#SandyBottom

by Alexi Venice

  “Probably the best course if Jen is the love of your life,” Susan said.

  “But she’s also the one who left.” Amanda felt hot passion—not the good kind—rise in her chest.

  “Are you looking for revenge sex?” Susan asked.

  “No. Of course not. I hadn’t even thought about it. I’m actually petrified that someone would hit on me.”

  “How have you deflected advances in the past?”

  “Probably not very diplomatically, but I’ll give a few phrases some thought.”

  “Would you like to practice them on me?” Susan asked.

  “Absolutely not.” Amanda’s feet tingled from sitting still too long. “I’m ready to go home and write my list of to-do’s, then make plans for Chance and Kip’s party.”

  “Does that mean we’re concluding?” Susan clicked her arm rests, lowering them.

  “Yep.”

  “Before you go, I want to touch on your sleep. Are you sleeping?”

  “Not much. I thought we discussed this when I mentioned I’ve been playing cello in the middle of the night,” Amanda said.

  “I didn’t realize…” Susan said. “You know, sleep is really important for successful functioning, especially in someone as brilliant and creative as you are.”

  “I don’t require much.”

  “How many hours per night do you usually sleep?”

  “I don’t know…maybe six?”

  “Are those quality hours?”

  “They used to be. This week…not so much,” Amanda said.

  “Can you make an effort to get more sleep? You’ll feel better…see things more clearly,” Susan said.

  “I’ll try.” Amanda made a move to stand, but Susan held up a hand, sending Amanda back to the sofa.

  “What about your nutrition. How’s your diet?” Susan asked.

  Amanda huffed. “Blech.”

  “You’re a little pale, Amanda. Do you think you can eat something when you get home? Maybe some protein? Like eggs?”

  “Yuck. I have some tofu in the fridge. Maybe I’ll make a salad. Jen is the cook, you know, and I’ve lost her.”

  “You can cobble together a small meal, can’t you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “I know you’ve been very committed to eating healthy in the past.”

  “The past is past,” Amanda said, unwrapping her hands from the long scarf.

  “Your health is your future,” Susan said.

  Amanda shrugged off the guru-speak. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Sensing the change in Amanda’s attitude, Susan smiled genuinely. “Sounds like you’ve developed a good plan for dealing with your emotions, avoiding a relapse with drugs and alcohol, and staying healthy.”

  “At least I’m forming some type of plan…subject to change at a moment’s notice.”

  Susan nodded. “You have my card.”

  Amanda looked around for it. She found it on the floor beside the chair. “Of course.”

  “See you next week?” Susan asked.

  “I’ll make an appointment on my way out,” Amanda said.

  Susan walked Amanda to the reception area and said goodbye.

  After Amanda made another appointment, she wrapped the scarf around her mop of curls, donned her sunglasses and scurried out of the Cohen Clinic with renewed vigor and purpose.

  Seven

  Feeling temporarily unburdened by the miracle of Susan’s therapeutic mind games, Amanda drove with confidence and determination through traffic, shifting seamlessly and accelerating around unhurried drivers for whom she had no patience.

  She called Chance on her speaker system.

  “Hello Amanda, how are you, dear?” he asked in a baby-talk voice.

  “I’ll allow you to call me ‘dear’ just this once because I’ve been through a hellacious week.”

  He laughed then switched to a business-casual tone. “I’m putting the final touches on your media statement in response to the Roxy photo.”

  “Good. We should send it out today.”

  “I’d be happy to. I’m working out of my Stinson Beach house.”

  “Thank you for the damage control,” she said, then asked in a curious voice, “Are you still having a party this weekend?”

  “Yes. Are you coming?”

  She detected skepticism in his tone. “If you’ll have me. I’m not very good company right now, but I’d like to see you.”

  “You’re more than welcome,” he gushed. “Have you heard from Jen?”

  “No. She dumped me.”

  He snorted. “I doubt that. Let’s not be dramatic.”

  “She’s in Wisconsin for two weeks.”

  He groaned. “In the wasteland of culture and diversity? I’m sure she’ll be dying to return to the city.”

  “I don’t know,” Amanda said. “She’s from there, you know.”

  “We can’t all be perfect like you and me. I thought she loved the city.”

  “I thought so too, but she was pretty disgusted with me when she left.”

  “Give her another week in Podunksville, and she’ll come running back to you with open arms.”

  Amanda wished she could believe him. “We’ll see.” She paused a minute while she made a turn, then said, “So, I thought I’d drive up this afternoon…if that works for you and Kip, that is.”

  “Please do. We can have some alone-time over a bottle of wine by the fire, and you’ll get first dibs on a room before everyone else arrives tomorrow.”

  “I’d like that. What can I bring?”

  “Prepare to be pampered, but if you have a favorite bottle of wine, feel free.”

  “Sounds lovely. I think I’ll swing by Tartine and pick up some bread and other treats too.”

  “Yum,” he hummed. “You go, girl.”

  “Text me your address, will you?” she asked.

  “As soon as we hang up.”

  Amanda found a parking spot a few blocks from Delores Park to brave the notoriously long line at Tartine Bakery. She glanced at the park—its green grass healthy from the recent mix of sun and rain—recalling the last time she was there. For the Dyke March with Jen and Roxy.

  She remembered how pissed she had been that Roxy had left with two younger women—one on each arm, her lanky, rock-star body wedged between them, her arms draped around their shoulders. Amanda had admired and hated Roxy in that moment, jealous of her prowess and secret-agent life. Jen had sensed it, too, telling Amanda as much over dinner at Pacific Café that night—where Amanda had consumed waaay too much wine on top of a valium. That had been the beginning of the downward spiral that had landed her in Roxy’s bed then a drug rehab bed.

  As she took up residence in the bakery line of eclectic locals, mostly dressed in hoodies, jeans and worn street shoes, Amanda looked like a hermit celebrity in her navy Burberry car coat, Hermès scarf—freshly wrapped around her face and hair—and Coach sunglasses. Some millennials in line attempted to surreptitiously snap pics of her, but she noticed them, paradoxically giving proof to her need to disguise herself. She failed to consider that, if she simply went about her business dressed like everyone else, no one would recognize her from the news, or pay her any attention even if they did.

  Amanda had lived in the Bay Area her entire life but had forgotten the unconscious ease with which she used to move around the city. The sting of media exposure under the weight of scandal fostered raw paranoia, and now only mild glances stimulated her troubled state of mind.

  She attempted to take refuge in her phone, straining to read emails and social media through the spider-webbed screen. A fresh text popped up, and her heart surged, hoping it was from Jen. She saw only a number from a foreign area code without a contact name, but she opened it anyway.

  Sorry Luv. I was swept up in the moment and snapped a selfie. Never dreamed it would be stolen and published. Hope you and Jen r okay.

  Roxy! Amanda’s composure fell out the window.

  She re-read the tex
t then glanced suspiciously at her companions in line as if all had seen Roxy’s words. Reassuring herself that was not the case, she considered a suitable reply. Jen left me for Wisconsin. I can’t blame her. Or you. I’ll be fine.

  Bubbles formed over Roxy’s side of the conversation, and as Amanda inched forward on the sidewalk outside the humming bakery, she watched Roxy’s reply populate.

  I’m stateside and would love to see u.

  Goosebumps peppered Amanda’s skin, equal parts of prurience and terror running through her. She cursed the cells in her body that jumped at the chance to see Roxy. To listen to that lilting Scottish brogue. To feel her skillful touch. STOP! Amanda knew that getting together with Roxy would be deadly to everything she valued in life—Jen, Kristin, sobriety, her work.

  She fortified herself and replied, Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think that would be a good idea right now. She erased “right now” to avoid giving the impression reuniting with Roxy would ever be a good idea, but then thought the message was a bit too harsh, so added it back in and hit send.

  Roxy replied, Until our paths cross again then. Cheerio love.

  Amanda could hear Roxy’s voice saying the line. She shook her head but added the foreign number as a contact under Roxy’s name.

  Finally arriving at the warm bakery counter, under pressure from the long line and demanding customers, Amanda ordered one of everything in sight. She lugged her large boxes to the car and sped home. Once there, she required only a few minutes to throw a variety of clothes into a calfskin duffel, carry a case of wine out to her car, and blast out of her garage, the scent of freshly baked goods permeating the interior of her car.

  Under a clear blue sky, blemished by only a few wisps over Sausalito, she crossed the Golden Gate Bridge while listening to Billie Eilish belt out “Bad Guy,” the thundering base beat threatening to break the windows. Of course, Roxy is the bad guy , she thought. Duh .

  Shifting the car to the rhythm of the music, Amanda drove along the Pacific Coast Highway toward Muir Beach, the air vents flooding her with the pungent smell of Eucalyptus trees, her favorite smell on earth, second only to Jen. Focusing on the road, she pushed the car to its limits on the twisting turns from Muir to Stinson Beach, an occasional slice of the Pacific viewable over the cliffs.

  Once she reached Stinson Beach, she drove down Calle Del Arroyo, stopping at a manned security gate in an exclusive neighborhood named Dipsea, which shared the name of the trail from Sausalito. The security guard checked off her name on a list and pointed out Chance’s house. When she turned into the gravel driveway, she gave the horn a light beep to announce her arrival.

  Chance and Kip came bursting from the back door, one wearing lime green shorts and the other salmon-colored. Both wore T-shirts bearing the name of bands. Kip’s was Amanda’s preferred—The Black Eyed Peas. Chance sported a Lady Gaga image.

  Hugs were had all around, and the men quickly unloaded Amanda’s groceries from the back of her car.

  “A case of red wine—how generous,” Kip said.

  “It’s the least I can do,” Amanda said.

  Once in the house, they cooed over the bread and wine then helped Amanda select a room with a view of the water.

  “How about a beach walk to clear our minds?” Chance asked.

  “That sounds perfect,” Amanda said.

  “Would anyone like to join me in a gin and tonic?” Kip asked.

  Amanda glanced at the kitchen clock, mid-afternoon, and fought back the screams of her conscience. “Why not?”

  Kip smiled. “As my friend, Jen Demaree, used to say, ‘It ain’t summer at the beach until you have a G&T in your hand.’”

  “I like her already,” Amanda said. “Although I seem to have a thing for women named Jen. Is she coming this weekend?”

  “Ah no, she passed away a year ago. God rest her soul, but I think of her every time I have a G&T.”

  Once they had their drinks in hand, Kip toasted, “To Jen.”

  “Both Jens,” Amanda amended.

  “My Jen loved the beach,” Kip said wistfully.

  “So does mine,” Amanda said, her tone more forlorn than she intended.

  “Before we fall into a depression,” Chance said, “let’s hit the sand in their honor.”

  “I’m down with that,” Amanda said.

  The beach was populated with other walkers and swimmers enjoying a mid-summer Friday afternoon. They walked in ankle-deep water, the restorative qualities of the Pacific lightening Amanda’s dark mood.

  “Did you practice yoga this week?” Chance asked once they were underway.

  She groaned, the juniper flavor of the G&T tickling the back of her throat. “I can’t seem to bring myself to the yoga mat, so I played the cello instead.”

  “I didn’t know you were a cellist,” Kip said.

  “Not a very good one,” she said.

  “I doubt that. From what I’ve seen, you’re good at everything you do,” Kip said.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.” She kicked up some water against an incoming wave, welcoming the spray coming back on her.

  “I wouldn’t worry about the Roxy photo breaking,” Kip said. “No one gives a shit about your sex life.”

  “Your news station apparently does,” she said. “The photos are on your website.”

  “I don’t have any editorial power,” Kip said. “You know that right?”

  Amanda shook her head and inhaled the thick, salty air.

  “I told you not to bring it up,” Chance whispered to Kip.

  “I didn’t hear that,” Kip whispered, then said in a louder voice to Amanda, “I’m sorry, Amanda. Should we avoid that topic?”

  She threw a hand in the air. “Not at all. The more I talk about it, the less power that fucking photo has over me, ignoring the fact that Jen left me in the dust because of it, but nevertheless…”

  Chance and Kip exchanged glances.

  “I’m sorry,” Kip said, his bleach-blonde hair turning platinum in the bright sun. He would need to visit his stylist in the city after the weekend for a toner treatment, or his highlights would look copper-colored under the intense lights of the TV studio.

  Amanda thought he looked better—healthier—without the pancake on his face she was so accustomed to seeing when he interviewed her at the courthouse.

  Chance draped his arm around her shoulders. “Like I said earlier, she’ll come back. It’s not like you struck up with Roxy again. If Jen knew about the first, and only, time you were with Roxy, then it was only the photographic evidence that offended her. She’s a smart woman. She’ll figure out how to distinguish between her anger over the actual hookup and the recently-released photograph.”

  “I hope you’re right and not just sugar-coating the situation for my present state of mind.” Amanda swirled her drink, the ice cubes rattling. “She was really pissed.”

  “If she came back once, she’ll come back again,” Kip said.

  “I recently proposed to her and everything,” Amanda lamented. “I slid a diamond band onto her finger, and we were making wedding plans for Hawaii.”

  “Keep planning,” Chance said. “She’ll be back. And, we better be invited.”

  She lay a hand on his forearm. “You are.”

  “Which island?” Kip asked, taking the conversation in a happier direction.

  “My parents own a house on Molokai,” she said.

  “I haven’t been to that island,” Kip said. “Wasn’t that where the leprosy colony was located?”

  “Yes. It does have that historical distinction. The lepers lived on an isolated part of the island where steep cliffs cut them off from the rest of the population. Once antibiotics were discovered in the 1960s, however, leprosy was eradicated. My parents have a place on the opposite end of the island, near Maunaloa. Their house is on the beach, which stretches miles in both directions. It’s gorgeous, trust me.”

  “We’re all in,” Chance said. “Do you have a date set
?”

  “Not yet. Jen was strangely resistant to setting a date. Maybe she just doesn’t want to get married. Maybe that was the problem all along, and this Roxy thing just confirmed it in her mind.”

  “Nonsense,” Chance said. “I’ve seen you two together. You’re soulmates. She needs to lock you down—now.”

  “Thank you,” Amanda said, her tone flat and lifeless.

  They approached the end of the peninsular sand spit, the town of Bolinas staring at them from across a small expanse of water.

  “Time to turn around,” Kip said.

  “Unless you want to wade over to Bolinas,” Amanda said.

  Chance snorted. “Bolinas? No way. What was once a charming hippie community is now a backwater of hostile miscreants who resent the hell out of professionals like us.”

  “Whoa!” Amanda said. “What brought this on?”

  “Chance had words with the waitstaff in the dumpy café,” Kip said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder, as they turned.

  “Words? What kind of words?” she asked.

  “Such a bitch…” Chance growled, shaking his head.

  “Tell me the story,” Amanda said.

  “This prejudiced woman—” Chance began in an angry voice.

  “Let me tell the story,” Kip interjected. “We drove over to Bolinas for breakfast last Monday after the weekend crowd had gone home. The café wasn’t very busy, but our server was probably tired from the weekend. Let’s just say that she took her sweet time coming to our table. Anyway, Chance ordered the Bolinas omelet, but asked her to hold the onions, a request I’m sure she’s heard before. Then, he ordered a side of sourdough toast and asked her to hold the butter. Again, like she’s never heard that before. When he ordered a cup of coffee, he requested a small serving of half-and-half instead of the prepackaged little creamers in the basket on the table. That’s when she rolled her eyes and said, ‘You people!’”

  “Who people?” Amanda asked.

  “Exactly!” Chance exclaimed, slicing the air in protest.

  Kip laughed. “I’m not sure if she was referring to city people or queers, but Chance looked at her and said, ‘Excuse me? What do you mean by ‘you people?’”

  Amanda smiled, the thought of Chance mixing it up giving her pleasure. “What did she say?”