouth next.
“Thanks, it’s one of my dad’s units, actually.” At that, I
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vaguely remember the Jacksons being hot-shot developers.
“He finished the condo years ago and I convinced him to let
me stay in it and use it as a study hall of sorts until he found suitable buyers. He agreed, moved on to the next project, and
now I think he forgot about it, honestly. So don’t tell anyone, OK? The doorman and I are finally on good terms since that
time I—actually, never mind.”
I don’t even want to know.
“Anyway, can I get you a coffee?” he asks.
“Please,” I say.
“Cold brew okay for you?”
“Of course.”
“Siri, brew my coffee,” Brian announces. Nothing happens.
“Uh, Brian, I’m not sure iPhones can…”
“I know. It’s a tech joke. Because you’re a coder, get it?
Never mind. Man, have my one-liners just tanked since be-
coming a doctor or what?”
He grabs two white ceramic mugs from his kitchen cabinet
and sets them on a ledge that’s nestled outside his refrigerator door. A couple of ice cubes hit the cups, then a steady stream
of cold brew starts flowing. The hidden built-in spout makes
me wonder how much it cost him to transform his apartment
into a literal Starbucks.
He slides a mug across his mammoth marble kitchen island.
“So what’s going on, Char?”
“Well, you said to come by if shit hits the fan and, well,
here,” I say, handing him the Anthropologie towel that’s nor-
mally draped through the handle of my oven.
“Is this a…housewarming gift?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t think of any
occasion when I’d bring you a thirty-dollar linen as a gift.
But, I would bring a stained thirty-dollar linen as a…favor.”
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Emily Belden
“I’m not sure I’m following you, Char. What’s the emer-
gency?”
“I was doing some laundry at home and when I went to
hang this back up, I noticed the mark didn’t come out. This
is one of my favorite towels and I’m not sure if the lipstick
I borrowed from my friend the other night was actually red
house paint, but I really don’t want to see this stupid stripe
every time I dry my hands at the sink.”
Brian sets his coffee on the counter and takes the towel
from my hand to give it a closer look. Then he stares at me.
“Please don’t make me ask for it by name,” I say.
“You want to use my Turbo Washer 6000, don’t you?”
My eyes widen and I nod. Now he gets it.
“You have no idea how valuable I feel right now. I’ll be
right back.”
Brian moves out of frame and a few moments later I hear
his laundry machine filling with water. A wave of anxiety
hits me like the rush coming from the faucet. Did I really just bring dirty laundry to Brian’s house and call it an emergency?
When I walked through his door, he probably thought the urn
cracked, or Hancock Insurance was a fraud, or anything other
than the fact that one of my Decker-era relics had a nasty stain my dollar-store detergent couldn’t handle. But the truth is, to me, that is an emergency. Right now, I just need one thing, one familiar thing, to stay as I remember it.
“It’ll be about a half hour. Shall we sit?” Brian returns and
gestures toward his living room. A giant burgundy leather
Chesterton couch awaits us. It feels like a cloud swallowing
me whole as I take a seat. I let my body sink into the com-
fortable cushions and sip slowly on the refreshing cold brew;
the caffeine is like a lifeline, warding off the start of a subtle headache.
“Thanks for doing a load on the fly,” I say.
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“No problem. I’m confident that lipstick will come out. I
had this white shirt once, and all over the collar—”
“Okay, you know what? I think I’m good,” I say, interrupt-
ing him. “You can spare me the story about the time you got
some girl’s makeup off your clothes.”
“I was actually going to tell you about the time my nephew
gave me a hug while in the midst of a torrential nosebleed.
It looked like my shoulder had been dip-dyed in a vat of red
food coloring.”
“Oh,” I say, embarrassed. I can feel my cheeks turning the
same shade of red as the lipstick stain.
“Came out crisp and clean like I bought it off the shelf at
Banana Republic that very day. Moral of the story: in the
Turbo Washer we trust.” He clinks his mug against mine in
a pseudo cheers movement.
I’m not used to things other than my work being a neutral-
izer in my life, but his calming force is appreciated.
“Hey, can you help me with this, Char?” Brian hovers over
a folded corner of a newspaper that’s resting on his coffee table.
“You get the New York Times?” I ask.
“Yeah, only on Sundays though. I like to know how the
East Coast sees the world these days.”
Perhaps he should take over my standing calls with The Jeaner in that case.
“Don’t judge, I’m a little backed up on my puzzles as you
can see.” He points to a stack of at least ten more papers folded up in the corner of the living room, then diverts his attention back to the twelve-across. “Therefore? What the hell kind of a clue is that?”
“How many letters is it?” I ask.
“Four.”
“And clues on the down?”
“Not yet.”
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I can feel my forehead crinkle, the way it always does when
I’m up against an ambiguous NYT crossword clue.
“Try ergo,” I say.
“E-R-G-O,” he says as he inputs each letter with a black
ballpoint pen. “Actually, yeah. That works. Thanks, smartie.”
He sets the pen down and I watch him take a sip of his
coffee. I’ve become remarkably comfortable in Brian’s pres-
ence since first worrying what he’d think of me bringing a
dish towel over. But now he feels like a friend right now, my friend, and not just a guy who knew Decker—who knew me
with Decker—and has to be nice by association.
“So, what’s on your agenda today?” he
asks.
I tap the time on my watch, then slide over to my calendar
app, which is of course blank due to my forced leave.
“After the wash, I’m thinking of driving up to Pala, actu-
ally. I got a Google alert that said there’s a week-long farmer’s market going on. Proceeds go to rebuilding the farms that got
damaged in the fire. Maybe I’ll run into other people like me
there and we can brainstorm what to do with our urns. Or
maybe we can just pool our money and go in on some crypts
at that new mega-mausoleum on Grower,” I joke.
“Sounds fun. Want company? I could go for some vine-
ripe tomatoes or a fresh fruit pie. Think they’ll have either
of those?”
Vine-ripe tomatoes or fruit pie? Are we shooting a pilot
for HGTV?
“Don’t you have to work?”
“Yeah, but not ’til tonight. Let’s go. I can drive the Tesla.””
“Tesla?”
“Graduation present,” he shrugs. “It gets forty-six miles to
the gallon. What do you think?”
Between the job with kids and the concern for fuel effi-
ciency, I think this is a much different Brian than the guy who 9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 124
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hollered at chicks from his doorless Wrangler years ago. Who
is this guy who suddenly cares more about miles per gallon
than who’s bringing the Jell-O shots to the party?
Just then, there’s a chime from the laundry room. I’m re-
minded of the fact that his washer is doing something that no
prescribed anxiety medication can do for me, which leaves
little room to protest agreeing to make him my impromptu
Pala wingman. I consider the urn safe while locked in my
car, which is parked in a guest spot in Brian’s gated garage,
and take him up on his offer— after he puts the Anthro linen in the dryer.
I want to say that riding shotgun in Brian’s Tesla will never
get old, but I also don’t want to make a habit of this. I must
admit, however, that when cruising down the 405 in a rare
“light traffic” moment in LA, there are few other cars I’d
rather be in. The scent coming out of the air-conditioning
vents can be customized, for crying out loud. Today, Brian is
pumping through the scent of “freshly baked waffle cones.”
“For as high-tech as this car is, you’d think Elon Musk
would have invented an app that would massage your shoul-
ders while you drive,” Brian says as he sits back in his seat, runs both fingers through his hair, and lets autopilot take the wheel.
“I’ll work on that one. Right after I solve the world’s dat-
ing crises.”
“What do you mean?
“I’m working on a dating app.”
“I didn’t know that. What’s it going to be like, Tinder 2.0?”
Immediately I regret mentioning my little side project,
which, by the way, is never going to get off the ground con-
sidering I haven’t even touched my programs in almost a week.
“It’s just something stupid I’m messing around with right
now,” I say.
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“Oh come on, Char. Tell me more. I’ll tell you the secret
to extracting a macaroni noodle from a nostril.”
I crinkle my face, New York Times crossword puzzle style, and give him a look that says, No thanks, I’m good. But his willingness to trade insider industry knowledge is a nice way
of showing me he cares what I have to say, even if it’s over
his head. Or worse, even if he thinks it’s stupid. Either way,
I humor him.
“Well, you know what I do for a living?”
“Yeah, matching the popular internet people to your cli-
ent events, right?”
“Close enough. My app functions kind of like that. But in-
stead of it showing compatibility between a business and an
influencer, it outlines the compatibility between a potential
suitor and…myself.”
I didn’t have an elevator pitch prepared, clearly.
“Wow, that’s pretty sweet. Can I try it?” he asks. “Curious
how I’d pair with Jennifer Lawrence.”
“She’s is your celeb crush? I pegged you for, I don’t know, a young Pamela Anderson or maybe the nanny Jude Law
cheated with?”
“What do you think of me, Charlotte Rosen? I’ve come a
long way since flirting with your mom at your wedding. Al-
though I think she was kind of into it.” He looks at me and
winks.
“Well, regardless, you can’t try it. It’s only in beta version.
There are a few kinks in the code at the moment.”
“So what’s the end game with it?”
“End game?”
“Yeah, like, are you just going to finish it and upload it to
the App Store, or…?”
The question gives me pause. I know I will need to even-
tually quit The Influencer Firm and focus full-time on de-
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veloping this thing if I want to sell the technology across the globe and take over the world. Even though I love what I do
and have a great boss, TIF is not my end game so much as a
stepping stone, which sounds harsh, I know. Like I’m using
the setup Zareen has given me as part of my nine-to-fiv e—
super fast Internet connection speeds, a giant monitor, tu-
ition reimbursement for special coding classes, etc.—so that I
can spend my five-to-nine grooming my not-so-casual efforts for finding a future mate and securing a lifetime of financial
freedom while I’m at it. For now, though, I’m in no rush to
shake things up.
“I don’t really know. I guess I’m hoping I meet some tech
investor down the road who will back it and turn it into the
next Match.com.”
He holds up his right hand for a high five.
“Come on, don’t leave me hanging.” I oblige and touch
my palm to his. “There ya go, Champ. I’ll be the first to sub-
scribe. I can use all the dating help I can get.”
The conversation stays in this sort of light and airy terri-
tory. Brian’s an easy man to talk to and when he asks questions about my hopes and my dreams, and deems my answers high-five-worthy, it makes me feel causal and cool. He’s a lot kinder and more genuine than I anticipated this second go-round.
The farmer’s market is mostly just wine and olive oil from
Temecula and booths to sign up for a Winnebago giveaway
sweepstakes. Such is what you get from a tiny town known
for its proximity to wine country, a casino, and (formerly) a
fancy mausoleum. Regardless, Brian and I still take this as an
opportunity to soak up the SoCal sun and saunter down Pa-
la’s one main road.
“Olive oil lip balm or olive oil hand soap?” he asks, hold-
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ing up two goodies from one of the vendor booths. “Screw
it, I’ll get both.”
“Hey, can we pop into this bar real quick?”
I say. “I’ve got
to pee.”
Brian ushers me inside and we make our way to the back.
The restroom turns out to be a single-person unisex setup. I go to turn the handle, but it’s locked. The bathroom is occupied.
“Oh, sorry. My buddy is in there,” says a guy wearing an
excessively low-cut heather-gray V-neck. “He should be out
any second though.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile as I stand back and wait my
turn next to Brian.
Moments later, there’s a knock from inside the bathroom and the V-neck guy next to us sets down his Rolling Rock
on the bar and springs toward the door to open it. Out comes
another good-looking guy, same age. He is in a wheelchair.
“You all good to go there, Steve?” Rolling Rock says.
“Yup, sorry that took so long. There was no railing so I
couldn’t balance myself on—.”
“No worries, man. Game hasn’t even started yet. Let’s get
you a brewski, shall we?”
I can’t help but notice a slight resemblance between the
man in the wheelchair and, well, Decker. Blonde hair, blue
eyes, with the quintessential Cali-cool vibe. Steve smiles at
me before he rolls away and says, “It’s all yours.”
There’s an air-conditioning vent blowing directly over the
sink as I wash my hands with a lemon-scented soap. The cold
air feels good after walking up and down the rows of ven-
dors under the mid-day sun, although it’s not blowing hard
enough to dry the sweat that’s pooled on my upper lip. As I
ball up some toilet paper to blot my skin, there’s a knock at
the bathroom door.
Opening the door, I am prepared see an impatient barfly
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or Brian checking on me, but instead it is Steve, the man in
the wheelchair. I’m taken aback again by his familiar facial
features, especially his baby blue eyes, and put my hand to
my chest.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Did I leave my
hat in there by chance?”
I prop open the door with the heel of my Converse to let
in a little more light, and sure enough, I spy a five-panel cap on the floor.
“Oh yeah, looks like it,” I say as I do a version of down-
ward dog to grab the hat. I see that USC is embroidered on
it before handing it back. He flashes a subtle smile and I flash one back before he leaves to rejoin his friend at the bar.
