by Erin Spencer
Liv puts up a hand. “The Yes Factor, remember? This is your first chance to say y-e-s. It’s just some food with a nice guy.” Off my doubtful look, she continues. “You aren’t saying yes to marriage, you’re not saying yes to sex—although maybe you will later. Just yes to sharing some food with another human.”
Her hand goes up again as she knows I’m about to protest. “It’s just a bite.”
She knows she’s right and I know she’s right, as much as I don’t want to admit it. So, I pull my lipstick out of my purse, slide on a fresh coat, give my hair a little ruffle and walk out the door.
“You have a daughter who’s thirteen? What a blessing.” Brandon’s chin rests on his hand as he leans on the high table at the Tiki Taco, a Hawaiian/Mexican fusion joint. “I always wanted kids, but my ex just wasn’t interested. That’s why I started subbing. I love kids. But my ex really didn’t want to have any.” He doesn’t sound bitter, just sad.
This is about the twentieth time he’s brought up his ex. I should have suspected something was amiss right away when he mentioned meeting her at the Fiddler audition. That’s not normally something most people would mention after meeting someone for all of ten seconds.
“I’m sorry about that, Brandon. That must have been hard for you.” This conversation has been spiraling downward ever since we left The Vacancy. It’s like the florescent lights of this taco joint have illuminated all of his sorrows. “How long ago did you get divorced?” His wounds seem so fresh, I’m guessing a year, tops.
“It’s been eleven years. Seems like yesterday.” He looks away and grabs a paper napkin from the metal container on the tabletop. Are his eyes glassy?
“Uh…I’m sorry to hear that.” This is all feeling a bit much. It’s obvious his baggage is a heavy load he doesn’t bear well. “Do you mind if we head out? I’m beat.”
“Oh, sure. Sure.” He finishes the remaining bite of his Maui Me taco and we head for the door. “It’s been great hanging out with you, Bex. You are so easy to talk to.” I return his watery smile with a tight-lipped grin. It’s time for this date to end.
It’s nearly eleven o’clock when we pull up in front of my house. I don’t like the idea of someone I just met knowing my address, but Liv thought it would be fine if he gave me a ride home. After that disappointment of a date, I wish I hadn’t. I sat in silence for the entire ride home except for saying “turn here” or “get in your left lane.” The chemistry between us at The Vacancy has fizzled out like a Fourth of July sparkler.
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” I say with a bright voice after he offers to walk me to my front door. Realizing I’ve said no instead of yes, but the bucks gotta stop somewhere. I said yes once, and after the taco tedium, that’s the only yes Brandon will be getting from me. “Liv will probably be asleep and I’m just gonna go to bed.” It’s a lame excuse but I can’t bring myself to say no flat out.
He doesn’t take the hint and is already opening his car door. “Really? But it’s early. We can talk a little bit more.”
I don’t mean to, but I shake my head in disbelief. What else is there to talk about? Besides his ex-wife, of course.
Brandon opens my car door and takes me by the hand. He then proceeds to hold my hand, which I pull away as we walk toward the front door. The voice inside my head is now starting to get a little hysterical. Is he going to try to kiss me? I haven’t kissed anyone in years! But then the reasonable voice says, Bex, you’re a grown woman. A kiss might do you good. Get you back in the game! Yes, he’s got issues, but he is nice to look at. And at least he’s a good guy, albeit one who can’t get over his past.
When we finally reach the door after what seems like the longest, most awkward walk of my life, Brandon reaches out to try to take my hand again. “I had a really good time with you tonight. I mean, like, a really, really good time. When can I see you again?”
I hesitate, thinking never. “Uh, I don’t know. I’m really busy and Liv just got in to town, so—”
“How about next Monday?” he says with the eager optimism of a child.
I’m desperately thinking of an excuse. “No, Monday isn’t good. I’m uh…starting a new project.” I’m grasping at straws here.
“How about Tuesday?”
“Oh, Tuesday. Shoot. I can’t on Tuesday either.”
He has a sad droopy dog look on his face. “Really? Okay.” But he recovers quick enough. “Well, let me get your number and I’ll call you on Wednesday. We could maybe figure out a plan for next weekend.” His voice lowers as he continues. “I really like you, Bex. I haven’t had this kind of instant connection with someone since the day I met my ex.”
“And look how that turned out!” My attempt at humor falls flat and the moment turns serious again.
For some reason I feel bad. Maybe it’s female guilt or something, I don’t know, but I recite my number and watch him type it into his phone, hoping beyond all hope that he’ll type it in wrong…but he doesn’t. Why did I gave him my real number? I should have just made something up. And he knows where I live. Exactly why I wanted to drive myself in the first place. All of a sudden he’s about three inches from my face. I take a step back and reach into my purse for my house keys. Unfortunately, he stays toe to toe with me like a tango dancer preparing for his signature move. He leans closer and a waft of his hot, salsa breath hits me.
Oh shit. He’s going for it!
I’m frozen like a deer in headlights as his lips gently press to mine. I give it a beat to see if I feel anything. Nope. The heavens don’t open up. Fireworks don’t explode. It was fine. Not bad. Not good. Just so-so. Fine. I pull away quickly.
Attempting to break the silence, I jingle the keys in my hand. “Well, thanks again for dinner, Brandon.”
He turns his face away slightly and there, glinting in the incandescent porch light, I see a single alligator tear slide down his face.
He’s crying!
I don’t want to bring attention to the tear because then Brandon might want to talk about it and I’m so done with talking. But if I ignore the tear, does that make me a cold-hearted bitch?
I opt for cold-hearted bitch.
“Get home safely.” I completely ignore his emotional theatrics.
Brandon turns his face square to the light now, not bothering to wipe away the tear or the new ones that are starting to fall down his face. “Bex, I’ve never had this kind of connection with anyone before. I thought the day I met my ex was special. That I’d never connect with anyone like that again. But then you sat down at my bar and said Yente and it was as if this was meant to be.”
The tears keep coming as he hunches over, apparently too overcome with emotion to stay upright. Full on weeping like someone just died. I wanna die. Is this candid camera or something?
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why did I have to say “Yente”?
“I gotta go.” I finally get some space between us and open the front door, quickly closing it behind me in a narrow escape. I want to shut the door on this whole night. How did Liv talk me into this fiasco? This is exactly why I don’t date anymore.
I hear Brandon whimper quietly, “I’ll call you.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Liv says with utter glee. She’s enjoying this way too much and is riveted as I recount the night.
“I’m not kidding. He kissed me, then started crying.” I flop back on the pillows. “My first kiss in years and the guy weeps! What is wrong with me? Why can’t I find any ‘normal’ guys? You acted like the Yes Factor was gonna change everything but it’s already turned into one big No.”
Liv looks at me with compassion. “Come on, Bex, don’t let The Weeper get you down. He wasn’t the right fit. Let’s move on, it’s nothing to…cry about.” She laughs. “Sorry, couldn’t let that one go!” Seeing my lack of enthusiasm, she continues in a more conciliatory tone. “Listen, I’ve got something planned for tomorrow night that’s gonna be great.” I feel my eyebrows rise to my hairline with skepticism. If only I cou
ld afford Botox. “Trust me,” she adds with a smile.
I’ve heard that from her before…Well, how much worse could it be?
Chapter Four
Hollywood Rococo NoNo
LIV
I wake up to a kaleidoscope of bright LA sunshine streaming in through Bex’s guest bedroom window. In my jet-lagged stupor, I’d forgotten to close the lace curtains, not that they’d have done much to stop this solar-powered spotlight. Leafy branches of an avocado tree sweep across the windowpanes. God, this view, it’s a tonic after the gray skies and dingy brick flats that I wake up to in London. I yawn and prop myself up on a few pillows to get a better look out the window. Grapefruit hangs from a tree that is polka dotted with globes of the yellow fruit, too many to pick before they start to rot and fall to the ground, making a blanket of mushy bittersweet in the shade below. In comparison to the plastic-wrapped fruit in London grocery stores, Bex’s backyard is a cornucopia of citrus, vibrant flavors and color. It’s the picture-perfect California dream. And about a million pounds’ worth of produce. I laugh to myself, thinking of the puny, green-gray avocados at the market near my flat that go for £3 a piece. It costs more than a bottle of wine just to make a decent bowl of guacamole. My parents would probably stop talking to me if they knew how much I spent on guac.
Feeling groggy and dazed, I wonder what time it is. Jet lag is a bitch. Was I dreaming that Bex told me the bartender started to weep? I’m all for men in tune with their emotional selves, but it seems like a major red flag to have an intense crying jag on the first date, regardless of gender. Bex definitely needs something more light-hearted, and what I have lined up for tonight will be perfect.
Lazily, I stretch and enjoy the luxurious comfort of the queen-sized mattress and starfish my arms and legs to all four corners of the bed. I can’t help but enjoy this feeling of being alone in bed. No snoring Ethan, whenever he makes it to bed, and no half asleep wrestling to get more of the blanket. I used to laugh at the old black-and-white TV shows that had the husband and wife sleeping in separate beds. Maybe they were on to something after all.
Reaching up with another yawn, my hands bump into the polished oak headboard. Bex is a genius with rehabbing old furniture. I’ve told her a million times she should open her own shop, not just her online Etsy thing but an actual store. Her eye for unearthed treasures is better than those experts on Antiques Roadshow. I trace my fingers along the beautifully carved inlay of the headboard and smile, remembering the look on Bex’s face when she first laid eyes on it.
We were grappling with vicious hangovers in the early stretch of a six-hour drive back to Atlanta in muggy August weather after a crazy weekend in New Orleans. Back then, in our college youth, a twelve-hour round trip drive for a Saturday night to meet up with cute Cajun guys and down some Hurricanes was no big deal. We’d made it past Slidell when Bex veered the car off the I-10, almost missing the exit.
“Did you see that sign?” She half turned to me under the weight of her hangover, then started saying repeatedly as if possessed, “Po’boys. Po’boys.”
To this day, whenever we say “Po’boys,” we both start to giggle.
It was a two stoplight town in Mississippi; I don’t remember the name. I do remember those shrimp po’boys and sweet tea being the best damn hangover cure ever. As we were heading back to the car, Bex made a beeline across the street, having spotted an Antiques sign in the corner of a darkened storefront window. Before I knew it, she was inside. I followed just in time to see her stop in her tracks, a rapturous glow breaking the zombie look of her hangover.
“Amazing, it’s perfect,” she said.
I followed her gaze to see a beat-up, dusty piece of wood leaning against the wall that definitely did not look perfect to me. Bex sweet-talked the woman at the counter into letting her take it off her hands for fifteen dollars. We tied it to the roof of the car with some rope. It was heavy as hell, but the po’boys had given us strength. The following weekend Bex worked on it both days, resurrecting it from that cobwebbed corner of a forgotten store in Mississippi into a piece worthy of the Smithsonian. I love that she’s kept it with her all these years. I wonder what this chunk of wood has witnessed in its lifetime. From forest roots to a carpenter’s hand. Tender embraces, mean silences, arguments, and fights. How many cycles of a relationship has it been at the mast of.
“Wake up!” Bex hollers from downstairs. “I don’t know what time it is in London, but it’s too late for you to still be in bed. We need to at least do brunch before it’s happy hour.”
I grab my phone, 10:18 a.m. It’s not that late. Bex is clearly still on Mom time, even with Maddie away at camp.
And no messages from Ethan. What did I expect? I hadn’t even told him that I was here. He probably thinks that I’m with Clarissa, happily discussing the subtle nuances between French and English lavender.
“Okay, Mom!” I shout back. “I’m up! It’s not even eleven!” Yelling from the bed like this makes me feel like a teenager again, but a happy one. I always loved spending the night at Bex’s house when we were kids. Her mom would give me the fluffiest pink towels with satin trim and a matching robe. Those towels felt like pure silk compared to the nubby, sand paper thin ones we had at home.
Bex knocks on the door and peers in.
“Doesn’t look like you’re up to me.” She dive bombs onto the bed, making the headboard rattle.
“Careful, this thing’s old.” I yawn. “Remember when we found it?”
“How could I forget? That was an insane weekend. And you know what the craziest thing about it is? We were only five years older than Maddie is now. I do not even want to think about her on a weekend trip to New Orleans! Let alone one with a fake ID!”
“Do as you say, not as you do?” I give her a wry look. “Why did you never open your own store? I swear you could have sold this headboard for six hundred dollars, even back then.”
Bex leans back on the headboard beside me.
“I don’t know. Well, I do know. It’s called motherhood and divorce. I’m doing good just to make ends meet sometimes. God bless whichever millennial founded Etsy. Now I don’t even need to open my own store, plus I can work in my pajamas.”
“Speaking of.” I give Bex a once-over. “That getup is not going to be getting you any. I think my grandmother had that exact same one.”
“What?” Bex looks down at the nightgown. “It’s comfortable.”
“Exactly.”
I was worried about it being too late for brunch, but this is America. Home of the all-day breakfast. And this is LA on a weekend, so basically the Disneyland of brunching. Pushing my sunglasses up like a headband, I soak in the relaxed atmosphere of the outdoor patio and warm sun that’s melting away the London cold inside me.
“I’m so happy to be here,” I say to Bex. “Thank you for letting me be your Fairy Godmother Wingwoman.”
Bex clinks my mimosa glass with her own. “I still can’t believe you came all the way from London to do this. And by the way, I changed all the passwords on my profiles. Enjoys arthouse films, jazz, and cultivating heirloom tomatoes. You do know me, don’t you? That makes me sound like some twenty-three-year-old hipster growing his first beard!”
“Well, I had to put something! You’d hardly even filled them out. Anyway, forget about all that. Tonight is something different. Tonight is gonna be fun and upbeat. A party!” I say in a Valley girl accent.
“A party?” Bex takes the final bite of her French toast, holding her fork in the air in the utensil sign language for seriously?. “The last time I went to a party was, well.” She pauses, deep in thought. “When was the last time?”
“Precisely. That’s my point,” I say like a schoolteacher.
“Whose party? And where?”
“Trust me.” I wonder how many times I’ll have to say that to Bex before I return to London. Coaxing her out into the dating world takes more work than I’d imagined. “Remember the mantra?”
“Say yes
.” Bex rolls her eyes, stabbing the air with her fork at each syllable. “But I wanted us to go to the Pasadena Society Estate Sale tomorrow morning. It’s the last one of the season. I don’t want to be out late tonight—I like to get up and out. Early bird catches the best antique bargain and all that. I need to find some distressed leather for a piece I’m working on for a client. Anyway, what time is this party?”
I’m not going to let her bail on this one. She might be able to weasel her way out of plans with her friends here, but I know her too well.
“Yes,” I say.
“Yes, what?” Bex says in confusion.
“Yes. Yes, let’s go to the Estate Sale thingy tomorrow morning. Yes, we’ll still go to the party tonight. Yes. Yes…” I smile, on the verge of laughing. Mimosas, sunshine, and jet lag are a fun combination.
“Ah ha, I see what you’re doing,” Bex gives me a sarcastic look, but indulges me. “Yes,” she says with a smile, “I’ll go to the party.”
“Are you sure this looks okay?” Bex pulls nervously at the sweetheart neckline of her red body-hugging dress to tuck in an errant bra strap. “I should have worn a strapless bra. But they don’t give me the lift I need, especially for a dress like this one.”
“Stop complaining that you have boobs.” I gesture to my almost B cups. “Check out this view,” I marvel. “The city looks so beautiful from up here, I know it’s cliché, but it is just like the movies. Those twinkling lights of lives and dreams. It almost makes me miss living in this crazy town.”
“Yeah, it’s really nice even though we did almost die getting here. This better be a fun party.”
The twisty curves along Mulholland had been almost too much to bear, especially in the back seat of an Uber with a faulty suspension. I should have sprung for the executive car. The two double gin and tonics we’d enjoyed in Bex’s backyard after mimosas at brunch were sloshing around in our stomachs as the car swerved and swayed. A near miss with an oncoming Range Rover almost made us both throw up. The driver was thoughtful though and clearly protective of his 4.87 rating—there were handy wipes and a roll of paper towels tucked into the middle seat console. This driver was ready for anything. I’d told him to drop us off a couple of blocks away from the address so we could get some fresh air and walk off the nausea.
