by Amiee Smith
I consider calling my brother. He’s always taking his clients out to dinner. But he’ll question me. For now, I need for my date with Lynn to be my thing.
Maybe she has some food pics on her Facebook page to give me an idea of what she likes to eat. I click on the FB app, but I remember her page is on lockdown. I click on her author page.
Because I bought the book right away, I didn’t scroll through it last night. The page is colorful, bright, and totally multimedia. Playlists, book recommendations, video book trailers, pics of her walking in SF, resources for aspiring writers, super fan quizzes, and daily themed posts with shirtless dudes and corresponding hashtags.
There is so much content on the page. I don’t even try to read it all, but I understand why Lynn has over 250,000 followers. She’s even done a few Facebook Lives.
The first video I click is a book cover reveal. It’s shot in a modern all-white high-end kitchen. She’s in black leggings, a white tank, and a thick wool, purple cardigan. Her dark curly hair is piled on top of her head and she’s wearing her dark-rimmed glasses. On camera she is excited, confident, and fuckably adorable.
I click the next video. She’s sitting at a desk. The shot is from the chest up. Lynn is in the same white, hippy-dippy blouse she had on last night. Her hair is straight and she appears more made-up than she did in the previous video. She is radiant. Captivating…
“Hey everyone! I hope you’re reading something fantastic. I wanted to jump on Facebook Live and answer some of the questions I’ve been getting about weight loss. I purposely did not share my experience because it’s a very personal journey. I still feel that way, but I want to address some of the questions and comments I’ve been receiving. First, I did not have weight loss surgery. I did it the old-fashioned way, using diet and exercise. I eat a fully plant-based diet and run six days a week. That’s it. I did seek out expert guidance in the beginning. I recommend to anyone wanting to make a lifestyle change to get support. Choose a plan you can stick with and that works for your life. I’ve released almost fifty pounds to date over the last six and a half months. And I’ve learned that, like writing, consistency is the key. Someone is asking in the comments: ‘What do I snack on when I write?’ Ah, I try not to snack when I write. But I usually have a green juice on my desk. I’m a fan of Suja Green Supreme. I also enjoy hitting up the juice bar in my neighborhood. My favorite snacks are kale chips and fruit. I used to eat a lot of take-out, but now I cook a little more. Often, I’ll prepare a pot of soup. I’m obsessed with carrot and ginger soup this week. I’m not the most culinary person in the world, but I’ve learned to appreciate the miracle of food. Last week, I had an apple so fresh I felt like it was singing to me. There’s another question here. ‘What foods do I miss the most? What foods have I grown to like?’ Um, well, I guess I would say pizza. Though I don’t miss it. I just have it in a different way. There’s a restaurant in my neighborhood that has the best veggie pizza without cheese. The food I’ve learned to like… um, I guess Mexican food. Because it’s really easy to make a dish vegan and still get a hearty meal…”
I pause the video, and search “vegan Mexican food” on Yelp. I read a review in L.A. Magazine for a vegan Mexican restaurant that originated in San Francisco, Gracias Madre. I check Open Table and secure a reservation at 7:30 p.m. I drop Lynn a text.
Saturday, 2:45 p.m.
626-851-8457: I made a reservation for 7:30. Pick you up at 6:00.
I wait for the dots, but get nothing back.
I change into a pair of jeans and leave the house. If Lynn stays over, I want to get some snacks she can eat. My snacking consists of leftovers, or maybe I’ll throw together a sandwich. I need to do a little food shopping anyway, so a trip to Natural Foods is in order.
Driving through the hills of my neighborhood to the Glendale Natural Foods, my confidence returns. Thank you, Mark Zuckerberg. The Facebook tagline should be “helping dudes date successfully since 2004.” None of the restaurants on my list would have offered Lynn an enjoyable dining experience. Clearly, this vegan thing is important to her.
I love food. I’ve been cooking my way through several French and Italian cookbooks over the last few years. Kind of like the redhead chick in the movie about Julia Childs. My mom is from Italy, but she doesn’t cook. She always said she was too busy with her career to learn.
Mom was a model in her twenties before moving to L.A. to design gowns for the Hollywood elite. Sophia Willingham is one of the go-to designers for the entertainment industry. Even the First Lady has worn her dresses. My mom may not have taught me how to cook, but she did instill in me a love for designer clothes.
I arrive at Natural Foods. The parking lot is packed. Where do all these people come from? After circling more than a few times, I park and run in.
Entering the store, I see a small bouquet of pink roses the same color as Lynn’s “romance” shirt. I place them in the hand cart. I never buy flowers on the first date. I wait until the fifth date.
I stop by produce and pick up some apples (I try to select the freshest), a few bananas, a container of arugula, a bag of potatoes, a pound of carrots, a bundle of asparagus, and a couple of avocados. I find the green juice she mentioned on the video and choose a container of organic mixed berries.
I drop by the butcher for a whole chicken, two rib-eye steaks, and a pound of bacon. I can’t believe Lynn doesn’t eat meat. I make the best roasted chicken. Maybe I’ll experiment with some vegan recipes if things work out between us.
I hit up the bakery section for a loaf of sprouted bread before seeking out vegan snacks. I find the kale chips section. There are so many to choose from, I toss three different bags into the cart. Hopefully, I got it right.
Even though the store is swarming with people, I get out in less than twenty minutes. My phone vibrates as I get in the car.
Saturday, 3:45 p.m.
Lynn Scott: K. See you then.
Saturday, 3:45 p.m.
Nick Willingham (Jon’s friend): What room are you in?
Saturday, 3:46 p.m.
Lynn Scott: 603, but I can meet you in the lobby.
Saturday, 3:46 p.m.
Nick Willingham (Jon’s friend): I’ll come up. See you soon.
Saturday, 3:46 p.m.
Lynn Scott: Cool.
Lynn won’t want to carry the flowers around all night. It makes sense to meet at her room.
After stopping for gas, I return home, put the food away, and place the bouquet in the refrigerator.
I do a walkthrough of my house to check that everything is in order. I consider changing my bed sheets. But my cleaning lady did so on Thursday. They should be fresh enough. I never clean for a date. My home is always neat, but I think Lynn would notice more than most if something is even a bit out of place.
I collect my empty vape bag from last night, storing it away in the kitchen. Eventually, I’ll have to tell her I’m an adult stoner. If tonight goes well, maybe I’ll explain it to her in a few months. I’ve learned to be selective about what I share. Most people don’t understand the medicinal benefits of cannabis.
While in the kitchen, I load the dishwasher with my breakfast dishes and wipe down the counters and stove.
I designed this kitchen and did most of the renovation myself. I spent months working on it. On the surface, it’s like any other high-end, modern kitchen in L.A. What makes it unique is the time and care I put into constructing every aspect of the space so it meets my needs. I plan to live in this house for the foreseeable future. Like the clothes I wear, I want my kitchen to match my personal taste and style.
“Alexa. Play. Mos. Def.”
The legendary beat of “Mathematics” fills my house.
I need to leave for the Westin in an hour. I go to my bedroom and pull clothes from my walk-in, custom-built closet. I select a pair of navy Theory slim-fit trousers, a white button-down John Varvatos shirt, dark brown leather chukka boots (also John Varvatos), and black Calvin Klein boxer briefs.
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I love fashion. I even follow a few menswear bloggers (a fact only my tablet knows), but I hate to shop. I rely heavily on Raquel, my personal shopper at Nordstrom. I trust her to pick out everything from suits to socks to sleepwear to shoes. She even schedules my fittings with the tailor.
I shower, shave, and style my hair. The modern, Elvis-like haircut requires a comb, a blow dryer, pomade, and several fingertip strokes to get right. I comb my dark brown hair upward and away from my face before sweeping back the sides.
I dig the versatility of the pompadour. The haircut can go both edgy or conservative depending on how much product I use and volume I create. Tonight, I’m opting for something in between and letting my natural curl add texture. Yeah, I’m that guy.
As my hair sets, I floss-brush-rinse. Next lotion, deodorant, and a misting of Kiehl’s Musk (a Raquel recommendation). I dress, and grab my phone, keys, wallet, and the bouquet of flowers, and head out the door.
Despite my lack of sleep, I feel refreshed as I curve and wind my way down the hill to the 110 Freeway.
The weather, warm. The typical L.A. smog-haze, absent. Driving into Pasadena, it’s clear skies and pure early evening sunshine. As a promising sign, “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas streams from the speakers.
Tonight’s gonna be a great night.
CHAPTER 7:
LYNN SCOTT
This has been the worst solo Saturday fun day.
While some academics may argue otherwise, writing romance is an art. It takes guts and practice to master a craft, so I’m compassionate when it comes to another person’s art. But the play I saw today really, really sucked. Painfully so.
I paid two hundred dollars for my ticket, so I felt obligated to stay until the end. I even texted my mom afterwards and she responded: “Yeah. It was awful. Why didn’t you read the reviews? (smiley face).” (My mom refuses to use emojis. She says they’re “lessening our ability to express real emotions.”)
I’m straightening my hair. The air conditioning in my hotel room is so boss I barely feel the heat as I run the flat iron from the roots of my long black tendrils to the ends. The professional-grade styler transforms my natural curl to silky smooth strands. I need to cheer myself up, and flat-ironing my hair always lifts my spirits.
Since breakfast, the day tumbled downhill. By declaring it solo Saturday fun day, I jinxed myself. The dispensary was out of pre-filled vape pens in the strains best for my condition. Yes, I enjoy getting high. But on the wrong meds, it ain’t fun. I lucked out last night with the Auntie Dolores cookie.
I had the option of buying a gram of Sour Diesel (which I love), but I’d have to roll a joint (which I suck at) and lurk in dark corners while I smoke outside. I’m too old for sneak-and-get-high. I don’t mind a joint, but staying in a hotel is not conducive to lighting one up. The perk of vaping is the scent is less noticeable.
Instead of trying to find something that would work, I left the dispensary in a huff. All the budtenders were either too high to be in public, or I knew more about pot than they did. I’ll probably regret not buying something when I get back to my room after dinner. It sucks. I’m a patient with a condition, and I can’t travel with my meds and equipment.
Natural Foods was out of my favorite green juice. And the wait at the checkout was ridiculous. I mean really, why is Natural Foods on a Saturday afternoon a freakin’ cluster? It’s not just in L.A., SF is even worse.
I walked from the Pasadena Playhouse to the Westin. Not only was it so hot I was sweating through my clothes, but I almost got hit three times in less than a mile. L.A. is all sunshine, but no pedestrian love.
I usually plan ahead when I’m in L.A. I call dispensaries to ensure I can get a sativa. I also order vegan snacks from Natural Foods and have them delivered to my hotel.
Because I’ve been preparing for the release of the final book in my most recent series, I’m a little off my routine. My publisher thinks my next book can enter the NY Times Bestseller List at number one. They’ve crafted a marketing strategy that will keep me busy until the end of the year.
Next month, for the first time since moving to San Francisco, I’m skipping my L.A. trip. This weekend was supposed to be an easy-peasy, carefree jaunt to visit the people I love.
Ick. Now, I have to go to an in-the-spirit-of-friendship dinner with Nick. Okay, sitting across from his gorgeous face for a few hours won’t be so bad. But if he goes into a speech on how “…last night was fun, but we should keep our relationship platonic,” I’m going to scream on the inside, politely excuse myself from the meal, and hop on the first plane back to SF. Ah, but I’d miss Sunday brunch with the girls.
I rest the styler on the vanity and check the time on my phone. 5:05. I still have a small section to flat iron before shower-dress-makeup. Maybe I’ll get back early enough to try another dispensary? Fingers crossed, but if Nick is picking me up at 6:00 for a reservation at 7:30, it probably means we are not staying in the greater Pasadena area.
Oh! Maybe I’ll hit up a dispensary near where we’re having dinner, bid him an early farewell, and take an Uber back to Pasadena. Victory! Between straightening my hair and my dispensary plan, I feel much better.
I unplug the flat iron and admire my reflection in the mirror as I smooth SheaMoisture Coconut Oil through my hair. Falling below my bra line, it’s bone straight. Using my old-school Conair, I add a soft curl to my long swoopy bangs and the ends of my hair.
The only negative side of living in SF is that the damp climate doesn’t allow me to wear a whimsical curl. Tonight, I’m going to take advantage of the dry autumn L.A. heat.
I finish the last curl and secure it with a pink twisty roller. Covering my head in a blue plastic cap, I hop in the shower. The EO French Lavender body gel fills the bathroom with a camphor-like scent. The warm water falling from the rain shower head is divine. Relaxing and soothing. I wish I had an extra ten minutes to zone out; which is my cue turn off the faucet and get out.
I dry off and wrap myself in one of the thick bath robes hanging in the closet. I unpack my clothes for dinner— dark wash flare jeans that hug and shape my hips and an Anthropology floral print silk-chiffon long sleeve top. I impulse-bought the blouse a few weeks ago because it reminded me of the dress Adele wore in the "Send My Love (to Your New Lover)" video.
After running my travel steamer over my clothes, I get dressed. First, slipping on an all-black, sheer, polka-dot bra and matching underwear.
Ah. Nick has the underwear to my most favorite bra and panty set. I’m no fashionista, but I love luxury lingerie.
Fifty pounds ago, I could only hope to find super sexy, high-quality undergarments. Purchasing lacy, silky panties and bras has kept me motivated to stick with my new lifestyle. Should I ask him for them back?
There is no way that conversation can be comfortable. He can keep them. I’ll think of it as a party favor.
Checking the time, I have fifteen minutes until Nick arrives. (He seems like the guy that’s always on time.) Since it’s a casual dinner, I opt for a light dusting of MAC foundation powder and bronzer. A delicate slash of black eyeliner and several coats of black mascara, makes the hint of amber in my irises pop. I finish with a top and bottom swipe of tawny rose lipstick with a shimmery lip gloss over it.
I slide on a pair of Tory Burch red, suede, low-heel, wedge pumps, remove the rollers from my hair, and tuck the rose quartz crystal dangling from the chain around my neck into my blouse. The necklace is more of a talisman than a fashion accessory and I prefer to keep it close to my heart.
I replace my purple hoop earrings with the Tiffany Solitaire Diamond Earrings my parents gave me when I finished my MFA. With four minutes to spare, I tidy up, pack my bright pink Coach crossbody clutch, and grab my black leather crop jacket.
As expected, at 6:00 there is a knock at the door.
“Hey,” I say.
Opening the door, my heart jumps.
Toweringly tall with golden skin, this man is otherwo
rldly handsome. From the soft leather of his boots, to the crease in his slacks, to the crisp dress shirt hugging his muscular biceps and shoulders, to the skillfully sculpted waves on top of his head, to those brilliant hazel green eyes, Nick Willingham is a real-life work of art.
“Hey. These are for you,” he says, handing me a bouquet and offering a smile better than most actors.
“Thank you. Come in while I put these in water.”
The petite bunch of roses is a romantic shade of pink. I take a hotel glass, fill it with water, and discard the clear wrapping before dropping them in. I sit the roses on the nightstand. They will be fun to wake up to in the morning.
For a second, I aah and sigh that he brought flowers. But then I remember he’s a wealthy, well-mannered playboy. Flowers are just a prop in the nice guy show.
“You always stay at the Westin when you’re in town, right?” Nick asks, taking long strides around the space.
“Usually. If the reward-point stars align, I may luck out with a room at the Four Seasons. Though I prefer it here because of the ergonomic desk chairs. If I feel like writing, I’m comfortable.”
I’m rambling, but he’s so larger than life. Nick fills the room, making the air denser. He stops by the desk where my closed laptop sits next to my tan leather-bound journal.
“Are you working on anything now?” he asks, gazing at the desk.
He seems genuinely interested. Again, I empty the contents of my mind.
“Yes and no. I just sent a manuscript to my copyeditor. While she reads through it, I’m collecting ideas for my next story. Not sure on the plot, but I have a character in mind. I get my manuscript back on Monday. I’ll go through it again before sending it to my publisher. And no matter how perfect I think it is when I submit, they always offer revision notes. I self-published my first eleven books. While I love them, I always wonder how they would have turned out if I’d been working with a publisher. Sorry. Probably way more than you wanted to know.”
“No, I find it fascinating. You’re very talented,” he says.
